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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3816-0.txt b/3816-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..019698a --- /dev/null +++ b/3816-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14794 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Witch of Prague, by F. Marion Crawford + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Witch of Prague + +Author: F. Marion Crawford + +Release Date: April 13, 2006 [EBook #3816] +Last Updated: November 3, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WITCH OF PRAGUE *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers + + + + + +THE WITCH OF PRAGUE + +A FANTASTIC TALE + +By F. Marion Crawford + + + + +CHAPTER I + +A great multitude of people filled the church, crowded together in +the old black pews, standing closely thronged in the nave and aisles, +pressing shoulder to shoulder even in the two chapels on the right and +left of the apse, a vast gathering of pale men and women whose eyes +were sad and in whose faces was written the history of their nation. The +mighty shafts and pilasters of the Gothic edifice rose like the stems of +giant trees in a primeval forest from a dusky undergrowth, spreading out +and uniting their stony branches far above in the upper gloom. From the +clerestory windows of the nave an uncertain light descended halfway to +the depths and seemed to float upon the darkness below as oil upon the +water of a well. Over the western entrance the huge fantastic organ +bristled with blackened pipes and dusty gilded ornaments of colossal +size, like some enormous kingly crown long forgotten in the lumber +room of the universe, tarnished and overlaid with the dust of ages. +Eastwards, before the rail which separated the high altar from the +people, wax torches, so thick that a man might not span one of them with +both his hands, were set up at irregular intervals, some taller, some +shorter, burning with steady, golden flames, each one surrounded with +heavy funeral wreaths, and each having a tablet below it, whereon were +set forth in the Bohemian idiom, the names, titles, and qualities of +him or her in whose memory it was lighted. Innumerable lamps and tapers +before the side altars and under the strange canopied shrines at the +bases of the pillars, struggled ineffectually with the gloom, shedding +but a few sickly yellow rays upon the pallid faces of the persons +nearest to their light. + +Suddenly the heavy vibration of a single pedal note burst from the +organ upon the breathing silence, long drawn out, rich, voluminous, +and imposing. Presently, upon the massive bass, great chords grew up, +succeeding each other in a simple modulation, rising then with the +blare of trumpets and the simultaneous crash of mixtures, fifteenths +and coupled pedals to a deafening peal, then subsiding quickly again +and terminating in one long sustained common chord. And now, as the +celebrant bowed at the lowest step before the high altar, the voices of +the innumerable congregation joined the harmony of the organ, ringing +up to the groined roof in an ancient Slavonic melody, melancholy +and beautiful, and rendered yet more unlike all other music by the +undefinable character of the Bohemian language, in which tones softer +than those of the softest southern tongue alternate so oddly with rough +gutturals and strident sibilants. + +The Wanderer stood in the midst of the throng, erect, taller than the +men near him, holding his head high, so that a little of the light from +the memorial torches reached his thoughtful, manly face, making the +noble and passionate features to stand out clearly, while losing its +power of illumination in the dark beard and among the shadows of his +hair. His was a face such as Rembrandt would have painted, seen under +the light that Rembrandt loved best; for the expression seemed to +overcome the surrounding gloom by its own luminous quality, while the +deep gray eyes were made almost black by the wide expansion of the +pupils; the dusky brows clearly defined the boundary in the face between +passion and thought, and the pale forehead, by its slight recession into +the shade from its middle prominence, proclaimed the man of heart, the +man of faith, the man of devotion, as well as the intuitive nature of +the delicately sensitive mind and the quick, elastic qualities of the +man’s finely organized, but nervous bodily constitution. The long white +fingers of one hand stirred restlessly, twitching at the fur of his +broad lapel which was turned back across his chest, and from time to +time he drew a deep breath and sighed, not painfully, but wearily and +hopelessly, as a man sighs who knows that his happiness is long past +and that his liberation from the burden of life is yet far off in the +future. + +The celebrant reached the reading of the Gospel and the men and women +in the pews rose to their feet. Still the singing of the long-drawn-out +stanzas of the hymn continued with unflagging devotion, and still the +deep accompaniment of the ancient organ sustained the mighty chorus of +voices. The Gospel over, the people sank into their seats again, not +standing, as is the custom in some countries, until the Creed had +been said. Here and there, indeed, a woman, perhaps a stranger in the +country, remained upon her feet, noticeable among the many figures +seated in the pews. The Wanderer, familiar with many lands and many +varying traditions of worship, unconsciously noted these exceptions, +looking with a vague curiosity from one to the other. Then, all at once, +his tall frame shivered from head to foot, and his fingers convulsively +grasped the yielding sable on which they lay. + +She was there, the woman he had sought so long, whose face he had not +found in the cities and dwellings of the living, neither her grave in +the silent communities of the dead. There, before the uncouth monument +of dark red marble beneath which Tycho Brahe rests in peace, there she +stood; not as he had seen her last on that day when his senses had left +him in the delirium of his sickness, not in the freshness of her bloom +and of her dark loveliness, but changed as he had dreamed in evil dreams +that death would have power to change her. The warm olive of her cheek +was turned to the hue of wax, the soft shadows beneath her velvet eyes +were deepened and hardened, her expression, once yielding and changing +under the breath of thought and feeling as a field of flowers when +the west wind blows, was now set, as though for ever, in a death-like +fixity. The delicate features were drawn and pinched, the nostrils +contracted, the colourless lips straightened out of the lines of beauty +into the mould of a lifeless mask. It was the face of a dead woman, but +it was her face still, and the Wanderer knew it well; in the kingdom +of his soul the whole resistless commonwealth of the emotions revolted +together to dethrone death’s regent--sorrow, while the thrice-tempered +springs of passion, bent but not broken, stirred suddenly in the palace +of his body and shook the strong foundations of his being. + +During the seconds that followed, his eyes were riveted upon the beloved +head. Then, as the Creed ended, the vision sank down and was lost to his +sight. She was seated now, and the broad sea of humanity hid her from +him, though he raised himself the full height of his stature in the +effort to distinguish even the least part of her head-dress. To move +from his place was all but impossible, though the fierce longing to be +near her bade him trample even upon the shoulders of the throng to reach +her, as men have done more than once to save themselves from death by +fire in crowded places. Still the singing of the hymn continued, and +would continue, as he knew, until the moment of the Elevation. He +strained his hearing to catch the sounds that came from the quarter +where she sat. In a chorus of a thousand singers he fancied that he +could have distinguished the tender, heart-stirring vibration of her +tones. Never woman sang, never could woman sing again, as she had once +sung, though her voice had been as soft as it had been sweet, and tuned +to vibrate in the heart rather than in the ear. As the strains rose +and fell, the Wanderer bowed his head and closed his eyes, listening, +through the maze of sounds, for the silvery ring of her magic note. +Something he heard at last, something that sent a thrill from his ear to +his heart, unless indeed his heart itself were making music for his +ears to hear. The impression reached him fitfully, often interrupted and +lost, but as often renewing itself and reawakening in the listener the +certainty of recognition which he had felt at the sight of the singer’s +face. + +He who loves with his whole soul has a knowledge and a learning which +surpass the wisdom of those who spend their lives in the study of things +living or long dead, or never animate. They, indeed, can construct +the figure of a flower from the dried web of a single leaf, or by the +examination of a dusty seed, and they can set up the scheme of life of a +shadowy mammoth out of a fragment of its skeleton, or tell the story +of hill and valley from the contemplation of a handful of earth or of +a broken pebble. Often they are right, sometimes they are driven deeper +and deeper into error by the complicated imperfections of their own +science. But he who loves greatly possesses in his intuition the +capacities of all instruments of observation which man has invented and +applied to his use. The lenses of his eyes can magnify the infinitesimal +detail to the dimensions of common things, and bring objects to his +vision from immeasurable distances; the labyrinth of his ear can choose +and distinguish amidst the harmonies and the discords of the world, +muffling in its tortuous passages the reverberation of ordinary sounds +while multiplying a hundredfold the faint tones of the one beloved +voice. His whole body and his whole intelligence form together an +instrument of exquisite sensibility whereby the perceptions of his +inmost soul are hourly tortured, delighted, caught up into ecstasy, torn +and crushed by jealousy and fear, or plunged into the frigid waters of +despair. + +The melancholy hymn resounded through the vast church, but though the +Wanderer stretched the faculty of hearing to the utmost, he could no +longer find the note he sought amongst the vibrations of the dank and +heavy air. Then an irresistible longing came upon him to turn and force +his way through the dense throng of men and women, to reach the aisle +and press past the huge pillar till he could slip between the tombstone +of the astronomer and the row of back wooden seats. Once there, he +should see her face to face. + +He turned, indeed, as he stood, and he tried to move a few steps. On all +sides curious looks were directed upon him, but no one offered to make +way, and still the monotonous singing continued until he felt himself +deafened, as he faced the great congregation. + +“I am ill,” he said in a low voice to those nearest to him. “Pray let me +pass!” + +His face was white, indeed, and those who heard his words believed him. +A mild old man raised his sad blue eyes, gazed at him, and while trying +to draw back, gently shook his head. A pale woman, whose sickly features +were half veiled in the folds of a torn black shawl, moved as far as +she could, shrinking as the very poor and miserable shrink when they are +expected to make way before the rich and the strong. A lad of fifteen +stood upon tiptoe to make himself even slighter than he was and thus to +widen the way, and the Wanderer found himself, after repeated efforts, +as much as two steps distant from his former position. He was still +trying to divide the crowd when the music suddenly ceased, and the +tones of the organ died away far up under the western window. It was the +moment of the Elevation, and the first silvery tinkling of the bell, +the people swayed a little, all those who were able kneeling, and those +whose movements were impeded by the press of worshippers bending towards +the altar as a field of grain before the gale. The Wanderer turned again +and bowed himself with the rest, devoutly and humbly, with half-closed +eyes, as he strove to collect and control his thoughts in the presence +of the chief mystery of his Faith. Three times the tiny bell was rung, a +pause followed, and thrice again the clear jingle of the metal broke the +solemn stillness. Then once more the people stirred, and the soft sound +of their simultaneous motion was like a mighty sigh breathed up from the +secret vaults and the deep foundations of the ancient church; again the +pedal note of the organ boomed through the nave and aisles, and again +the thousands of human voices took up the strain of song. + +The Wanderer glanced about him, measuring the distance he must traverse +to reach the monument of the Danish astronomer and confronting it with +the short time which now remained before the end of the Mass. He saw +that in such a throng he would have no chance of gaining the position he +wished to occupy in less than half an hour, and he had not but a +scant ten minutes at his disposal. He gave up the attempt therefore, +determining that when the celebration should be over he would move +forward with the crowd, trusting to his superior stature and energy +to keep him within sight of the woman he sought, until both he and she +could meet, either just within or just without the narrow entrance of +the church. + +Very soon the moment of action came. The singing died away, the +benediction was given, the second Gospel was read, the priest and the +people repeated the Bohemian prayers, and all was over. The countless +heads began to move onward, the shuffling of innumerable feet sent +heavy, tuneless echoes through vaulted space, broken every moment by the +sharp, painful cough of a suffering child whom no one could see in the +multitude, or by the dull thud of some heavy foot striking against the +wooden seats in the press. The Wanderer moved forward with the rest. +Reaching the entrance of the pew where she had sat he was kept back +during a few seconds by the half dozen men and women who were forcing +their way out of it before him. But at the farthest end, a figure +clothed in black was still kneeling. A moment more and he might enter +the pew and be at her side. One of the other women dropped something +before she was out of the narrow space, and stooped, fumbling and +searching in the darkness. At the minute, the slight, girlish figure +rose swiftly and passed like a shadow before the heavy marble monument. +The Wanderer saw that the pew was open at the other end, and without +heeding the woman who stood in his way, he sprang upon the low seat, +passed her, stepped to the floor upon the other side and was out in +the aisle in a moment. Many persons had already left the church and the +space was comparatively free. + +She was before him, gliding quickly toward the door. Ere he could reach +her, he saw her touch the thick ice which filled the marble basin, cross +herself hurriedly and pass out. But he had seen her face again, and he +knew that he was not mistaken. The thin, waxen features were as those of +the dead, but they were hers, nevertheless. In an instant he could be by +her side. But again his progress was momentarily impeded by a number of +persons who were entering the building hastily to attend the next Mass. +Scarcely ten seconds later he was out in the narrow and dismal passage +which winds between the north side of the Teyn Kirche and the buildings +behind the Kinsky Palace. The vast buttresses and towers cast deep +shadows below them, and the blackened houses opposite absorb what +remains of the uncertain winter’s daylight. To the left of the church a +low arch spans the lane, affording a covered communication between the +north aisle and the sacristy. To the right the open space is somewhat +broader, and three dark archways give access to as many passages, +leading in radiating directions and under the old houses to the streets +beyond. + +The Wanderer stood upon the steps, beneath the rich stone carvings which +set forth the Crucifixion over the door of the church, and his quick +eyes scanned everything within sight. To the left, no figure resembling +the one he sought was to be seen, but on the right, he fancied that +among a score of persons now rapidly dispersing he could distinguish +just within one of the archways a moving shadow, black against the +blackness. In an instant he had crossed the way and was hurrying through +the gloom. Already far before him, but visible and, as he believed, +unmistakable, the shade was speeding onward, light as mist, noiseless as +thought, but yet clearly to be seen and followed. He cried aloud, as he +ran, + +“Beatrice! Beatrice!” + +His strong voice echoed along the dank walls and out into the court +beyond. It was intensely cold, and the still air carried the sound +clearly to the distance. She must have heard him, she must have known +his voice, but as she crossed the open place, and the gray light fell +upon her, he could see that she did not raise her bent head nor slacken +her speed. + +He ran on, sure of overtaking her in the passage she had now entered, +for she seemed to be only walking, while he was pursuing her at a +headlong pace. But in the narrow tunnel, when he reached it, she was +not, though at the farther end he imagined that the fold of a black +garment was just disappearing. He emerged into the street, in which he +could now see in both directions to a distance of fifty yards or more. +He was alone. The rusty iron shutters of the little shops were all +barred and fastened, and every door within the range of his vision was +closed. He stood still in surprise and listened. There was no sound to +be heard, not the grating of a lock, nor the tinkling of a bell, nor the +fall of a footstep. + +He did not pause long, for he made up his mind as to what he should do +in the flash of a moment’s intuition. It was physically impossible that +she should have disappeared into any one of the houses which had their +entrances within the dark tunnel he had just traversed. Apart from the +presumptive impossibility of her being lodged in such a quarter, there +was the self-evident fact that he must have heard the door opened and +closed. Secondly, she could not have turned to the right, for in that +direction the street was straight and without any lateral exit, so that +he must have seen her. Therefore she must have gone to the left, since +on that side there was a narrow alley leading out of the lane, at some +distance from the point where he was now standing--too far, indeed, for +her to have reached it unnoticed, unless, as was possible, he had been +greatly deceived in the distance which had lately separated her from +him. + +Without further hesitation, he turned to the left. He found no one +in the way, for it was not yet noon, and at that hour the people were +either at their prayers or at their Sunday morning’s potations, and the +place was as deserted as a disused cemetery. Still he hastened onward, +never pausing for breath, till he found himself all at once in the +great Ring. He knew the city well, but in his race he had bestowed no +attention upon the familiar windings and turnings, thinking only of +overtaking the fleeting vision, no matter how, no matter where. Now, on +a sudden, the great, irregular square opened before him, flanked on the +one side by the fantastic spires of the Teyn Church, and the blackened +front of the huge Kinsky Palace, on the other by the half-modern Town +Hall with its ancient tower, its beautiful porch, and the graceful oriel +which forms the apse of the chapel in the second story. + +One of the city watchmen, muffled in his military overcoat, and +conspicuous by the great bunch of dark feathers that drooped from his +black hat, was standing idly at the corner from which the Wanderer +emerged. The latter thought of inquiring whether the man had seen a lady +pass, but the fellow’s vacant stare convinced him that no questioning +would elicit a satisfactory answer. Moreover, as he looked across the +square he caught sight of a retreating figure dressed in black, already +at such a distance as to make positive recognition impossible. In his +haste he found no time to convince himself that no living woman could +have thus outrun him, and he instantly resumed his pursuit, gaining +rapidly upon her he was following. But it is not an easy matter to +overtake even a woman, when she has an advantage of a couple of +hundred yards, and when the race is a short one. He passed the ancient +astronomical clock, just as the little bell was striking the third +quarter after eleven, but he did not raise his head to watch the +sad-faced apostles as they presented their stiff figures in succession +at the two square windows. When the blackened cock under the small +Gothic arch above flapped his wooden wings and uttered his melancholy +crow, the Wanderer was already at the corner of the little Ring, and +he could see the object of his pursuit disappearing before him into the +Karlsgasse. He noticed uneasily that the resemblance between the woman +he was following and the object of his loving search seemed now to +diminish, as in a bad dream, as the distance between himself and her +decreased. But he held resolutely on, nearing her at every step, round +a sharp corner to the right, then to the left, to the right again, and +once more in the opposite direction, always, as he knew, approaching +the old stone bridge. He was not a dozen paces behind her as she turned +quickly a third time to the right, round the wall of the ancient house +which faces the little square over against the enormous buildings +comprising the Clementine Jesuit monastery and the astronomical +observatory. As he sprang past the corner he saw the heavy door just +closing and heard the sharp resounding clang of its iron fastening. The +lady had disappeared, and he felt sure that she had gone through that +entrance. + +He knew the house well, for it is distinguished from all others in +Prague, both by its shape and its oddly ornamented, unnaturally narrow +front. It is built in the figure of an irregular triangle, the blunt +apex of one angle facing the little square, the sides being erected on +the one hand along the Karlsgasse and on the other upon a narrow alley +which leads away towards the Jews’ quarter. Overhanging passages are +built out over this dim lane, as though to facilitate the interior +communications of the dwelling, and in the shadow beneath them there is +a small door studded with iron nails which is invariably shut. The main +entrance takes in all the scant breadth of the truncated angle which +looks towards the monastery. Immediately over it is a great window, +above that another, and, highest of all, under the pointed gable, a +round and unglazed aperture, within which there is inky darkness. The +windows of the first and second stories are flanked by huge figures of +saints, standing forth in strangely contorted attitudes, black with the +dust of ages, black as all old Prague is black, with the smoke of the +brown Bohemian coal, with the dark and unctuous mists of many autumns, +with the cruel, petrifying frosts of ten score winters. + +He who knew the cities of men as few have known them, knew also +this house. Many a time had he paused before it by day and by night, +wondering who lived within its massive, irregular walls, behind those +uncouth, barbarously sculptured saints who kept their interminable watch +high up by the lozenged windows. He would know now. Since she whom +he sought had entered, he would enter too; and in some corner of that +dwelling which had long possessed a mysterious attraction for his eyes, +he would find at last that being who held power over his heart, that +Beatrice whom he had learned to think of as dead, while still believing +that somewhere she must be yet alive, that dear lady whom, dead or +living, he loved beyond all others, with a great love, passing words. + + + +CHAPTER II + +The Wanderer stood still before the door. In the freezing air, his +quick-drawn breath made fantastic wreaths of mist, white and full of +odd shapes as he watched the tiny clouds curling quickly into each other +before the blackened oak. Then he laid his hand boldly upon the chain of +the bell. He expected to hear the harsh jingling of cracked metal, but +he was surprised by the silvery clearness and musical quality of the +ringing tones which reached his ear. He was pleased, and unconsciously +took the pleasant infusion for a favourable omen. The heavy door swung +back almost immediately, and he was confronted by a tall porter in dark +green cloth and gold lacings, whose imposing appearance was made still +more striking by the magnificent fair beard which flowed down almost to +his waist. The man lifted his heavy cocked hat and held it low at +his side as he drew back to let the visitor enter. The latter had not +expected to be admitted thus without question, and paused under the +bright light which illuminated the arched entrance, intending to make +some inquiry of the porter. But the latter seemed to expect nothing of +the sort. He carefully closed the door, and then, bearing his hat in one +hand and his gold-headed staff in the other, he proceeded gravely to the +other end of the vaulted porch, opened a great glazed door and held it +back for the visitor to pass. + +The Wanderer recognized that the farther he was allowed to penetrate +unhindered into the interior of the house, the nearer he should be to +the object of his search. He did not know where he was, nor what he +might find. For all that he knew, he might be in a club, in a great +banking-house, or in some semi-public institution of the nature of a +library, an academy or a conservatory of music. There are many such +establishments in Prague, though he was not acquainted with any in which +the internal arrangements so closely resembled those of a luxurious +private residence. But there was no time for hesitation, and he ascended +the broad staircase with a firm step, glancing at the rich tapestries +which covered the walls, at the polished surface of the marble steps +on either side of the heavy carpet, and at the elaborate and beautiful +iron-work of the hand-rail. As he mounted higher, he heard the quick +rapping of an electric signal above him, and he understood that the +porter had announced his coming. Reaching the landing, he was met by a +servant in black, as correct at all points as the porter himself, and +who bowed low as he held back the thick curtain which hung before the +entrance. Without a word the man followed the visitor into a high room +of irregular shape, which served as a vestibule, and stood waiting to +receive the guest’s furs, should it please him to lay them aside. To +pause now, and to enter into an explanation with a servant, would have +been to reject an opportunity which might never return. In such an +establishment, he was sure of finding himself before long in the +presence of some more or less intelligent person of his own class, of +whom he could make such inquiries as might enlighten him, and to whom he +could present such excuses for his intrusion as might seem most fitting +in so difficult a case. He let his sables fall into the hands of the +servant and followed the latter along a short passage. + +The man introduced him into a spacious hall and closed the door, leaving +him to his own reflections. The place was very wide and high and without +windows, but the broad daylight descended abundantly from above through +the glazed roof and illuminated every corner. He would have taken the +room for a conservatory, for it contained a forest of tropical trees and +plants, and whole gardens of rare southern flowers. Tall letonias, +date palms, mimosas and rubber trees of many varieties stretched their +fantastic spikes and heavy leaves half-way up to the crystal ceiling; +giant ferns swept the polished marble floor with their soft embroideries +and dark green laces; Indian creepers, full of bright blossoms, made +screens and curtains of their intertwining foliage; orchids of every +hue and of every exotic species bloomed in thick banks along the walls. +Flowers less rare, violets and lilies of the valley, closely set and +luxuriant, grew in beds edged with moss around the roots of the larger +plants and in many open spaces. The air was very soft and warm, moist +and full of heavy odours as the still atmosphere of an island in +southern seas, and the silence was broken only by the light plash of +softly-falling water. + +Having advanced a few steps from the door, the Wanderer stood still and +waited, supposing that the owner of the dwelling would be made aware +of a visitor’s presence and would soon appear. But no one came. Then +a gentle voice spoke from amidst the verdure, apparently from no great +distance. + +“I am here,” it said. + +He moved forward amidst the ferns and the tall plants, until he found +himself on the farther side of a thick network of creepers. Then he +paused, for he was in the presence of a woman, of her who dwelt among +the flowers. She was sitting before him, motionless and upright in a +high, carved chair, and so placed that the pointed leaves of the palm +which rose above her cast sharp, star-shaped shadows over the broad +folds of her white dress. One hand, as white, as cold, as heavily +perfect as the sculpture of a Praxiteles or a Phidias, rested with +drooping fingers on the arm of the chair. The other pressed the pages +of a great book which lay open on the lady’s knee. Her face was turned +toward the visitor, and her eyes examined his face; calmly and with no +surprise in them, but not without a look of interest. Their expression +was at once so unusual, so disquieting, and yet so inexplicably +attractive as to fascinate the Wanderer’s gaze. He did not remember that +he had ever seen a pair of eyes of distinctly different colours, the one +of a clear, cold gray, the other of a deep, warm brown, so dark as to +seem almost black, and he would not have believed that nature could so +far transgress the canons of her own art and yet preserve the appearance +of beauty. For the lady was beautiful, from the diadem of her red gold +hair to the proud curve of her fresh young lips; from her broad, pale +forehead, prominent and boldly modelled at the angles of the brows, to +the strong mouldings of the well-balanced chin, which gave evidence of +strength and resolution wherewith to carry out the promise of the high +aquiline features and of the wide and sensitive nostrils. + +“Madame,” said the Wanderer, bending his head courteously and advancing +another step, “I can neither frame excuses for having entered your house +unbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence for my intrusion, unless you are +willing in the first place to hear my short story. May I expect so much +kindness?” + +He paused, and the lady looked at him fixedly and curiously. Without +taking her eyes from his face, and without speaking, she closed the book +she had held on her knee, and laid it beside her upon a low table. The +Wanderer did not avoid her gaze, for he had nothing to conceal, nor any +sense of timidity. He was an intruder upon the privacy of one whom he +did not know, but he was ready to explain his presence and to make such +amends as courtesy required, if he had given offence. + +The heavy odours of the flowers filled his nostrils with an unknown, +luxurious delight, as he stood there, gazing into the lady’s eyes; he +fancied that a gentle breath of perfumed air was blowing softly over his +hair and face out of the motionless palms, and the faint plashing of the +hidden fountain was like an exquisite melody in his ears. It was good to +be in such a place, to look on such a woman, to breathe such odours, and +to hear such tuneful music. A dreamlike, half-mysterious satisfaction of +the senses dulled the keen self-knowledge of body and soul for one +short moment. In the stormy play of his troubled life there was a brief +interlude of peace. He tasted the fruit of the lotus, his lips were +moistened in the sweet waters of forgetfulness. + +The lady spoke at last, and the spell left him, not broken, as by a +sudden shock, but losing its strong power by quick degrees until it was +wholly gone. + +“I will answer your question by another,” said the lady. “Let your reply +be the plain truth. It will be better so.” + +“Ask what you will. I have nothing to conceal.” + +“Do you know who and what I am? Do you come here out of curiosity, in +the vain hope of knowing me, having heard of me from others?” + +“Assuredly not.” A faint flush rose in the man’s pale and noble face. +“You have my word,” he said, in the tone of one who is sure of being +believed, “that I have never, to my knowledge, heard of your existence, +that I am ignorant even of your name--forgive my ignorance--and that I +entered this house, not knowing whose it might be, seeking and following +after one for whom I have searched the world, one dearly loved, long +lost, long sought.” + +“It is enough. Be seated. I am Unorna.” + +“Unorna?” repeated the Wanderer, with an unconscious question in his +voice, as though the name recalled some half-forgotten association. + +“Unorna--yes. I have another name,” she added, with a shade of +bitterness, “but it is hardly mine. Tell me your story. You loved--you +lost--you seek--so much I know. What else?” + +The Wanderer sighed. + +“You have told in those few words the story of my life--the unfinished +story. A wanderer I was born, a wanderer I am, a wanderer I must ever +be, until at last I find her whom I seek. I knew her in a strange land, +far from my birthplace, in a city where I was known but to a few, and +I loved her. She loved me, too, and that against her father’s will. He +would not have his daughter wed with one not of her race; for he himself +had taken a wife among strangers, and while she was yet alive he had +repented of what he had done. But I would have overcome his reasons and +his arguments--she and I could have overcome them together, for he did +not hate me, he bore me no ill-will. We were almost friends when I last +took his hand. Then the hour of destiny came upon me. The air of that +city was treacherous and deadly. I had left her with her father, and my +heart was full of many things, and of words both spoken and unuttered. I +lingered upon an ancient bridge that spanned the river, and the sun went +down. Then the evil fever of the south laid hold upon me and +poisoned the blood in my veins, and stole the consciousness from my +understanding. Weeks passed away, and memory returned, with the strength +to speak. I learned that she I loved and her father were gone, and none +knew whither. I rose and left the accursed city, being at that time +scarce able to stand upright upon my feet. Finding no trace of those I +sought, I journeyed to their own country, for I knew where her father +held his lands. I had been ill many weeks and much time had passed, from +the day on which I had left her, until I was able to move from my bed. +When I reached the gates of her home, I was told that all had been +lately sold, and that others now dwelt within the walls. I inquired of +those new owners of the land, but neither they or any of all those whom +I questioned could tell me whither I should direct my search. The father +was a strange man, loving travel and change and movement, restless and +unsatisfied with the world, rich and free to make his own caprice his +guide through life; reticent he was, moreover, and thoughtful, not given +to speaking out his intentions. Those who administered his affairs in +his absence were honourable men, bound by his especial injunction not to +reveal his ever-varying plans. Many times, in my ceaseless search, I met +persons who had lately seen him and his daughter and spoken with them. +I was ever on their track, from hemisphere to hemisphere, from continent +to continent, from country to country, from city to city, often +believing myself close upon them, often learning suddenly that an ocean +lay between them and me. Was he eluding me, purposely, resolutely, or +was he unconscious of my desperate pursuit, being served by chance alone +and by his own restless temper? I do not know. At last, some one told me +that she was dead, speaking thoughtlessly, not knowing that I loved her. +He who told me had heard the news from another, who had received it on +hearsay from a third. None knew in what place her spirit had parted; +none knew by what manner of sickness she had died. Since then, I have +heard others say that she is not dead, that they have heard in their +turn from others that she yet lives. An hour ago, I knew not what to +think. To-day, I saw her in a crowded church. I heard her voice, though +I could not reach her in the throng, struggle how I would. I followed +her in haste, I lost her at one turning, I saw her before me at the +next. At last a figure, clothed as she had been clothed, entered your +house. Whether it was she I know not certainly, but I do know that in +the church I saw her. She cannot be within your dwelling without your +knowledge; if she be here--then I have found her, my journey is ended, +my wanderings have led me home at last. If she be not here, if I have +been mistaken, I entreat you to let me set eyes on that other whom I +mistook for her, to forgive then my mannerless intrusion and to let me +go.” + +Unorna had listened with half-closed eyes, but with unfaltering +attention, watching the speaker’s face from beneath her drooping lids, +making no effort to read his thoughts, but weighing his words and +impressing every detail of his story upon her mind. When he had done +there was silence for a time, broken only by the plash and ripple of the +falling water. + +“She is not here,” said Unorna at last. “You shall see for yourself. +There is indeed in this house a young girl to whom I am deeply attached, +who has grown up at my side and has always lived under my roof. She is +very pale and dark, and is dressed always in black.” + +“Like her I saw.” + +“You shall see her again. I will send for her.” Unorna pressed an ivory +key in the silver ball which lay beside her, attached to a thick cord of +white silk. “Ask Sletchna Axenia to come to me,” she said to the servant +who opened the door in the distance, out of sight behind the forest of +plants. + +Amid less unusual surroundings the Wanderer would have rejected with +contempt the last remnants of his belief in the identity of Unorna’s +companion, with Beatrice. But, being where he was, he felt unable to +decide between the possible and the impossible, between what he might +reasonably expect and what lay beyond the bounds of reason itself. +The air he breathed was so loaded with rich exotic perfumes, the woman +before him was so little like other women, her strangely mismatched eyes +had for his own such a disquieting attraction, all that he saw and felt +and heard was so far removed from the commonplaces of daily life as to +make him feel that he himself was becoming a part of some other person’s +existence, that he was being gradually drawn away from his identity, and +was losing the power of thinking his own thoughts. He reasoned as +the shadows reason in dreamland, the boundaries of common probability +receded to an immeasurable distance, and he almost ceased to know where +reality ended and where imagination took up the sequence of events. + +Who was this woman, who called herself Unorna? He tried to consider the +question, and to bring his intelligence to bear upon it. Was she a great +lady of Prague, rich, capricious, creating a mysterious existence for +herself, merely for her own good pleasure? Her language, her voice, +her evident refinement gave colour to the idea, which was in itself +attractive to a man who had long ceased to expect novelty in this +working-day world. He glanced at her face, musing and wondering, +inhaling the sweet, intoxicating odours of the flowers and listening to +the tinkling of the hidden fountain. Her eyes were gazing into his, and +again, as if by magic, the curtain of life’s stage was drawn together +in misty folds, shutting out the past, the present, and the future, the +fact, the doubt, and the hope, in an interval of perfect peace. + +He was roused by the sound of a light footfall upon the marble pavement. +Unorna’s eyes were turned from his, and with something like a movement +of surprise he himself looked towards the new comer. A young girl was +standing under the shadow of a great letonia at a short distance from +him. She was very pale indeed, but not with that death-like, waxen +pallor which had chilled him when he had looked upon that other face. +There was a faint resemblance in the small, aquiline features, the dress +was black, and the figure of the girl before him was assuredly neither +much taller nor much shorter than that of the woman he loved and sought. +But the likeness went no further, and he knew that he had been utterly +mistaken. + +Unorna exchanged a few indifferent words with Axenia and dismissed her. + +“You have seen,” she said, when the young girl was gone. “Was it she who +entered the house just now?” + +“Yes. I was misled by a mere resemblance. Forgive me for my +importunity--let me thank you most sincerely for your great kindness.” + He rose as he spoke. + +“Do not go,” said Unorna, looking at him earnestly. + +He stood still, silent, as though his attitude should explain itself, +and yet expecting that she would say something further. He felt that her +eyes were upon him, and he raised his own to meet the look frankly, as +was his wont. For the first time since he had entered her presence +he felt that there was more than a mere disquieting attraction in her +steady gaze; there was a strong, resistless fascination, from which he +had no power to withdraw himself. Almost unconsciously he resumed his +seat, still looking at her, while telling himself with a severe effort +that he would look but one instant longer and then turn away. Ten +seconds passed, twenty, half a minute, in total silence. He was +confused, disturbed, and yet wholly unable to shut out her penetrating +glance. His fast ebbing consciousness barely allowed him to wonder +whether he was weakened by the strong emotions he had felt in the +church, or by the first beginning of some unknown and unexpected malady. +He was utterly weak and unstrung. He could neither rise from his seat, +nor lift his hand, nor close the lids of his eyes. It was as though +an irresistible force were drawing him into the depths of a fathomless +whirlpool, down, down, by its endless giddy spirals, robbing him of a +portion of his consciousness at every gyration, so that he left behind +him at every instant something of his individuality, something of the +central faculty of self-recognition. He felt no pain, but he did +not feel that inexpressible delight of peace which already twice had +descended upon him. He experienced a rapid diminution of all perception, +of all feeling, of all intelligence. Thought, and the memory of thought, +ebbed from his brain and left it vacant, as the waters of a lock subside +when the gates are opened, leaving emptiness in their place. + +Unorna’s eyes turned from him, and she raised her hand a moment, letting +it fall again upon her knee. Instantly the strong man was restored to +himself; his weakness vanished, his sight was clear, his intelligence +was awake. Instantly the certainty flashed upon him that Unorna +possessed the power of imposing the hypnotic sleep and had exercised +that gift upon him, unexpectedly and against his will. He would have +more willingly supposed that he had been the victim of a momentary +physical faintness, for the idea of having been thus subjected to the +influence of a woman, and of a woman whom he hardly knew, was repugnant +to him, and had in it something humiliating to his pride, or at least +to his vanity. But he could not escape the conviction forced upon him by +the circumstances. + +“Do not go far, for I may yet help you,” said Unorna, quietly. “Let us +talk of this matter and consult what is best to be done. Will you accept +a woman’s help?” + +“Readily. But I cannot accept her will as mine, nor resign my +consciousness into her keeping.” + +“Not for the sake of seeing her whom you say you love?” + +The Wanderer was silent, being yet undetermined how to act, and still +unsteadied by what he had experienced. But he was able to reason, and he +asked of his judgment what he should do, wondering what manner of woman +Unorna might prove to be, and whether she was anything more than one of +those who live and even enrich themselves by the exercise of the unusual +faculties of powers nature has given them. He had seen many of that +class, and he considered most of them to be but half fanatics, half +charlatans, worshipping in themselves as something almost divine that +which was but a physical power, or weakness, beyond their own limited +comprehension. Though a whole school of wise and thoughtful men had +already produced remarkable results and elicited astounding facts by +sifting the truth through a fine web of closely logical experiment, +it did not follow that either Unorna, or any other self-convinced, +self-taught operator could do more than grope blindly towards the light, +guided by intuition alone amongst the varied and misleading phenomena +of hypnotism. The thought of accepting the help of one who was probably, +like most of her kind, a deceiver of herself and therefore, and thereby, +of others, was an affront to the dignity of his distress, a desecration +of his love’s sanctity, a frivolous invasion of love’s holiest ground. +But, on the other hand, he was stimulated to catch at the veriest +shadows of possibility by the certainty that he was at last within the +same city with her he loved, and he knew that hypnotic subjects are +sometimes able to determine the abode of persons whom no one else can +find. To-morrow it might be too late. Even before to-day’s sun had set +Beatrice might be once more taken from him, snatched away to the ends +of the earth by her father’s ever-changing caprice. To lose a moment now +might be to lose all. + +He was tempted to yield, to resign his will into Unorna’s hands, and his +sight to her leading, to let her bid him sleep and see the truth. But +then, with a sudden reaction of his individuality, he realized that +he had another course, surer, simpler, more dignified. Beatrice was in +Prague. It was little probable that she was permanently established in +the city, and in all likelihood she and her father were lodged in one of +the two or three great hotels. To be driven from the one to the other of +these would be but an affair of minutes. Failing information from this +source, there remained the registers of the Austrian police, whose +vigilance takes note of every stranger’s name and dwelling-place. + +“I thank you,” he said. “If all my inquiries fail, and if you will let +me visit you once more to-day, I will then ask your help.” + +“You are right,” Unorna answered. + + + +CHAPTER III + +He had been deceived in supposing that he must inevitably find the +names of those he sought upon the ordinary registers which chronicle +the arrival and departure of travellers. He lost no time, he spared +no effort, driving from place to place as fast as two sturdy Hungarian +horses could take him, hurrying from one office to another, and again +and again searching endless pages and columns which seemed full of all +the names of earth, but in which he never found the one of all others +which he longed to read. The gloom in the narrow streets was already +deepening, though it was scarcely two hours after mid-day, and the +heavy air had begun to thicken with a cold gray haze, even in the broad, +straight Przikopy, the wide thoroughfare which has taken the place and +name of the moat before the ancient fortifications, so that distant +objects and figures lost the distinctness of their outlines. Winter in +Prague is but one long, melancholy dream, broken sometimes at noon by an +hour of sunshine, by an intermittent visitation of reality, by the shock +and glare of a little broad daylight. The morning is not morning, +the evening is not evening; as in the land of the Lotus, it is ever +afternoon, gray, soft, misty, sad, save when the sun, being at his +meridian height, pierces the dim streets and sweeps the open places with +low, slanting waves of pale brightness. And yet these same dusky streets +are thronged with a moving multitude, are traversed ever by ceaseless +streams of men and women, flowing onward, silently, swiftly, eagerly. +The very beggars do not speak above a whisper, the very dogs are dumb. +The stillness of all voices leaves nothing for the perception of the +hearing save the dull thread of many thousand feet and the rough rattle +of an occasional carriage. Rarely, the harsh tones of a peasant, or the +clear voices of a knot of strangers, unused to such oppressive +silence, startle the ear, causing hundreds of eager, half-suspicious, +half-wondering eyes to turn in the direction of the sound. + +And yet Prague is a great city, the capital of the Bohemian Crownland, +the centre of a not unimportant nation, the focus in which are +concentrated the hottest, if not the brightest, rays from the fire of +regeneration kindled within the last half century by the Slavonic race. +There is an ardent furnace of life hidden beneath the crust of ashes: +there is a wonderful language behind that national silence. + +The Wanderer stood in deep thought under the shadow of the ancient +Powder Tower. Haste had no further object now, since he had made every +inquiry within his power, and it was a relief to feel the pavement +beneath his feet and to breathe the misty frozen air after having been +so long in the closeness of his carriage. He hesitated as to what +he should do, unwilling to return to Unorna and acknowledge himself +vanquished, yet finding it hard to resist his desire to try every means, +no matter how little reasonable, how evidently useless, how puerile +and revolting to his sounder sense. The street behind him led directly +towards Unorna’s house. Had he found himself in a more remote quarter, +he might have come to another and a wiser conclusion. Being so near to +the house of which he was thinking, he yielded to the temptation. Having +reached this stage of resolution, his mind began to recapitulate the +events of the day, and he suddenly felt a strong wish to revisit the +church, to stand in the place where Beatrice had stood, to touch in the +marble basin beside the door the thick ice which her fingers had touched +so lately, to traverse again the dark passages through which he had +pursued her. To accomplish his purpose he need only turn aside a few +steps from the path he was now following. He left the street almost +immediately, passing under a low arched way that opened on the +right-hand side, and a moment later he was within the walls of the Teyn +Kirche. + +The vast building was less gloomy than it had been in the morning. +It was not yet the hour of vespers, the funeral torches had been +extinguished, as well as most of the lights upon the high altar, there +were not a dozen persons in the church, and high up beneath the roof +broad shafts of softened sunshine, floating above the mists of the city +without, streamed through the narrow lancet windows and were diffused +in the great gloom below. The Wanderer went to the monument of Brahe and +sat down in the corner of the blackened pew. His hands trembled a little +as he clasped them upon his knee, and his head sank slowly towards his +breast. + +He thought of all that might have been if he had risked everything that +morning. He could have used his strength to force a way for himself +through the press, he could have thrust the multitude to the right and +left, and he could have reached her side. Perhaps he had been weak, +indolent, timid, and he accused himself of his own failure. But then, +again, he seemed to see about him the closely packed crowd, the sea of +faces, the thick, black mass of humanity, and he knew the tremendous +power that lay in the inert, passive resistance of a vast gathering +such as had been present. Had it been anywhere else, in a street, in a +theatre, anywhere except in a church, all would have been well. It had +not been his fault, for he knew, when he thought of it calmly, that the +strength of his body would have been but as a breath of air against the +silent, motionless, and immovable barrier presented by a thousand men, +standing shoulder to shoulder against him. He could have done nothing. +Once again his fate had defeated him at the moment of success. + +He was aware that some one was standing very near to him. He looked up +and saw a very short, gray-bearded man engaged in a minute examination +of the dark red marble face on the astronomer’s tomb. The man’s head, +covered with closely-cropped gray hair, was half buried between his +high, broad shoulders, in an immense collar of fur, but the shape of +the skull was so singular as to distinguish its possessor, when hatless, +from all other men. The cranium was abnormally shaped, reaching a great +elevation at the summit, then sinking suddenly, then spreading forward +to an enormous development at the temple just visible as he was then +standing, and at the same time forming unusual protuberances behind the +large and pointed ears. No one who knew the man could mistake his head, +when even the least portion of it could be seen. The Wanderer recognised +him at once. + +As though he were conscious of being watched, the little man turned +sharply, exhibiting his wrinkled forehead, broad at the brows, narrow +and high in the middle, showing, too, a Socratic nose half buried in the +midst of the gray hair which grew as high as the prominent cheek bones, +and suggesting the idea of a polished ivory ball lying in a nest of +grayish wool. Indeed all that was visible of the face above the beard +might have been carved out of old ivory, so far as the hue and quality +of the surface were concerned; and if it had been necessary to sculpture +a portrait of the man, no material could have been chosen more fitted +to reproduce faithfully the deep cutting of the features, to render the +close network of the wrinkles which covered them like the shadings of a +line engraving, and at the same time to give the whole that appearance +of hardness and smoothness which was peculiar to the clear, tough skin. +The only positive colour which relieved the half tints of the face lay +in the sharp bright eyes which gleamed beneath the busy eyebrows like +tiny patches of vivid blue sky seen through little rifts in a curtain of +cloud. All expression, all mobility, all life were concentrated in those +two points. + +The Wanderer rose to his feet. + +“Keyork Arabian!” he exclaimed, extending his hand. The little man +immediately gripped it in his small fingers, which, soft and delicately +made as they were, possessed a strength hardly to have been expected +either from their shape, or from the small proportions of him to whom +they belonged. + +“Still wandering?” asked the little man, with a slightly sarcastic +intonation. He spoke in a deep, caressing bass, not loud, but rich in +quality and free from that jarring harshness which often belongs to very +manly voices. A musician would have discovered that the pitch was that +of those Russian choristers whose deep throats yield organ tones, a full +octave below the compass of ordinary singers in other lands. + +“You must have wandered, too, since we last met,” replied the taller +man. + +“I never wander,” said Keyork. “When a man knows what he wants, +knows where it is to be found, and goes thither to take it, he is not +wandering. Moreover, I have no thought of removing myself or my goods +from Prague. I live here. It is a city for old men. It is saturnine. The +foundations of its houses rest on the silurian formation, which is more +than can be said for any other capital, as far as I know.” + +“Is that an advantage?” inquired the Wanderer. + +“To my mind. I would say to my son, if I had one--my thanks to a blind +but intelligent destiny for preserving me from such a calamity!--I would +say to him, ‘Spend thy youth among flowers in the land where they are +brightest and sweetest; pass thy manhood in all lands where man strives +with man, thought for thought, blow for blow; choose for thine old age +that spot in which, all things being old, thou mayest for the longest +time consider thyself young in comparison with thy surroundings.’ A man +can never feel old if he contemplates and meditates upon those +things only which are immeasurably older than himself. Moreover the +imperishable can preserve the perishable.” + +“It was not your habit to talk of death when we were together.” + +“I have found it interesting of late years. The subject is connected +with one of my inventions. Did you ever embalm a body? No? I could tell +you something singular about the newest process.” + +“What is the connection?” + +“I am embalming myself, body and mind. It is but an experiment, +and unless it succeeds it must be the last. Embalming, as it is now +understood, means substituting one thing for another. Very good. I +am trying to purge from my mind its old circulating medium; the new +thoughts must all be selected from a class which admits of no decay. +Nothing could be simpler.” + +“It seems to me that nothing could be more vague.” + +“You were not formerly so slow to understand me,” said the strange +little man with some impatience. + +“Do you know a lady of Prague who calls herself Unorna?” the Wanderer +asked, paying no attention to his friend’s last remark. + +“I do. What of her?” Keyork Arabian glanced keenly at his companion. + +“What is she? She has an odd name.” + +“As for her name, it is easily accounted for. She was born on the +twenty-ninth day of February, the year of her birth being bisextile. +Unor means February, Unorna, derivative adjective, ‘belonging to +February.’ Some one gave her the name to commemorate the circumstance.” + +“Her parents, I suppose.” + +“Most probably--whoever they may have been.” + +“And what is she?” the Wanderer asked. + +“She calls herself a witch,” answered Keyork with considerable scorn. “I +do not know what she is, or what to call her--a sensitive, an hysterical +subject, a medium, a witch--a fool, if you like, or a charlatan if you +prefer the term. Beautiful she is, at least, whatever else she may not +be.” + +“Yes, she is beautiful.” + +“So you have seen her, have you?” The little man again looked sharply up +at his tall companion. “You have had a consultation----” + +“Does she give consultations? Is she a professional seer?” The Wanderer +asked the question in a tone of surprise. “Do you mean that she +maintains an establishment upon such a scale out of the proceeds of +fortune-telling?” + +“I do not mean anything of the sort. Fortune-telling is excellent! Very +good!” Keyork’s bright eyes flashed with amusement. “What are you doing +here--I mean in this church?” He put the question suddenly. + +“Pursuing--an idea, if you please to call it so.” + +“Not knowing what you mean I must please to call your meaning by your +own name for it. It is your nature to be enigmatic. Shall we go out? +If I stay here much longer I shall be petrified instead of embalmed. I +shall turn into dirty old red marble like Tycho’s effigy there, an awful +warning to future philosophers, and an example for the edification of +the faithful who worship here.” + +They walked towards the door, and the contrast between the appearance +of the two brought the ghost of a smile to the thin lips of the pale +sacristan, who was occupied in renewing the tapers upon one of the +side altars. Keyork Arabian might have stood for the portrait of the +gnome-king. His high and pointed head, his immense beard, his stunted +but powerful and thickset limbs, his short, sturdy strides, the fiery, +half-humorous, half-threatening twinkle of his bright eyes gave him +all the appearance of a fantastic figure from a fairy tale, and the +diminutive height of his compact frame set off the noble stature and +graceful motion of his companion. + +“So you were pursuing an idea,” said the little man as they emerged into +the narrow street. “Now ideas may be divided variously into classes, +as, for instance, ideas which are good, bad, or indifferent. Or you may +contrast the idea of Plato with ideas anything but platonic--take it +as you please. Then there is my idea, which is in itself, good, +interesting, and worthy of the embalming process; and there is your +idea, which I am human enough to consider altogether bad, worthless, +and frivolous, for the plain and substantial reason that it is not mine. +Perhaps that is the best division of all. Thine eye is necessarily, +fatally, irrevocably evil, because mine is essentially, predestinately, +and unchangeably good. If I secretly adopt your idea, I openly assert +that it was never yours at all, but mine from the beginning, by the +prerogatives of greater age, wider experience, and immeasurably superior +wisdom. If you have an idea upon any subject, I will utterly annihilate +it to my own most profound satisfaction; if you have none concerning any +special point, I will force you to accept mine, as mine, or to die the +intellectual death. That is the general theory of the idea.” + +“And what does it prove?” inquired the Wanderer. + +“If you knew anything,” answered Keyork, with twinkling eyes, “you would +know that a theory is not a demonstration, but an explanation. But, by +the hypothesis, since you are not I, you can know nothing certainly. +Now my theory explains many things, and, among others, the adamantine, +imperishable, impenetrable nature of the substance vanity upon which +the showman, Nature, projects in fast fading colours the unsubstantial +images of men. Why do you drag me through this dismal passage?” + +“I passed through it this morning and missed my way.” + +“In pursuit of the idea, of course. That was to be expected. Prague is +constructed on the same principle as the human brain, full of winding +ways, dark lanes, and gloomy arches, all of which may lead somewhere, +or may not. Its topography continually misleads its inhabitants as +the convolutions of the brain mislead the thoughts that dwell there, +sometimes bringing them out at last, after a patient search for +daylight, upon a fine broad street where the newest fashions in thought +are exposed for sale in brightly illuminated shop windows and showcases; +conducting them sometimes to the dark, unsavoury court where the +miserable self drags out its unhealthy existence in the single room of +its hired earthly lodging.” + +“The self which you propose to preserve from corruption,” observed the +tall man, who was carefully examining every foot of the walls between +which he was passing with his companion, “since you think so poorly +of the lodger and the lodging, I wonder that you should be anxious to +prolong the sufferings of the one and his lease of the other.” + +“It is all I have,” answered Keyork Arabian. “Did you think of that?” + +“That circumstance may serve as an excuse, but it does not constitute a +reason.” + +“Not a reason! Is the most abject poverty a reason for throwing away the +daily crust? My self is all I have. Shall I let it perish when an effort +may preserve it from destruction? On the one side of the line stands +Keyork Arabian, on the other floats the shadow of an annihilation, which +threatens to swallow up Keyork’s self, while leaving all that he has +borrowed of life to be enjoyed, or wasted by others. Could Keyork be +expected to hesitate, so long as he may hope to remain in possession +of that inestimable treasure, his own individuality, which is his only +means for enjoying all that is not his, but borrowed?” + +“So soon as you speak of enjoyment, argument ceases,” answered the +Wanderer. + +“You are wrong, as usual,” returned the other. “It is the other way. +Enjoyment is the universal solvent of all arguments. No reason can +resist its mordant action. It will dissolve any philosophy not founded +upon it and modelled out of its substance, as Aqua Regia will dissolve +all metals, even to gold itself. Enjoyment? Enjoyment is the protest of +reality against the tyranny of fiction.” + +The little man stopped short in his walk, striking his heavy stick +sharply upon the pavement and looking up at his companion, very much as +a man of ordinary size looks up at the face of a colossal statue. + +“Have wisdom and study led you no farther than that conclusion?” + +Keyork’s eyes brightened suddenly, and a peal of laughter, deep and +rich, broke from his sturdy breast and rolled long echoes through +the dismal lane, musical as a hunting-song heard among great trees in +winter. But his ivory features were not discomposed, though his white +beard trembled and waved softly like a snowy veil blown about by the +wind. + +“If wisdom can teach how to prolong the lease, what study can be +compared with that of which the results may beautify the dwelling? +What more can any man do for himself than make himself happy? The +very question is absurd. What are you trying to do for yourself at the +present moment? Is it for the sake of improving the physical condition +or of promoting the moral case of mankind at large that you are dragging +me through the slums and byways and alleys of the gloomiest city on this +side of eternal perdition? It is certainly not for my welfare that +you are sacrificing yourself. You admit that you are pursuing an idea. +Perhaps you are in search of some new and curious form of mildew, and +when you have found it--or something else--you will name your discovery +_Fungus Pragensis_, or _Cryptogamus minor Errantis_--‘the Wanderer’s +toadstool.’ But I know you of old, my good friend. The idea you pursue +is not an idea at all, but that specimen of the _genus homo_ known +as ‘woman,’ species ‘lady,’ variety ‘true love,’ vulgar designation +‘sweetheart.’” + +The Wanderer stared coldly at his companion. + +“The vulgarity of the designation is indeed only equalled by that +of your taste in selecting it,” he said slowly. Then he turned away, +intending to leave Keyork standing where he was. + +But the little man had already repented of his speech. He ran quickly +to his friend’s side and laid one hand upon his arm. The Wanderer paused +and again looked down. + +“Is it of any use to be offended with my speeches? Am I an acquaintance +of yesterday? Do you imagine that it could ever be my intention to annoy +you?” the questions were asked rapidly in tones of genuine anxiety. + +“Indeed, I hardly know how I could suppose that. You have always been +friendly--but I confess--your names for things are not--always----” + +The Wanderer did not complete the sentence, but looked gravely at +Keyork as though wishing to convey very clearly again what he had before +expressed in words. + +“If we were fellow-countrymen and had our native language in common, +we should not so easily misunderstand one another,” replied the other. +“Come, forgive my lack of skill, and do not let us quarrel. Perhaps I +can help you. You may know Prague well, but I know it better. Will you +allow me to say that I know also whom it is you are seeking here?” + +“Yes. You know. I have not changed since we last met, nor have +circumstances favoured me.” + +“Tell me--have you really seen this Unorna, and talked with her?” + +“This morning.” + +“And she could not help you?” + +“I refused to accept her help, until I had done all that was in my own +power to do.” + +“You were rash. And have you now done all, and failed?” + +“I have.” + +“Then, if you will accept a humble suggestion from me, you will go back +to her at once.” + +“I know very little of her. I do not altogether trust her--” + +“Trust! Powers of Eblis--or any other powers! Who talks of trust? Does +the wise man trust himself? Never. Then how can he dare trust any one +else?” + +“Your cynical philosophy again!” exclaimed the Wanderer. + +“Philosophy? I am a mysosophist! All wisdom is vanity, and I hate it! +Autology is my study, autosophy my ambition, autonomy my pride. I am the +great Panegoist, the would-be Conservator of Self, the inspired prophet +of the Universal I. I--I--I! My creed has but one word, and that word +but one letter, that letter represents Unity, and Unity is Strength. I +am I, one, indivisible, central! O I! Hail and live for ever!” + +Again the little man’s rich bass voice rang out in mellow laughter. A +very faint smile appeared upon his companion’s sad face. + +“You are happy, Keyork,” he said. “You must be, since you can laugh at +yourself so honestly.” + +“At myself? Vain man! I am laughing at you, and at every one else, at +everything except myself. Will you go to Unorna? You need not trust her +any more than the natural infirmity of your judgment suggests.” + +“Can you tell me nothing more of her? Do you know her well?” + +“She does not offer her help to every one. You would have done well to +accept it in the first instance. You may not find her in the same humour +again.” + +“I had supposed from what you said of her that she made a profession of +clairvoyance, or hypnotism, or mesmerism--whatever may be the right term +nowadays.” + +“It matters very little,” answered Keyork, gravely. “I used to wonder at +Adam’s ingenuity in naming all living things, but I think he would have +made but a poor figure in a tournament of modern terminologists. No. +Unorna does not accept remuneration for her help when she vouchsafes to +give it.” + +“And yet I was introduced to her presence without even giving my name.” + +“That is her fancy. She will see any one who wishes to see her, beggar, +gentleman, or prince. But she only answers such questions as she pleases +to answer.” + +“That is to say, inquiries for which she is already prepared with a +reply,” suggested the Wanderer. + +“See for yourself. At all events, she is a very interesting specimen. I +have never known any one like her.” + +Keyork Arabian was silent, as though he were reflecting upon Unorna’s +character and peculiar gifts, before describing them to his friend. His +ivory features softened almost imperceptibly, and his sharp blue eyes +suddenly lost their light, as though they no longer saw the outer +world. But the Wanderer cared for none of these things, and bestowed +no attention upon his companion’s face. 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?” + +“What?” asked the other vaguely, as though roused from sleep. + +“If I go to Unorna and ask a consultation of her, as though she were +a common somnambulist, and if she deigns to place her powers at my +disposal what sort of assistance shall I most probably get?” + +They had been walking slowly forward, and Keyork again stopped, rapping +the pavement with his iron-shod stick, and looking up from under his +bushy, overhanging eyebrows. + +“Of two things, one will happen,” he answered. “Either she will herself +fall into the abnormal state and will answer correctly any questions you +put to her, or she will hypnotise you, and you will yourself see--what +you wish to see.” + +“I myself?” + +“You yourself. The peculiarity of the woman is her duality, her +double power. She can, by an act of volition, become hypnotic, +clairvoyant--whatever you choose to call it. Or, if her visitor is at +all sensitive, she can reverse the situation and play the part of the +hypnotiser. I never heard of a like case.” + +“After all, I do not see why it should not be so,” said the Wanderer +thoughtfully. “At all events, whatever she can do, is evidently done by +hypnotism, and such extraordinary experiments have succeeded of late--” + +“I did not say that there was nothing but hypnotism in her processes.” + +“What then? Magic?” The Wanderer’s lip curled scornfully. + +“I do not know,” replied the little man, speaking slowly. “Whatever her +secret may be, she keeps it, even when speaking in sleep. This I can +tell you. I suspect that there is some other being, or person, in that +queer old house of hers whom she consults on grave occasions. At a loss +for an answer to a difficult scientific question, I have known her to +leave the room and to come back in the course of a few minutes with a +reply which I am positive she could never have framed herself.” + +“She may have consulted books,” suggested the Wanderer. + +“I am an old man,” said Keyork Arabian suddenly. “I am a very old man; +there are not many books which I have not seen and partially read at one +time or at another, and my memory is surprisingly good. I have excellent +reasons for believing that her information is not got from anything that +was ever written or printed.” + +“May I ask of what general nature your questions were?” inquired the +other, more interested than he had hitherto been in the conversation. + +“They referred to the principles of embalmment.” + +“Much has been written about that since the days of the Egyptians.” + +“The Egyptians!” exclaimed Keyork with great scorn. “They embalmed their +dead after a fashion. Did you ever hear that they embalmed the living?” + The little man’s eyes shot fire. + +“No, nor will I believe in any such outrageous impossibilities! If that +is all, I have little faith in Unorna’s mysterious counsellor.” + +“The faith which removes mountains is generally gained by experience +when it is gained at all, and the craving for explanation takes the +place, in some minds, of a willingness to learn. It is not my business +to find explanations, nor to raise my little self to your higher level, +by standing upon this curbstone, in order to deliver a lecture in the +popular form, upon matters that interest me. It is enough that I have +found what I wanted. Go and do likewise. See for yourself. You have +nothing to lose and everything to gain. You are unhappy, and unhappiness +is dangerous, in rare cases fatal. If you tell me to-morrow that Unorna +is a charlatan, you will be in no worse plight than to-day, nor will +your opinion of her influence mine. If she helps you to find what you +want--so much the better for you--how much the better, and how great the +risk you run, are questions for your judgment.” + +“I will go,” answered the Wanderer, after a moment’s hesitation. + +“Very good,” said Keyork Arabian. “If you want to find me again, come to +my lodging. Do you know the house of the Black Mother of God?” + +“Yes--there is a legend about a Spanish picture of our Lady once +preserved there--” + +“Exactly, it takes its name from that black picture. It is on the corner +of the Fruit Market, over against the window at which the Princess +Windischgratz was shot. I live in the upper story. Good-bye.” + +“Good-bye.” + + + +CHAPTER IV + +After the Wanderer had left her, Unorna continued to hold in her +hand the book she had again taken up, following the printed lines +mechanically from left to right, from the top of the page to the foot. +Having reached that point, however, she did not turn over the leaf. She +was vaguely aware that she had not understood the sense of the words, +and she returned to the place at which she had begun, trying to +concentrate her attention upon the matter, moving her fresh lips to form +the syllables, and bending her brows in the effort of understanding, +so that a short, straight furrow appeared, like a sharp vertical cut +extending from between the eyes to the midst of the broad forehead. One, +two and three sentences she grasped and comprehended; then her thoughts +wandered again, and the groups of letters passed meaningless before +her sight. She was accustomed to directing her intelligence without any +perceptible effort, and she was annoyed at being thus led away from her +occupation, against her will and in spite of her determination. A third +attempt showed her that it was useless to force herself any longer, and +with a gesture and look of irritation she once more laid the volume upon +the table at her side. + +During a few minutes she sat motionless in her chair, her elbow leaning +on the carved arm-piece, her chin supported upon the back of her +half-closed hand, of which the heavy, perfect fingers were turned +inwards, drooping in classic curves towards the lace about her throat. +Her strangely mismatched eyes stared vacantly towards an imaginary +horizon, not bounded by banks of flowers, nor obscured by the fantastic +foliage of exotic trees. + +Presently she held up her head, her white hand dropped upon her knee, +she hesitated an instant, and then rose to her feet, swiftly, as though +she had made a resolution and was about to act upon it. She made a step +forward, and then paused again, while a half-scornful smile passed like +a shadow over her face. Very slowly she began to pace the marble floor, +up and down in the open space before her chair, turning and turning +again, the soft folds of her white gown following her across the smooth +pavement with a gentle, sweeping sound, such as the breeze makes among +flowers in spring. + +“Is it he?” she asked aloud in a voice ringing with the joy and the +fear of a passion that has waited long and is at last approaching the +fulfilment of satisfaction. + +No answer came to her from among the thick foliage nor in the scented +breath of the violets and the lilies. The murmuring song of the little +fountain alone disturbed the stillness, and the rustle of her own +garments as she moved. + +“Is it he? Is it he? Is it he?” she repeated again and again, in +varying tones, chiming the changes of hope and fear, of certainty +and vacillation, of sadness and of gladness, of eager passion and of +chilling doubt. + +She stood still, staring at the pavement, her fingers clasped together, +the palms of her hands turned downward, her arms relaxed. She did not +see the dark red squares of marble, alternating with the white and +the gray, but as she looked a face and a form rose before her, in +the contemplation of which all her senses and faculties concentrated +themselves. The pale and noble head grew very distinct in her inner +sight, the dark gray eyes gazed sadly upon her, the passionate features +were fixed in the expression of a great sorrow. + +“Are you indeed he?” she asked, speaking softly and doubtfully, and yet +unconsciously projecting her strong will upon the vision, as though to +force it to give the answer for which she longed. + +And the answer came, imposed by the effort of her imagination upon the +thing imagined. The face suddenly became luminous, as with a radiance +within itself; the shadows of grief melted away, and in their place +trembled the rising light of a dawning love. The lips moved and the +voice spoke, not as it had spoken to her lately, but in tones long +familiar to her in dreams by day and night. + +“I am he, I am that love for whom you have waited; you are that dear one +whom I have long sought throughout the world. The hour of our joy has +struck, the new life begins to-day, and there shall be no end.” + +Unorna’s arms went out to grasp the shadow, and she drew it to her in +her fancy and kissed its radiant face. + +“To ages of ages!” she cried. + +Then she covered her eyes as though to impress the sight they had seen +upon the mind within, and groping blindly for her chair sank back +into her seat. But the mechanical effort of will and memory could not +preserve the image. In spite of all inward concentration of thought, +its colours faded, its outlines trembled, grew faint and vanished, and +darkness was in its place. Unorna’s hand dropped to her side, and a +quick throb of pain stabbed her through and through, agonising as the +wound of a blunt and jagged knife, though it was gone almost before she +knew where she had felt it. Then her eyes flashed with unlike fires, the +one dark and passionate as the light of a black diamond, the other keen +and daring as the gleam of blue steel in the sun. + +“Ah, but I will!” she exclaimed. “And what I will--shall be.” + +As though she were satisfied with the promise thus made to herself, she +smiled, her eyelids drooped, the tension of her frame was relaxed, and +she sank again into the indolent attitude in which the Wanderer had +found her. A moment later the distant door turned softly upon its hinges +and a light footfall broke the stillness. There was no need for Unorna +to speak in order that the sound of her voice might guide the new comer +to her retreat. The footsteps approached swiftly and surely. A young man +of singular beauty came out of the green shadows and stood beside the +chair in the open space. + +Unorna betrayed no surprise as she looked up into her visitor’s face. +She knew it well. In form and feature the youth represented the noblest +type of the Jewish race. It was impossible to see him without thinking +of a young eagle of the mountains, eager, swift, sure, instinct with +elasticity, far-sighted and untiring, strong to grasp and to hold, +beautiful with the glossy and unruffled beauty of a plumage continually +smoothed in the sweep and the rush of high, bright air. + +Israel Kafka stood still, gazing down upon the woman he loved, and +drawing his breath hard between his parted lips. His piercing eyes +devoured every detail of the sight before him, while the dark blood rose +in his lean olive cheek, and the veins of his temples swelled with the +beating of his quickened pulse. + +“Well?” + +The single indifferent word received the value of a longer speech from +the tone in which it was uttered, and from the look and gesture +which accompanied it. Unorna’s voice was gentle, soft, half-indolent, +half-caressing, half-expectant, and half-careless. There was something +almost insolent in its assumption of superiority, which was borne out by +the little defiant tapping of two long white fingers upon the arm of the +carved chair. And yet, with the rising inflection of the monosyllable +there went a raising of the brows, a sidelong glance of the eyes, a +slowly wreathing smile that curved the fresh lips just enough to +unmask two perfect teeth, all of which lent to the voice a meaning, +a familiarity, a pliant possibility of favourable interpretation, fit +rather to flatter a hope than to chill a passion. + +The blood beat more fiercely in the young man’s veins, his black eyes +gleamed yet more brightly, his pale, high-curved nostrils quivered at +every breath he drew. The throbbings of his heart unseated his thoughts +and strongly took possession of the government of his body. Under an +irresistible impulse he fell upon his knees beside Unorna, covering her +marble hand with all his lean, dark fingers and pressing his forehead +upon them, as though he had found and grasped all that could be dear to +him in life. + +“Unorna! My golden Unorna!” he cried, as he knelt. + +Unorna looked down upon his bent head. The smile faded from her face, +and for a moment a look of hardness lingered there, which gave way to +an expression of pain and regret. As though collecting her thoughts she +closed her eyes, as she tried to draw back her hand; then as he held it +still, she leaned back and spoke to him. + +“You have not understood me,” she said, as quietly as she could. + +The strong fingers were not lifted from hers, but the white face, now +bloodless and transparent, was raised to hers, and a look of such fear +as she had never dreamed of was in the wide black eyes. + +“Not--understood?” he repeated in startled, broken tones. + +Unorna sighed, and turned away, for the sight hurt her and accused her. + +“No, you have not understood. Is it my fault? 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. Unorna sat +quite still, staring fixedly into the green shadows of the foliage, as +though not daring to meet the gaze she felt upon her. Israel Kafka still +knelt beside her, motionless and hardly breathing, like a dangerous wild +animal startled by an unexpected enemy, and momentarily paralysed in +the very act of springing, whether backward in flight, or forward in the +teeth of the foe, it is not possible to guess. + +“I have been mistaken,” Unorna continued at last. “Forgive--forget--” + +Israel Kafka rose to his feet and drew back a step from her side. +All his movements were smooth and graceful. The perfect man is most +beautiful in motion, the perfect woman in repose. + +“How easy it is for you!” exclaimed the Moravian. “How easy! How simple! +You call me, and I come. You let your eyes rest on me, and I kneel +before you. You sigh, and I speak words of love. You lift your hand and +I crouch at your feet. You frown--and I humbly leave you. How easy!” + +“You are wrong, and you speak foolishly. You are angry, and you do not +weigh your words.” + +“Angry! What have I to do with so common a madness as anger? I am more +than angry. Do you think that because I have submitted to the veering +gusts of your good and evil humours these many months, I have lost all +consciousness of myself? Do you think that you can blow upon me as upon +a feather, from east and west, from north and south, hotly or coldly, as +your unstable nature moves you? Have you promised me nothing? Have you +given me no hope? Have you said and done nothing whereby you are bound? +Or can no pledge bind you, no promise find a foothold in your slippery +memory, no word of yours have meaning for those who hear it?” + +“I never gave you either pledge or promise,” answered Unorna in a harder +tone. “The only hope I have ever extended to you was this, that I would +one day answer you plainly. I have done so. You are not satisfied. Is +there anything more to be said? I do not bid you leave my house for +ever, any more than I mean to drive you from my friendship.” + +“From your friendship! Ah, I thank you, Unorna; I most humbly thank +you! For the mercy you extend in allowing me to linger near you, I am +grateful! Your friend, you say? Ay, truly, your friend and servant, your +servant and your slave, your slave and your dog. Is the friend impatient +and dissatisfied with his lot? A soft word shall turn away his anger. Is +the servant over-presumptuous? Your scorn will soon teach him his duty. +Is the slave disobedient? Blows will cure him of his faults. Does your +dog fawn upon you too familiarly? Thrust him from you with your foot and +he will cringe and cower till you smile again. 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!” + +“You are wise to suggest the latter alternative as a possibility,” said +Unorna coldly and not heeding his approach. + +The young man stood still, and folded his arms. The colour had returned +to his face and a deep flush was rising under his olive skin. + +“Do you mean what you say?” he asked slowly. “Do you mean that I shall +not have all, but nothing? Do you still dare to mean that, after all +that has passed between you and me?” + +Unorna raised her eyes and looked steadily into his. + +“Israel Kafka, do not speak to me of daring.” + +But the young man’s glance did not waver. The angry expression of his +features did not relax; he neither drew back nor bent his head. Unorna +seemed to be exerting all the strength of her will in the attempt to +dominate him, but without result. In the effort she made to concentrate +her determination her face grew pale and her lips trembled. Kafka +faced her resolutely, his eyes on fire, the rich colour mantling in his +cheeks. + +“Where is your power now?” he asked suddenly. “Where is your witchery? +You are only a woman, after all. You are only a weak woman!” + +Very slowly he drew nearer to her side, his lithe figure bending a +little as he looked down upon her. Unorna leaned far back, withdrawing +her face from his as far as she could, but still trying to impose her +will upon him. + +“You cannot,” he said between his teeth, answering her thought. + +Men who have tamed wild beasts alone know what such a moment is like. A +hundred times the brave man has held the tiger spell-bound and crouching +under his cold, fearless gaze. The beast, ever docile and submissive, +has cringed at his feet, fawned to his touch, and licked the hand that +snatched away the half-devoured morsel. Obedient to voice and eye, the +giant strength and sinewy grace have been debased to make the sport of +multitudes; the noble, pliant frame has contorted itself to execute the +mean antics of the low-comedy ape--to counterfeit death like a poodle +dog; to leap through gaudily-painted rings at the word of command; to +fetch and carry like a spaniel. A hundred times the changing crowd has +paid its paltry fee to watch the little play that is daily acted behind +the stout iron bars by the man and the beast. The man, the nobler, +braver creature, is arrayed in a wretched flimsy finery of tights and +spangles, parading his physical weakness and inferiority in the +toggery of a mountebank. The tiger, vast, sleepy-eyed, mysterious, lies +motionless in the front of his cage, the gorgeous stripes of his velvet +coat following each curve of his body, from the cushions of his great +fore paws to the arch of his gathered haunches. The watchfulness and +flexible activity of the serpent and the strength that knows no master +are clothed in the magnificent robes of the native-born sovereign. Time +and times again the beautiful giant has gone through the slavish +round of his mechanical tricks, obedient to the fragile creature of +intelligence, to the little dwarf, man, whose power is in his eyes and +heart only. He is accustomed to the lights, to the spectators, to the +laughter, to the applause, to the frightened scream of the hysterical +women in the audience, to the close air and to the narrow stage behind +the bars. The tamer in his tights and tinsel has grown used to his +tiger, to his emotions, to his hourly danger. He even finds at last that +his mind wanders during the performance, and that at the very instant +when he is holding the ring for the leap, or thrusting his head into the +beast’s fearful jaws, he is thinking of his wife, of his little child, +of his domestic happiness or household troubles, rather than of what +he is doing. Many times, perhaps many hundreds of times, all passes off +quietly and successfully. Then, inevitably, comes the struggle. Who +can tell the causes? The tiger is growing old, or is ill fed, or is not +well, or is merely in one of those evil humours to which animals are +subject as well as their masters. One day he refuses to go through with +the performance. First one trick fails, and then another. The public +grows impatient, the man in spangles grows nervous, raises his voice, +stamps loudly with his foot, and strikes his terrible slave with his +light switch. A low, deep sound breaks from the enormous throat, the +spectators hold their breath, the huge, flexible limbs are gathered for +the leap, and in the gaslight and the dead silence man and beast are +face to face. Life hangs in the balance, and death is at the door. + +Then the tamer’s heart beats loud, his chest heaves, his brows are +furrowed. Even then, in the instant that still separates him from +triumph or destruction, the thought of his sleeping child or of his +watching wife darts through his brain. But the struggle has begun and +there is no escape. One of two things must happen: he must overcome or +he must die. To draw back, to let his glance waver, to show so much as +the least sign of fear, is death. The moment is supreme, and he knows +it. + +Unorna grasped the arms of her chair as though seeking for physical +support in her extremity. She could not yield. Before her eyes arose a +vision unlike the reality in all its respects. She saw an older face, +a taller figure, a look of deeper thought between her and the angry man +who was trying to conquer her resistance with a glance. Between her and +her mistake the image of what should be stood out, bright, vivid, and +strong. A new conviction had taken the place of the old, a real passion +was flaming upon the altar whereon she had fed with dreams the semblance +of a sacred fire. + +“You do not really love me,” she said softly. + +Israel Kafka started, as a man who is struck unawares. The monstrous +untruth which filled the words broke down his guard, sudden tears veiled +the penetrating sharpness of his gaze, and his hand trembled. + +“I do not love you? I! Unorna--Unorna!” + +The first words broke from him in a cry of horror and stupefaction. But +her name, when he spoke it, sounded as the death moan of a young wild +animal wounded beyond all power to turn at bay. + +He moved unsteadily and laid hold of the tall chair in which she sat. +He was behind her now, standing, but bending down so that his forehead +pressed his fingers. He could not bear to look upon her hair, still less +upon her face. Even his hands were white and bloodless. Unorna could +hear his quick breathing just above her shoulder. She sat quite still, +and her lips were smiling, though her brow was thoughtful and almost +sad. She knew that the struggle was over and that she had gained the +mastery, though the price of victory might be a broken heart. + +“You thought I was jesting,” she said in a low voice, looking before her +into the deep foliage, but knowing that her softest whisper would reach +him. “But there was no jest in what I said--nor any unkindness in what +I meant, though it is all my fault. But that is true--you never loved me +as I would be loved.” + +“Unorna----” + +“No, I am not unkind. Your love is young, fierce, inconstant; half +terrible, half boyish, aflame to-day, asleep to-morrow, ready to turn +into hatred at one moment, to melt into tears at the next, intermittent, +unstable as water, fleeting as a cloud’s shadow on the mountain side--” + +“It pleased you once,” said Israel Kafka in broken tones. “It is not +less love because you are weary of it, and of me.” + +“Weary, you say? No, not weary--and very truly not of you. You will +believe that to-day, to-morrow, you will still try to force life into +your belief--and then it will be dead and gone like all thoughts which +have never entered into the shapes of reality. We have not loved each +other. We have but fancied that it would be sweet to love, and the knife +of truth has parted the web of our dreams, keenly, in the midst, so that +we see before us what is, though the ghost of what might have been is +yet lingering near.” + +“Who wove that web, Unorna? You, or I?” He lifted his heavy eyes and +gazed at her coiled hair. + +“What matters it whether it was your doing or mine? But we wove it +together--and together we must see the truth.” + +“If this is true, there is no more ‘together’ for you and me.” + +“We may yet glean friendship in the fields where love has grown.” + +“Friendship! The very word is a wound! Friendship! The very dregs and +lees of the wine of life! Friendship! The sour drainings of the heart’s +cup, left to moisten the lips of the damned when the blessed have drunk +their fill! I hate the word, as I hate the thought!” + +Unorna sighed, partly, perhaps, that he might hear the sigh, and put +upon it an interpretation soothing to his vanity, but partly, too, +from a sincere regret that he should need to suffer as he was evidently +suffering. She had half believed that she loved him, and she owed him +pity. Women’s hearts pay such debts unwillingly, but they do pay them, +nevertheless. She wished that she had never set eyes upon Israel Kafka; +she wished that she might never see him again; even his death would +hardly have cost her a pang, and yet she was sorry for him. Diana, the +huntress, shot her arrows with unfailing aim; Diana, the goddess, may +have sighed and shed one bright immortal tear, as she looked into the +fast-glazing eyes of the dying stag--may not Diana, the maiden, have +felt a touch of human sympathy and pain as she listened to the deep note +of her hounds baying on poor Actaeon’s track! No one is all bad, or all +good. No woman is all earthly, nor any goddess all divine. + +“I am sorry,” said Unorna. “You will not understand----” + +“I have understood enough. I have understood that a woman can have +two faces and two hearts, two minds, two souls; it is enough, my +understanding need go no farther. You sighed before you spoke. It was +not for me; it was for yourself. You never felt pain or sorrow for +another.” + +He was trying hard to grow cold and to find cold words to say, which +might lead her to believe him stronger than he was and able to master +his grief. But he was too young, too hot, too changeable for such a +part. Moreover, in his first violent outbreak Unorna had dominated him, +and he could not now regain the advantage. + +“You are wrong, Israel Kafka. You would make me less than human. If +I sighed, it was indeed for you. See--I confess that I have done you +wrong, not in deeds, but in letting you hope. Truly, I myself have hoped +also. I have thought that the star of love was trembling just below the +east, and that you and I might be one to another--what we cannot be now. +My wisdom has failed me, my sight has been deceived. Am I the only +woman in this world who has been mistaken? Can you not forgive? If I +had promised, if I had said one word--and yet, you are right, too, for +I have let you think in earnest what has been but a passing dream of +my own thoughts. It was all wrong; it was all my fault. There, lay your +hand in mine and say that you forgive, as I ask forgiveness.” + +He was still standing behind her, leaning against the back of her chair. +Without looking round she raised her hand above her shoulder as though +seeking for his. But he would not take it. + +“Is it so hard?” she asked softly. “Is it even harder for you to give +than for me to ask? Shall we part like this--not to meet again--each +bearing a wound, when both might be whole? Can you not say the word?” + +“What is it to you whether I forgive you or not?” + +“Since I ask it, believe that it is much to me,” she answered, slowly +turning her head until, without catching sight of his face, she could +just see where his fingers were resting on her chair. Then, over her +shoulder, she touched them, and drew them to her cheek. He made no +resistance. + +“Shall we part without one kind thought?” Her voice was softer still and +so low and sweet that it seemed as though the words were spoken in the +ripple of the tiny fountain. There was magic in the place, in the air, +in the sounds, above all in the fair woman’s touch. + +“Is this friendship?” asked Kafka. Then he sank upon his knees beside +her, and looked up into her face. + +“It is friendship; yes--why not? Am I like other women?” + +“Then why need there be any parting?” + +“If you will be my friend there need be none. You have forgiven me +now--I see it in your eyes. Is it not true?” + +He was at her feet, passive at last under the superior power which he +had never been able to resist. Unorna’s fascination was upon him, and +he could only echo her words, as he would have executed her slightest +command, without consciousness of free will or individual thought. It +was enough that for one moment his anger should cease to give life to +his resistance; it was sufficient that Unorna should touch him thus, +and speak softly, his eyelids quivered and his look became fixed, his +strength was absorbed in hers and incapable of acting except under her +direction. So long as she might please the spell would endure. + +“Sit beside me now, and let us talk,” she said. + +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. + +“I am only your slave, after all,” he repeated. + +“I could touch you with my hand and you would hate me, and forget that +you ever loved me.” + +This time the man was silent. There was a contraction of pain in his +face, as though a violent mental struggle were going on within him. +Unorna tapped the pavement impatiently with her foot and bent her brows. + +“You would hate me and forget that you ever loved me,” she repeated, +dwelling on each word as though to impress it on his consciousness. “Say +it. I order you.” + +The contraction of his features disappeared. + +“I should hate you and forget that I ever loved you,” he said slowly. + +“You never loved me.” + +“I never loved you.” + +Again Unorna laughed, and he joined in her laughter, unintelligently, +as he had done before. She leaned back in her seat, and her face grew +grave. Israel Kafka sat motionless in his chair, staring at her with +unwinking eyes. But his gaze did not disturb her. There was no more +meaning in it than in the expression of a marble statue, far less than +in that of a painted portrait. 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. Again and again +the vision of a newer happiness took shape and colour before her, so +clearly and vividly that she could have clasped it and held it and +believed in its reality, as she had done before Israel Kafka had +entered. But there was a doubt now, which constantly arose between her +and it, the dark and shapeless shadow of a reasoning she hated and yet +knew to be strong. + +“I must ask him,” she said unconsciously. + +“You must ask him,” repeated Israel Kafka from his seat. + +For the third time Unorna laughed aloud as she heard the echo of her own +words. + +“Whom shall I ask?” she inquired contemptuously, as she rose to her +feet. + +The dull, glassy eyes sought hers in painful perplexity, following her +face as she moved. + +“I do not know,” answered the powerless man. + +Unorna came close to him and laid her hand upon his head. + +“Sleep, until I wake you,” she said. + +The eyelids drooped and closed at her command, and instantly the man’s +breathing became heavy and regular. Unorna’s full lips curled as she +looked down at him. + +“And you would be my master!” she exclaimed. + +Then she turned and disappeared among the plants, leaving him alone. + + + +CHAPTER V + +Unorna passed through a corridor which was, indeed, only a long balcony +covered in with arches and closed with windows against the outer air. +At the farther end three steps descended to a dark door, through the +thickness of a massive wall, showing that at this point Unorna’s house +had at some former time been joined with another building beyond, with +which it thus formed one habitation. Unorna paused, holding the key +as though hesitating whether she should put it into the lock. It was +evident that much depended upon her decision, for her face expressed +the anxiety she felt. Once she turned away, as though to abandon her +intention, hesitated, and then, with an impatient frown, opened the +door and went in. She passed through a small, well-lighted vestibule and +entered the room beyond. + +The apartment was furnished with luxury, but a stranger would have +received an oddly disquieting impression of the whole at a first glance. +There was everything in the place which is considered necessary for a +bedroom, and everything was perfect of its kind, spotless and dustless, +and carefully arranged in order. But almost everything was of an unusual +and unfamiliar shape, as though designed for some especial reason to +remain in equilibrium in any possible position, and to be moved from +place to place with the smallest imaginable physical effort. The carved +bedstead was fitted with wheels which did not touch the ground, and +levers so placed as to be within the reach of a person lying in it. The +tables were each supported at one end only by one strong column, fixed +to a heavy base set on broad rollers, so that the board could be run +across a bed or a lounge with the greatest ease. There was but one chair +made like ordinary chairs; the rest were so constructed that the least +motion of the occupant must be accompanied by a corresponding change +of position of the back and arms, and some of them bore a curious +resemblance to a surgeon’s operating table, having attachments of +silver-plated metal at many points, of which the object was not +immediately evident. Before a closed door a sort of wheeled conveyance, +partaking of the nature of a chair and of a perambulator, stood upon +polished rails, which disappeared under the door itself, showing that +the thing was intended to be moved from one room to another in a certain +way and in a fixed line. The rails, had the door been opened, would have +been seen to descend upon the other side by a gentle inclined plane +into the centre of a huge marble basin, and the contrivance thus made +it possible to wheel a person into a bath and out again without +necessitating the slightest effort or change of position in the body. In +the bedroom the windows were arranged so that the light and air could +be regulated to a nicety. The walls were covered with fine basket work, +apparently adapted in panels; but these panels were in reality movable +trays, as it were, forming shallow boxes fitted with closely-woven +wicker covers, and filled with charcoal and other porous substances +intended to absorb the impurities of the air, and thus easily changed +and renewed from time to time. Immediately beneath the ceiling were +placed delicate glass globes of various soft colours, with silken +shades, movable from below by means of brass rods and handles. In the +ceiling itself there were large ventilators, easily regulated as might +be required, and there was a curious arrangement of rails and wheels +from which depended a sort of swing, apparently adapted for moving a +person or a weight to different parts of the room without touching the +floor. In one of the lounges, not far from the window, lay a colossal +old man, wrapped in a loose robe of warm white stuff, and fast asleep. + +He was a very old man, so old, indeed, as to make it hard to guess his +age from his face and his hands, the only parts visible as he lay at +rest, the vast body and limbs lying motionless under his garment, as +beneath a heavy white pall. He could not be less than a hundred years +old, but how much older than that he might really be, it was impossible +to say. What might be called the waxen period had set in, and the high +colourless features seemed to be modelled in that soft, semi-transparent +material. The time had come when the stern furrows of age had broken +up into countless minutely-traced lines, so close and fine as to seem +a part of the texture of the skin, mere shadings, evenly distributed +throughout, and no longer affecting the expression of the face as +the deep wrinkles had done in former days; at threescore and ten, at +fourscore, and even at ninety years. The century that had passed had +taken with it its marks and scars, leaving the great features in their +original purity of design, lean, smooth, and clearly defined. That last +change in living man is rare enough, but when once seen is not to be +forgotten. There is something in the faces of the very, very old which +hardly suggests age at all, but rather the vague possibility of a +returning prime. Only the hands tell the tale, with their huge, shining, +fleshless joints, their shadowy hollows, and their unnatural yellow +nails. + +The old man lay quite still, breathing softly through his snowy beard. +Unorna came to his side. There was something of wonder and admiration +in her own eyes as she stood there gazing upon the face which other +generations of men and women, all long dead, had looked upon and known. +The secret of life and death was before her each day when she entered +that room, and on the very verge of solution. The wisdom hardly gained +in many lands was striving with all its concentrated power to preserve +that life; the rare and subtle gifts which she herself possessed were +daily exercised to their full in the suggestion of vitality; the most +elaborate inventions of skilled mechanicians were employed in reducing +the labour of living to the lowest conceivable degree of effort. The +great experiment was being tried. What Keyork Arabian described as the +embalming of a man still alive was being attempted. And he lived. For +years they had watched him and tended him, and looked critically for +the least signs of a diminution or an augmentation in his strength. They +knew that he was now in his one hundred and seventh year, and yet he +lived and was no weaker. Was there a limit; or was there not, since the +destruction of the tissues was arrested beyond doubt, so far as the most +minute tests could show? Might there not be, in the slow oscillations +of nature, a degree of decay, on this side of death, from which a return +should be possible, provided that the critical moment were passed in a +state of sleep and under perfect conditions? How do we know that all +men must die? We suppose the statement to be true by induction, from +the undoubted fact that men have hitherto died within a certain limit of +age. By induction, too, our fathers, our grandfathers, knew that it was +impossible for man to traverse the earth faster than at the full speed +of a galloping horse. After several thousand years of experience that +piece of knowledge, which seemed to be singularly certain, was suddenly +proved to be the grossest ignorance by a man who had been in the habit +of playing with a tea-kettle when a boy. We ourselves, not very long +ago, knew positively, as all men had known since the beginning of the +world, that it was quite impossible to converse with a friend at a +distance beyond the carrying power of a speaking trumpet. To-day, a +boy who does not know that one may talk very agreeably with a friend +a thousand miles away is an ignoramus; and experimenters whisper among +themselves that, if the undulatory theory of light have any foundation, +there is no real reason why we may not see that same friend at that same +distance, as well as talk with him. Ten years ago we were quite sure +that it was beyond the bounds of natural possibility to produce a bad +burn upon the human body by touching the flesh with a bit of cardboard +or a common lead pencil. Now we know with equal certainty that if upon +one arm of a hypnotised patient we impress a letter of the alphabet +cut out of wood, telling him that it is red-hot iron, the shape of the +letter will on the following day be found on a raw and painful wound +not only in the place we selected but on the other arm, in the exactly +corresponding spot, and reversed as though seen in a looking-glass; +and we very justly consider that a physician who does not know this and +similar facts is dangerously behind the times, since the knowledge is +open to all. The inductive reasoning of many thousands of years has +been knocked to pieces in the last century by a few dozen men who have +reasoned little but attempted much. It would be rash to assert that +bodily death may not some day, and under certain conditions, be +altogether escaped. It is nonsense to pretend that human life may not +possibly, and before long, be enormously prolonged, and that by some +shorter cut to longevity than temperance and sanitation. No man can say +that it will, but no man of average intelligence can now deny that it +may. + +Unorna had hesitated at the door, and she hesitated now. It was in her +power, and in hers only, to wake the hoary giant, or at least to +modify his perpetual sleep so far as to obtain from him answers to her +questions. It would be an easy matter to lay one hand upon his brow, +bidding him see and speak--how easy, she alone knew. But on the other +hand, to disturb his slumber was to interfere with the continuity of the +great experiment, to break through a rule lately made, to incur the risk +of an accident, if not of death itself. + +She drew back at the thought, as though fearing to startle him, and then +she smiled at her own nervousness. To wake him she must exercise her +will. There was no danger of his ever being roused by any sound or touch +not proceeding from herself. The crash of thunder had no reverberation +for his ears, the explosion of a cannon would not have penetrated into +his lethargy. She might touch him, move him, even speak to him, but +unless she laid her hand upon his waxen forehead and bid him feel and +hear, he would be as unconscious as the dead. She returned to his side +and gazed into his placid face. Strange faculties were asleep in that +ancient brain, and strange wisdom was stored there, gathered from +many sources long ago, and treasured unconsciously by the memory to be +recalled at her command. + +The man had been a failure in his day, a scholar, a student, a searcher +after great secrets, a wanderer in the labyrinths of higher thought. +He had been a failure and had starved, as failures must, in order that +vulgar success may fatten and grow healthy. He had outlived the few that +had been dear to him, he had outlived the power to feed on thought, he +had outlived generations of men, and cycles of changes, and yet there +had been life left in the huge gaunt limbs and sight in the sunken eyes. +Then he had outlived pride itself, and the ancient scholar had begged +his bread. In his hundredth year he had leaned for rest against Unorna’s +door, and she had taken him in and cared for him, and since that time +she had preserved his life. For his history was known in the ancient +city, and it was said that he had possessed great wisdom in his day. +Unorna knew that this wisdom could be hers if she could keep alive the +spark of life, and that she could employ his own learning to that end. +Already she had much experience of her powers, and knew that if she once +had the mastery of the old man’s free will he must obey her fatally and +unresistingly. Then she conceived the idea of embalming, as it were, the +living being, in a perpetual hypnotic lethargy, from whence she recalled +him from time to time to an intermediate state, in which she caused +him to do mechanically all those things which she judged necessary to +prolong life. + +Seeing her success from the first, she had begun to fancy that the +present condition of things might be made to continue indefinitely. +Since death was to-day no nearer than it had been seven years ago, there +was no reason why it might not be guarded against during seven years +more, and if during seven, why not during ten, twenty, fifty? She had +for a helper a physician of consummate practical skill--a man whose +interest in the result of the trial was, if anything, more keen than +her own; a friend, above all, whom she believed she might trust, and who +appeared to trust her. + +But in the course of their great experiment they had together made +rules by which they had mutually agreed to be bound. They had of late +determined that the old man must not be disturbed in his profound rest +by any question tending to cause a state of mental activity. The test of +a very fine instrument had proved that the shortest interval of positive +lucidity was followed by a slight but distinctly perceptible rise +of temperature in the body, and this could mean only a waste of the +precious tissues they were so carefully preserving. They hoped and +believed that the grand crisis was at hand, and that, if the body did +not now lose strength and vitality for a considerable time, both would +slowly though surely increase, in consequence of the means they were +using to instill new blood into the system. But the period was supreme, +and to interfere in any way with the progress of the experiment was to +run a risk of which the whole extent could only be realised by Unorna +and her companion. + +She hesitated therefore, well knowing that her ally would oppose her +intention with all his might, and dreading his anger, bold as she was, +almost as much as she feared the danger to the old man’s life. On the +other hand, she had a motive which the physician could not have, and +which, as she was aware, he would have despised and condemned. She had a +question to ask, which she considered of vital importance to herself, +to which she firmly believed that the true answer would be given, and +which, in her womanly impetuosity and impatience, she could not bear +to leave unasked until the morrow, much less until months should have +passed away. Two very powerful incentives were at work, two of the very +strongest which have influence with mankind, love and a superstitious +belief in an especial destiny of happiness, at the present moment on the +very verge of realisation. + +She believed profoundly in herself and in the suggestions of her own +imagination. So fixed and unalterable was that belief that it amounted +to positive knowledge, so far as it constituted a motive of action. In +her strange youth wild dreams had possessed her, and some of them, often +dreamed again, had become realities to her now. Her powers were natural, +those gifts which from time to time are seen in men and women, which are +alternately scoffed at as impostures, or accepted as facts, but which +are never understood either by their possessor or by those who witness +the results. She had from childhood the power to charm with eye and hand +all living things, the fascination which takes hold of the consciousness +through sight and touch and word, and lulls it to sleep. It was +witchery, and she was called a witch. In earlier centuries her hideous +fate would have been sealed from the first day when, under her childish +gaze, a wolf that had been taken alive in the Bohemian forest crawled +fawning to her feet, at the full length of its chain, and laid its +savage head under her hand, and closed its bloodshot eyes and slept +before her. Those who had seen had taken her and taught her how to +use what she possessed according to their own shadowy beliefs and dim +traditions of the half-forgotten magic in a distant land. They had +filled her heart with longings and her brain with dreams, and she had +grown up to believe that one day love would come suddenly upon her and +bear her away through the enchanted gates of the earthly paradise; once +only that love would come, and the supreme danger of her life would be +that she should not know it when it was at hand. + +And now she knew that she loved, for the place of her fondness for +the one man had been taken by her passion for the other, and she felt +without reasoning, where, before, she had tried to reason herself into +feeling. The moment had come. She had seen the man in whom her happiness +was to be, the time was short, the danger great if she should not grasp +what her destiny would offer her but once. Had the Wanderer been by her +side, she would have needed to ask no question, she would have known and +been satisfied. But hours must pass before she could see him again, and +every minute spent without him grew more full of anxiety and disturbing +passion than the last. The wild love-blossom that springs into existence +in a single moment has elements which do not enter into the gentler +being of that other love which is sown in indifference, and which grows +up in slowly increasing interest, tended and refreshed in the pleasant +intercourse of close acquaintance, to bud and bloom at last as +a mild-scented garden flower. Love at first sight is impatient, +passionate, ruthless, cruel, as the year would be, if from the calendar +of the season the months of slow transition were struck out; if the +raging heat of August followed in one day upon the wild tempests of the +winter; if the fruit of the vine but yesterday in leaf grew rich and +black to-day, to be churned to foam to-morrow under the feet of the +laughing wine treaders. + +Unorna felt that the day would be intolerable if she could not hear from +other lips the promise of a predestined happiness. She was not really in +doubt, but she was under the imperious impulse of a passion which +must needs find some response, even in the useless confirmation of its +reality uttered by an indifferent person--the spirit of a mighty cry +seeking its own echo in the echoless, flat waste of the Great Desert. + +Then, too, she placed a sincere faith in the old man’s answers to her +questions, regardless of the matter inquired into. She believed that +in the mysterious condition between sleep and waking which she could +command, the knowledge of things to be was with him as certainly as the +memory of what had been and of what was even now passing in the outer +world. To her, the one direction of the faculty seemed no less possible +than the others, though she had not yet attained alone to the vision of +the future. Hitherto the old man’s utterances had been fulfilled to the +letter. More than once, as Keyork Arabian had hinted, she had consulted +his second sight in preference to her own, and she had not been +deceived. His greater learning and his vast experience lent to his +sayings something divine in her eyes; she looked upon him as the +Pythoness of Delphi looked upon the divinity of her inspiration. + +The irresistible longing to hear the passionate pleadings of her own +heart solemnly confirmed by the voice in which she trusted overcame at +last every obstacle. Unorna bent over the sleeper, looking earnestly +into his face, and she laid one hand upon his brow. + +“You hear me,” she said, slowly and distinctly. “You are conscious of +thought, and you see into the future.” + +The massive head stirred, the long limbs moved uneasily under the white +robe, the enormous, bony hands contracted, and in the cavernous eyes the +great lids were slowly lifted. A dull stare met her look. + +“Is it he?” she asked, speaking more quickly in spite of herself. “Is it +he at last?” + +There was no answer. The lips did not part, there was not even the +attempt to speak. She had been sure that the one word would be spoken +unhesitatingly, and the silence startled her and brought back the doubt +which she had half forgotten. + +“You must answer my question. I command you to answer me. Is it he?” + +“You must tell me more before I can answer.” + +The words came in a feeble piping voice, strangely out of keeping with +the colossal frame and imposing features. + +Unorna’s face was clouded, and the ready gleam of anger flashed in her +eyes as it ever did at the smallest opposition to her will. + +“Can you not see him?” she asked impatiently. + +“I cannot see him unless you lead me to him and tell me where he is.” + +“Where are you?” + +“In your mind.” + +“And what are you?” + +“I am the image in your eyes.” + +“There is another man in my mind,” said Unorna. “I command you to see +him.” + +“I see him. He is tall, pale, noble, suffering. You love him.” + +“Is it he who shall be my life and my death? Is it he who shall love me +as other women are not loved?” + +The weak voice was still for a moment, and the face seemed covered with +a veil of perplexity. + +“I see with your eyes,” said the old man at last. + +“And I command you to see into the future with your own!” cried Unorna, +concentrating her terrible will as she grew more impatient. + +There was an evident struggle in the giant’s mind, an effort to obey +which failed to break down an obstacle. She bent over him eagerly and +her whole consciousness was centered in the words she desired him to +speak. + +Suddenly the features relaxed into an expression of rest and +satisfaction. There was something unearthly in the sudden smile that +flickered over the old waxen face--it was as strange and unnatural as +though the cold marble effigy upon a sepulchre had laughed aloud in the +gloom of an empty church. + +“I see. He will love you,” said the tremulous tones. + +“Then it is he?” + +“It is he.” + +With a suppressed cry of triumph Unorna lifted her head and stood +upright. Then she started violently and grew very pale. + +“You have probably killed him and spoiled everything,” said a rich bass +voice at her elbow--the very sub-bass of all possible voices. + +Keyork Arabian was beside her. In her intense excitement she had not +heard him enter the room, and he had surprised her at once in the +breaking of their joint convention and in the revelation of her secret. +If Unorna could be said to know the meaning of the word fear in any +degree whatsoever, it was in relation to Keyork Arabian, the man who +during the last few years had been her helper and associate in the great +experiment. Of all men she had known in her life, he was the only one +whom she felt to be beyond the influence of her powers, the only one +whom she felt that she could not charm by word, or touch, or look. The +odd shape of his head, she fancied, figured the outline and proportions +of his intelligence, which was, as it were, pyramidal, standing upon a +base so broad and firm as to place the centre of its ponderous gravity +far beyond her reach to disturb. There was certainly no other being of +material reality that could have made Unorna start and turn pale by its +inopportune appearance. + +“The best thing you can do is to put him to sleep at once,” said the +little man. “You can be angry afterwards, and, I thank heaven, so can +I--and shall.” + +“Forget,” said Unorna, once more laying her hand upon the waxen brow. +“Let it be as though I had not spoken with you. Drink, in your sleep, +of the fountain of life, take new strength into your body and new blood +into your heart. Live, and when I next wake you be younger by as many +months as there shall pass hours till then. Sleep.” + +A low sigh trembled in the hoary beard. The eyelids drooped over the +sunken eyes, there was a slight motion of the limbs, and all was still, +save for the soft and regular breathing. + +“The united patience of the seven archangels, coupled with that of Job +and Simon Stylites, would not survive your acquaintance for a day,” + observed Keyork Arabian. + +“Is he mine or yours?” Unorna asked, turning to him and pointing to the +sleeper. + +She was quite ready to face her companion after the first shock of his +unexpected appearance. His small blue eyes sparkled angrily. + +“I am not versed in the law concerning real estate in human kind in the +Kingdom of Bohemia,” he answered. “You may have property in a couple of +hundredweight, more or less, of old bones rather the worse for the wear +and tear of a century, but I certainly have some ownership in the life. +Without me, you would have been the possessor of a remarkably fine +skeleton by this time--and of nothing more.” + +As he spoke, his extraordinary voice ran over half a dozen notes of +portentous depth, like the opening of a fugue on the pedals of an organ. +Unorna laughed scornfully. + +“He is mine, Keyork Arabian, alive or dead. If the experiment fails, +and he dies, the loss is mine, not yours. Moreover, what I have done is +done, and I will neither submit to your reproaches nor listen to your +upbraidings. Is that enough?” + +“Of its kind, quite. I will build an altar to Ingratitude, we will bury +our friend beneath the shrine, and you shall serve in the temple. You +could deify all the cardinal sins if you would only give your attention +to the subject, merely by the monstrously imposing proportions you would +know how to give them.” + +“Does it ease you to make such an amazing noise?” inquired Unorna, +raising her eyebrows. + +“Immensely. Our friend cannot hear it, and you can. You dare to tell me +that if he dies you are the only loser. Do fifty years of study count +for nothing? Look at me. I am an old man, and unless I find the secret +of life here, in this very room, before many years are over, I must +die--die, do you understand? Do you know what it means to die? How can +you comprehend that word--you girl, you child, you thing of five and +twenty summers!” + +“It was to be supposed that your own fears were at the root of your +anger,” observed Unorna, sitting down upon her chair and calmly folding +her hands as though to wait until the storm should pass over. + +“Is there anything at the root of anything except Self? You moth, you +butterfly, you thread of floating gossamer! How can you understand the +incalculable value of Self--of that which is all to me and nothing to +you, or which, being yours, is everything to you and to me nothing? You +are so young--you still believe in things, and interests, and good and +evil, and love and hate, truth and falsehood, and a hundred notions +which are not facts, but only contrasts between one self and another! +What were you doing here when I found you playing with life and death, +perhaps with my life, for a gipsy trick, in the crazy delusion that this +old parcel of humanity can see the shadows of things which are not yet? +I saw, I heard. How could he answer anything save that which was in your +own mind, when you were forcing him with your words and your eyes to +make a reply of some sort, or perish? Ah! You see now. You understand +now. I have opened your eyes a little. Why did he hesitate, and suffer? +Because you asked that to which he knew there was no answer. And you +tortured him with your will until his individuality fell into yours, and +spoke your words.” + +Unorna’s head sank a little and she covered her eyes. The truth of what +he said flashed upon her suddenly and unexpectedly, bringing with it the +doubt which had left her at the moment when the sleeper had spoken. She +could not hide her discomfiture and Keyork Arabian saw his advantage. + +“And for what?” he asked, beginning to pace the broad room. “To know +whether a man will love you or not! You seem to have forgotten what +you are. Is not such a poor and foolish thing as love at the command of +those who can say to the soul, be this, or be that, and who are obeyed? +Have you found a second Keyork Arabian, over whom your eyes have no +power--neither the one nor the other?” + +He laughed rather brutally at the thought of her greatest physical +peculiarity, but then suddenly stopped short. She had lifted her face +and those same eyes were fastened upon him, the black and the gray, in a +look so savage and fierce that even he was checked, if not startled. + +“They are certainly very remarkable eyes,” he said, more calmly, and +with a certain uneasiness which Unorna did not notice. “I wonder whom +you have found who is able to look you in the face without losing +himself. I suppose it can hardly be my fascinating self whom you wish to +enthrall,” he added, conscious after a moment’s trial that he was proof +against her influence. + +“Hardly,” answered Unorna, with a bitter laugh. + +“If I were the happy man you would not need that means of bringing me to +your feet. It is a pity that you do not want me. We should make a very +happy couple. But there is much against me. I am an old man, Unorna. My +figure was never of divine proportions, and as for my face, Nature made +it against her will. I know all that--and yet, I was young once, and +eloquent. I could make love then--I believe that I could still if it +would amuse you.” + +“Try it,” said Unorna, who, like most people, could not long be angry +with the gnome-like little sage. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +“I could make love--yes, and since you tell me to try, I will.” + +He came and stood before her, straightening his diminutive figure in a +comical fashion as though he were imitating a soldier on parade. + +“In the first place,” he said, “in order to appreciate my skill, you +should realise the immense disadvantages under which I labour. I am a +dwarf, my dear Unorna. In the presence of that kingly wreck of a Homeric +man”--he pointed to the sleeper beside them--“I am a Thersites, if not +a pigmy. To have much chance of success I should ask you to close your +eyes, and to imagine that my stature matches my voice. That gift at +least, I flatter myself, would have been appreciated on the plains of +Troy. But in other respects I resemble neither the long-haired Greeks +nor the trousered Trojans. I am old and hideous, and in outward +appearance I am as like Socrates as in inward disposition I am totally +different from him. Admit, since I admit it, that I am the ugliest and +smallest man of your acquaintance.” + +“It is not to be denied,” said Unorna with a smile. + +“The admission will make the performance so much the more interesting. +And now, as the conjurer says when he begins, observe that there is no +deception. That is the figure of speech called lying, because there is +to be nothing but deception from beginning to end. Did you ever consider +the nature of a lie, Unorna? It is a very interesting subject.” + +“I thought you were going to make love to me.” + +“True; how easily one forgets those little things! And yet no woman ever +forgave a man who forgot to make love when she expected him to do so. +For a woman, who is a woman, never forgets to be exigent. And now there +is no reprieve, for I have committed myself, am sentenced, and +condemned to be made ridiculous in your eyes. Can there be anything more +contemptible, more laughable, more utterly and hopelessly absurd, than +an old and ugly man declaring his unrequited passion for a woman who +might be his granddaughter? Is he not like a hoary old owl, who leaves +his mousing to perch upon one leg and hoot love ditties at the evening +star, or screech out amorous sonnets to the maiden moon?” + +“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. He had the power of +making his speech sound like a deep, soft music. + +“For what is love?” he asked. “Is it a garment, a jewel, a fanciful +ornament which only boys and girls may wear upon a summer’s holiday? May +we take it or leave it, as we please? Wear it, if it shows well upon our +beauty, or cast it off for others to put on when we limp aside out of +the race of fashion to halt and breathe before we die? Is love beauty? +Is love youth? Is love yellow hair or black? Is love the rose upon the +lip or the peach blossom in the cheek, that only the young may call it +theirs? Is it an outward grace, which can live but so long as the other +outward graces are its companions, to perish when the first gray hair +streaks the dark locks? Is it a glass, shivered by the first shock +of care as a mirror by a sword-stroke? Is it a painted mask, washed +colourless by the first rain of autumn tears? Is it a flower, so tender +that it must perish miserably in the frosty rime of earliest winter? Is +love the accident of youth, the complement of a fresh complexion, the +corollary of a light step, the physical concomitant of swelling pulses +and unstrained sinews?” + +Keyork Arabian laughed softly. Unorna was grave and looked up into his +face, resting her chin upon her hand. + +“If that is love, if that is the idol of your shrine, the vision of your +dreams, the familiar genius of your earthly paradise, why then, indeed, +he who worships by your side, and who would share the habitation of +your happiness, must wear Absalom’s anointed curls and walk with Agag’s +delicate step. What matter if he be but a half-witted puppet? He is +fair. What matter if he be foolish, faithless, forgetful, inconstant, +changeable as the tide of the sea? He is young. His youth shall cover +all his deficiencies and wipe out all his sins! Imperial love, monarch +and despot of the human soul, is become the servant of boys for the wage +of a girl’s first thoughtless kiss. If that is love let it perish out of +the world, with the bloom of the wood violet in spring, with the flutter +of the bright moth in June, with the song of the nightingale and the +call of the mocking-bird, with all things that are fair and lovely and +sweet but for a few short days. If that is love, why then love never +made a wound, nor left a scar, nor broke a heart in this easy-going +rose-garden of a world. The rose blooms, blows, fades and withers and +feels nothing. If that is love, we may yet all develop into passionless +promoters of a flat and unprofitable commonwealth; the earth may yet be +changed to a sweetmeat for us to feed on, and the sea to sugary lemonade +for us to drink, as the mad philosopher foretold, and we may yet all be +happy after love has left us.” + +Unorna smiled, while he laughed again. + +“Good,” she said. “You tell me what love is not, but you have not told +me what it is.” + +“Love is the immortal essence of mortal passion, together they are as +soul and body, one being; separate them, and the body without the soul +is a monster, the soul without the body is no longer human, nor earthly, +nor real to us at all, though still divine. Love is the world’s maker, +master and destroyer, the magician whose word can change water to blood, +and blood to fire, the dove to a serpent, and the serpent to a dove--ay, +and can make of that same dove an eagle, with an eagle’s beak, and +talons, and air-cleaving wing-stroke. Love is the spirit of life and the +angel of death. He speaks, and the thorny wilderness of the lonely heart +is become a paradise of flowers. He is silent, and the garden is but a +blackened desert over which a destroying flame has passed in the arms of +the east wind. Love stands at the gateway of each human soul, holding in +his hands a rose and a drawn sword--the sword is for the many, the rose +for the one.” + +He sighed and was silent. Unorna looked at him curiously. + +“Have you ever loved, that you should talk like that?” she asked. He +turned upon her almost fiercely. + +“Loved? Yes, as you can never love; as you, in your woman’s heart, can +never dream of loving--with every thought, with every fibre, with +every pulse, with every breath; with a love that is burning the old oak +through and through, root and branch, core and knot, to feathery ashes +that you may scatter with a sigh--the only sigh you will ever breathe +for me, Unorna. Have I loved? Can I love? Do I love to-day as I loved +yesterday and shall love to-morrow? Ah, child! That you should ask that, +with your angel’s face, when I am in hell for you! When I would give my +body to death and my soul to darkness for a touch of your hand, for as +much kindness and gentleness in a word from your dear lips as you give +the beggars in the street! When I would tear out my heart with my hands +to feed the very dog that fawns on you--and who is more to you than +I, because he is yours, and all that is yours I love, and worship, and +adore!” + +Unorna had looked up and smiled at first, believing that it was all but +a comedy, as he had told her that it should be. But as he spoke, and the +strong words chased each other in the torrent of his passionate speech, +she was startled and surprised. There was a force in his language, a +fiery energy in his look, a ring of half-desperate hope in his deep +voice, which moved her to strange thoughts. His face, too, was changed +and ennobled, his gestures larger, even his small stature ceased, for +once, to seem dwarfish and gnome-like. + +“Keyork Arabian, is it possible that you love me?” she cried, in her +wonder. + +“Possible? True? There is neither truth nor possibility in anything else +for me, in anything, in any one, but you, Unorna. The service of my love +fills the days and the nights and the years with you--fills the world +with you only; makes heaven to be on earth, since heaven is but the air +that is made bright with your breath, as the temple of all temples is +but the spot whereon your dear feet stand. The light of life is where +you are, the darkness of death is everywhere where you are not. But I am +condemned to die, cut off, predestined to be lost--for you have no pity, +Unorna, you cannot find it in you to be sorry for the poor old man whose +last pulse will beat for you; whose last word will be your name; whose +last look upon your beauty will end the dream in which he lived his +life. What can it be to you, that I love you so? Why should it be +anything to you? When I am gone--with the love of you in my heart, +Unorna--when they have buried the ugly old body out of your sight, you +will not even remember that I was once your companion, still less that +I knelt before you, that I kissed the ground on which you stood; that I +loved you as men love whose hearts are breaking, that I touched the hem +of your garment and was for one moment young--that I besought you to +press my hand but once, with one thought of kindness, with one last and +only word of human pity--” + +He broke off suddenly, and there was a tremor in his voice which lent +intense expression to the words. He was kneeling upon one knee beside +Unorna, but between her and the light, so that she saw his face +indistinctly. She could not but pity him. She took his outstretched hand +in hers. + +“Poor Keyork!” she said, very kindly and gently. “How could I have ever +guessed all this?” + +“It would have been exceedingly strange if you had,” answered Keyork, in +a tone that made her start. + +Then a magnificent peal of bass laughter rolled through the room, as the +gnome sprang suddenly to his feet. + +“Did I not warn you?” asked Keyork, standing back and contemplating +Unorna’s surprised face with delight. “Did I not tell you that I was +going to make love to you? That I was old and hideous and had everything +against me? That it was all a comedy for your amusement? That there was +to be nothing but deception from beginning to end? That I was like a +decrepit owl screeching at the moon, and many other things to a similar +effect?” + +Unorna smiled somewhat thoughtfully. + +“You are the greatest of great actors, Keyork Arabian. There is +something diabolical about you. I sometimes almost think that you are +the devil himself!” + +“Perhaps I am,” suggested the little man cheerfully. + +“Do you know that there is a horror about all this?” Unorna rose to her +feet. Her smile had vanished and she seemed to feel cold. + +As though nothing had happened, Keyork began to make his daily +examination of his sleeping patient, applying his thermometer to the +body, feeling the pulse, listening to the beatings of the heart with +his stethoscope, gently drawing down the lower lid of one of the eyes +to observe the colour of the membrane, and, in a word, doing all those +things which he was accustomed to do under the circumstances with a +promptness and briskness which showed how little he feared that the +old man would wake under his touch. He noted some of the results of his +observations in a pocket-book. Unorna stood still and watched him. + +“Do you remember ever to have been in the least degree like other +people?” she asked, speaking after a long silence, as he was returning +his notes to his pocket. + +“I believe not,” he answered. “Nature spared me that indignity--or +denied me that happiness--as you may look at it. I am not like other +people, as you justly remark. I need not say that it is the other people +who are the losers.” + +“The strange thing is, that you should be able to believe so much of +yourself when you find it so hard to believe good of your fellow-men.” + +“I object to the expression, ‘fellow-men,’” returned Keyork promptly. +“I dislike phrases, and, generally, maxims as a whole, and all their +component parts. A woman must have invented that particular phrase of +yours in order to annoy a man she disliked.” + +“And why, if you please?” + +“Because no one ever speaks of ‘fellow-women.’ The question of woman’s +duty to man has been amply discussed since the days of Menes the +Thinite--but no one ever heard of a woman’s duty to her fellow-women; +unless, indeed, her duty is to try and outdo them by fair means or foul. +Then why talk of man and his fellow-men? I can put the wisest rule of +life into two short phrases.” + +“Give me the advantage of your wisdom.” + +“The first rule is, Beware of women.” + +“And the second?” + +“Beware of men,” laughed the little sage. “Observe the simplicity and +symmetry. Each rule has three words, two of which are the same in each, +so that you have the result of the whole world’s experience at your +disposal at the comparatively small expenditure of one verb, one +preposition, and two nouns.” + +“There is little room for love in your system,” remarked Unorna, “for +such love, for instance, as you described to me a few minutes ago.” + +“There is too much room for it in yours,” retorted Keyork. “Your system +is constantly traversed in all directions by bodies, sometimes nebulous +and sometimes fiery, which move in unknown orbits at enormous rates of +speed. In astronomy they call them comets, and astronomers would be much +happier without them.” + +“I am not an astronomer.” + +“Fortunately for the peace of the solar system. You have been sending +your comets dangerously near to our sick planet,” he added, pointing to +the sleeper. “If you do it again he will break up into asteroids. To use +that particularly disagreeable and suggestive word invented by men, he +will die.” + +“He seems no worse,” said Unorna, contemplating the massive, peaceful +face. + +“I do not like the word ‘seems,’” answered Keyork. “It is the refuge +of inaccurate persons, unable to distinguish between facts and +appearances.” + +“You object to everything to-day. Are there any words which I may use +without offending your sense of fitness in language?” + +“None which do not express a willing affirmation of all I say. I will +receive any original speech on your part at the point of the sword. +You have done enough damage to-day, without being allowed the luxury +of dismembering common sense. Seems, you say! By all that is unholy! By +Eblis, Ahriman, and the Three Black Angels! He is worse, and there is +no seeming. The heat is greater, the pulse is weaker, the heart flutters +like a sick bird.” + +Unorna’s face showed her anxiety. + +“I am sorry,” she said, in a low voice. + +“Sorry! No doubt you are. It remains to be seen whether your sorrow +can be utilized as a simple, or macerated in tears to make a tonic, or +sublimated to produce a corrosive which will destroy the canker, death. +But be sorry by all means. It occupies your mind without disturbing +me, or injuring the patient. Be sure that if I can find an active +application for your sentiment, I will give you the rare satisfaction of +being useful.” + +“You have the art of being the most intolerably disagreeable of living +men when it pleases you.” + +“When you displease me, you should say. I warn you that if he dies--our +friend here--I will make further studies in the art of being unbearable +to you. You will certainly be surprised by the result.” + +“Nothing that you could say or do would surprise me.” + +“Indeed? We shall see.” + +“I will leave you to your studies, then. I have been here too long as it +is.” + +She moved and arranged the pillow under the head of the sleeping giant +and adjusted the folds of his robe. Her touch was tender and skilful in +spite of her ill-suppressed anger. Then she turned away and went towards +the door. Keyork Arabian watched her until her hand was upon the latch. +His sharp eyes twinkled, as though he expected something amusing to +occur. + +“Unorna!” he said, suddenly, in an altered voice. She stopped and looked +back. + +“Well?” + +“Do not be angry, Unorna. Do not go away like this.” + +Unorna turned, almost fiercely, and came back a step. + +“Keyork Arabian, do you think you can play upon me as on an instrument? +Do you suppose that I will come and go at your word like a child--or +like a dog? Do you think you can taunt me at one moment, and flatter me +the next, and find my humour always at your command?” + +The gnome-like little man looked down, made a sort of inclination of his +short body, and laid his hand upon his heart. + +“I was never presumptuous, my dear lady. I never had the least intention +of taunting you, as you express it, and as for your humour--can you +suppose that I could expect to command, where it is only mine to obey?” + +“It is of no use to talk in that way,” said Unorna, haughtily. “I am not +prepared to be deceived by your comedy this time.” + +“Nor I to play one. Since I have offended you, I ask your pardon. +Forgive the expression, for the sake of the meaning; the thoughtless +word for the sake of the unworded thought.” + +“How cleverly you turn and twist both thoughts and words!” + +“Do not be so unkind, dear friend.” + +“Unkind to you? I wish I had the secret of some unkindness that you +should feel!” + +“The knowledge of what I can feel is mine alone,” answered Keyork, with +a touch of sadness. “I am not a happy man. The world, for me, holds but +one interest and one friendship. Destroy the one, or embitter the other, +and Keyork’s remnant of life becomes but a foretaste of death.” + +“And that interest--that friendship--where are they?” asked Unorna in a +tone still bitter, but less scornful than before. + +“Together, in this room, and both in danger, the one through your young +haste and impetuosity, the other through my wretched weakness in being +made angry; forgive me, Unorna, as I ask forgiveness----” + +“Your repentance is too sudden; it savours of the death-bed.” + +“Small wonder, when my life is in the balance.” + +“Your life?” She uttered the question incredulously, but not without +curiosity. + +“My life--and for your word,” he answered, earnestly. He spoke so +impressively, and in so solemn a tone, that Unorna’s face became grave. +She advanced another step towards him, and laid her hand upon the back +of the chair in which she previously had sat. + +“We must understand each other--to-day or never,” she said. “Either we +must part and abandon the great experiment--for, if we part, it must be +abandoned--” + +“We cannot part, Unorna.” + +“Then, if we are to be associates and companions--” + +“Friends,” said Keyork in a low voice. + +“Friends? Have you laid the foundation for a friendship between us? +You say that your life is in the balance. That is a figure of speech, I +suppose. Or has your comedy another act? I can believe well enough that +your greatest interest in life lies there, upon that couch, asleep. I +know that you can do nothing without me, as you know it yourself. But in +your friendship I can never trust--never!--still less can I believe that +any words of mine can affect your happiness, unless they be those you +need for the experiment itself. Those, at least, I have not refused to +pronounce.” + +While she was speaking, Keyork began to walk up and down the room, in +evident agitation, twisting his fingers and bending down his head. + +“My accursed folly!” he exclaimed, as though speaking to himself. “My +damnable ingenuity in being odious! It is not to be believed! That a man +of my age should think one thing and say another--like a tetchy girl +or a spoilt child! The stupidity of the thing! And then, to have the +idiotic utterances of the tongue registered and judged as a confession +of faith--or rather, of faithlessness! But it is only just--it is only +right--Keyork Arabian’s self is ruined again by Keyork Arabian’s vile +speeches, which have no more to do with his self than the clouds on +earth have with the sun above them! Ruined, ruined--lost, this time. Cut +off from the only living being he respects--the only being whose +respect he covets; sent back to die in his loneliness, to perish like +a friendless beast, as he is, to the funereal music of his own +irrepressible snarling! To growl himself out of the world, like a +broken-down old tiger in the jungle, after scaring away all possible +peace and happiness and help with his senseless growls! Ugh! It is +perfectly just, it is absolutely right and supremely horrible to think +of! A fool to the last, Keyork, as you always were--and who would make a +friend of such a fool?” + +Unorna leaned upon the back of the chair watching him, and wondering +whether, after all, he were not in earnest this time. 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. His manner became very humble. + +“You are right, my dear lady,” he said. “I have no claim to your +forbearance for my outrageous humours. I have offended you, insulted +you, spoken to you as no man should speak to any woman. I cannot even +ask you to forgive me, and, if I tell you that I am sorry, you will not +believe me. Why should you? But you are right. This cannot go on. Rather +than run the risk of again showing you my abominable temper, I will go +away.” + +His voice trembled and his bright eyes seemed to grow dull and misty. + +“Let this be our parting,” he continued, as though mastering his +emotion. “I have no right to ask anything, and yet I ask this of you. +When I have left you, when you are safe for ever from my humours and my +tempers and myself--then, do not think unkindly of Keyork Arabian. He +would have seemed the friend he is, but for his unruly tongue.” + +Unorna hesitated a moment. Then she put out her hand, convinced of his +sincerity in spite of herself. + +“Let bygones be bygones, Keyork,” she said. “You must not go, for I +believe you.” + +At the words, the light returned to his eyes, and a look of +ineffable beatitude overspread the face which could be so immovably +expressionless. + +“You are as kind as you are good, Unorna, and as good as you are +beautiful,” he said, and with a gesture which would have been courtly in +a man of nobler stature, but which was almost grotesque in such a dwarf, +he raised her fingers to his lips. + +This time, no peal of laugher followed to destroy the impression he had +produced upon Unorna. She let her hand rest in his a few seconds, and +then gently withdrew it. + +“I must be going,” she said. + +“So soon?” exclaimed Keyork regretfully. “There were many things I had +wished to say to you to-day, but if you have no time----” + +“I can spare a few minutes,” answered Unorna, pausing. “What is it?” + +“One thing is this.” His face had again become impenetrable as a mask +of old ivory, and he spoke in his ordinary way. “This is the question. I +was in the Teyn Kirche before I came here.” + +“In church!” exclaimed Unorna in some surprise, and with a slight smile. + +“I frequently go to church,” answered Keyork gravely. “While there, I +met an old acquaintance of mine, a strange fellow whom I have not seen +for years. The world is very small. He is a great traveller--a wanderer +through the world.” + +Unorna looked up quickly, and a very slight colour appeared in her +cheeks. + +“Who is he?” she asked, trying to seem indifferent. “What is his name?” + +“His name? It is strange, but I cannot recall it. He is very tall, wears +a dark beard, has a pale, thoughtful face. But I need not describe him, +for he told me that he had been with you this morning. That is not the +point.” + +He spoke carelessly and scarcely glanced at Unorna while speaking. + +“What of him?” she inquired, trying to seem as indifferent as her +companion. + +“He is a little mad, poor man, that is all. It struck me that, if you +would, you might save him. I know something of his story, though not +much. He once loved a young girl, now doubtless dead, but whom he still +believes to be alive, and he spends--or wastes--his life in a useless +search for her. You might cure him of the delusion.” + +“How do you know that the girl is dead?” + +“She died in Egypt, four years ago,” answered Keyork. “They had taken +her there in the hope of saving her, for she was at death’s door +already, poor child.” + +“But if you convince him of that.” + +“There is no convincing him, and if he were really convinced he would +die himself. I used to take an interest in the man, and I know that you +could cure him in a simpler and safer way. But of course it lies with +you.” + +“If you wish it, I will try,” Unorna answered, turning her face from the +light. “But he will probably not come back to me.” + +“He will. I advised him very strongly to come back, very strongly +indeed. I hope I did right. Are you displeased?” + +“Not at all!” Unorna laughed a little. “And if he comes, how am I to +convince him that he is mistaken, and that the girl is dead?” + +“That is very simple. You will hypnotise him, he will yield very +easily, and you will suggest to him very forcibly to forget the girl’s +existence. You can suggest to him to come back to-morrow and the next +day, or as often as you please, and you can renew the suggestion +each time. In a week he will have forgotten--as you know people can +forget--entirely, totally, without hope of recalling what is lost.” + +“That is true,” said Unorna, in a low voice. “Are you sure that the +effect will be permanent?” she asked with sudden anxiety. + +“A case of the kind occurred in Hungary last year. The cure was effected +in Pesth. I was reading it only a few months ago. The oblivion was still +complete, as long as six months after the treatment, and there seems no +reason to suppose that the patient’s condition will change. I thought it +might interest you to try it.” + +“It will interest me extremely. I am very grateful to you for telling me +about him.” + +Unorna had watched her companion narrowly during the conversation, +expecting him to betray his knowledge of a connection between the +Wanderer’s visit and the strange question she had been asking of the +sleeper when Keyork had surprised her. She was agreeably disappointed in +this however. He spoke with a calmness and ease of manner which disarmed +suspicion. + +“I am glad I did right,” said he. + +He stood at the foot of the couch upon which the sleeper was lying, and +looked thoughtfully and intently at the calm features. + +“We shall never succeed in this way,” he said at last. “This condition +may continue indefinitely, till you are old, and I--until I am older +than I am by many years. He may not grow weaker, but he cannot grow +stronger. Theories will not renew tissues.” + +Unorna looked up. + +“That has always been the question,” she answered. “At least, you have +told me so. Will lengthened rest and perfect nourishment alone give a +new impulse to growth or will they not?” + +“They will not. I am sure of it now. We have arrested decay, or made it +so slow as to be imperceptible. But we have made many attempts to renew +the old frame, and we are no farther advanced than we were nearly four +years ago. Theories will not make tissues.” + +“What will?” + +“Blood,” answered Keyork Arabian very softly. + +“I have heard of that being done for young people in illness,” said +Unorna. + +“It has never been done as I would do it,” replied the gnome, shaking +his head and gathering his great beard in his hand, as he gazed at the +sleeper. + +“What would you do?” + +“I would make it constant for a day, or for a week if I could--a +constant circulation; the young heart and the old should beat together; +it could be done in the lethargic sleep--an artery and a vein--a vein +and an artery--I have often thought of it; it could not fail. The new +young blood would create new tissue, because it would itself constantly +be renewed in the young body which is able to renew it, only expending +itself in the old. The old blood would itself become young again as it +passed to the younger man.” + +“A man!” exclaimed Unorna. + +“Of course. An animal would not do, because you could not produce the +lethargy nor make use of suggestion for healing purposes--” + +“But it would kill him!” + +“Not at all, as I would do it, especially if the young man were very +strong and full of life. When the result is obtained, an antiseptic +ligature, suggestion of complete healing during sleep, proper +nourishment, such as we are giving at present, by recalling the patient +to the hypnotic state, sleep again, and so on; in eight and forty hours +your young man would be waked and would never know what had happened to +him--unless he felt a little older, by nervous sympathy,” added the sage +with a low laugh. + +“Are you perfectly sure of what you say?” asked Unorna eagerly. + +“Absolutely. I have examined the question for years. There can be no +doubt of it. Food can maintain life, blood alone can renew it.” + +“Have you everything you need here?” inquired Unorna. + +“Everything. There is no hospital in Europe that has the appliances we +have prepared for every emergency.” + +He looked at her face curiously. It was ghastly pale with excitement. +The pupil of her brown eye was so widely expanded that the iris looked +black, while the aperture of the gray one was contracted to the size +of a pin’s head, so that the effect was almost that of a white and +sightless ball. + +“You seem interested,” said the gnome. + +“Would such a man--such a man as Israel Kafka answer the purpose?” she +asked. + +“Admirably,” replied the other, beginning to understand. + +“Keyork Arabian,” whispered Unorna, coming close to him and bending down +to his ear, “Israel Kafka is alone under the palm tree where I always +sit. He is asleep, and he will not wake.” + +The gnome looked up and nodded gravely. But she was gone almost before +she had finished speaking the words. + +“As upon an instrument,” said the little man, quoting Unorna’s angry +speech. “Truly I can play upon you, but it is a strange music.” + +Half an hour later Unorna returned to her place among the flowers, but +Israel Kafka was gone. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +The Wanderer, when Keyork Arabian had left him, had intended to revisit +Unorna without delay, but he had not proceeded far in the direction of +her house when he turned out of his way and entered a deserted street +which led towards the river. He walked slowly, drawing his furs closely +about him, for it was very cold. + +He found himself in one of those moments of life in which the +presentiment of evil almost paralyses the mind’s power of making +any decision. In general, a presentiment is but the result upon the +consciousness of conscious or unconscious fear. This fear is very often +the natural consequence of the reaction which, in melancholy natures, +comes almost inevitably after a sudden and unexpected satisfaction +or after a period in which the hopes of the individual have been +momentarily raised by some unforeseen circumstance. It is by no means +certain that hope is of itself a good thing. The wise and mournful +soul prefers the blessedness of that non-expectancy which shall not be +disappointed, to the exhilarating pleasures of an anticipation which may +prove empty. In this matter lies one of the great differences between +the normal moral state of the heathen and that of the Christian. The +Greek hoped for all things in this world and for nothing in the next; +the Christian, on the contrary, looks for a happiness to come hereafter, +while fundamentally denying the reality of any earthly joy whatsoever +in the present. Man, however, is so constituted as to find it almost +impossible to put faith in either bliss alone, without helping his +belief by borrowing some little refreshment from the hope of the other. +The wisest of the Greeks believed the soul to be immortal; the sternest +of Christians cannot forget that once or twice in his life he had been +contemptibly happy, and condemns himself for secretly wishing that he +might be as happy again before all is over. Faith is the evidence of +things unseen, but hope is the unreasoning belief that unseen things may +soon become evident. The definition of faith puts earthly disappointment +out of the question; that of hope introduces it into human affairs as a +constant and imminent probability. + +The development of psychologic research in our day has proved beyond +a doubt that individuals of a certain disposition may be conscious of +events actually occurring, or which have recently occurred, at a great +distance; but it has not shown satisfactorily that things yet to happen +are foreshadowed by that restless condition of the sensibilities which +we call presentiment. We may, and perhaps must, admit that all that is +or has been produces a real and perceptible impression upon all else +that is. But there is as yet no good reason for believing that an +impression of what shall be can be conveyed by anticipation--without +reasoning--to the mind of man. + +But though the realisation of a presentiment may be as doubtful as any +event depending upon chance alone, yet the immense influence which a +mere presentiment may exercise is too well known to be denied. The human +intelligence has a strong tendency to believe in its own reasonings, +of which, indeed, the results are often more accurate and reliable than +those reached by the physical perceptions alone. The problems which can +be correctly solved by inspection are few indeed compared with those +which fall within the province of logic. Man trusts to his reason, and +then often confounds the impressions produced by his passions with the +results gained by semi-conscious deduction. His love, his hate, his +anger create fears, and these supply him with presentiments which he is +inclined to accept as so many well-reasoned grounds of action. If he is +often deceived, he becomes aware of his mistake, and, going to the other +extreme, considers a presentiment as a sort of warning that the contrary +of what he expects will take place; if he chances to be often right he +grows superstitious. + +The lonely man who was pacing the icy pavement of the deserted street on +that bitter winter’s day felt the difficulty very keenly. He would not +yield and he could not advance. His heart was filled with forebodings +which his wisdom bade him treat with indifference, while his passion +gave them new weight and new horror with every minute that passed. + +He had seen with his eyes and heard with his ears. Beatrice had been +before him, and her voice had reached him among the voices of thousands, +but now, since the hours has passed and he had not found her, it was as +though he had been near her in a dream, and the strong certainty took +hold of him that she was dead and that he had looked upon her wraith in +the shadowy church. + +He was a strong man, not accustomed to distrust his senses, and his +reason opposed itself instantly to the suggestion of the supernatural. +He had many times, on entering a new city, felt himself suddenly elated +by the irresistible belief that his search was at an end, and that +within a few hours he must inevitably find her whom he had sought so +long. Often as he passed through the gates of some vast burying-place, +he had almost hesitated to walk through the silent ways, feeling all at +once convinced that upon the very first headstone he was about to +see the name that was ever in his heart. But the expectation of +final defeat, like the anticipation of final success, had been always +deceived. Neither living nor dead had he found her. + +Two common, reasonable possibilities lay before him, and two only. He +had either seen Beatrice, or he had not. If she had really been in the +Teyn Kirche, she was in the city and not far from him. If she had not +been there, he had been deceived by an accidental but extraordinary +likeness. Within the logical concatenation of cause and effect there was +no room for any other supposition, and it followed that his course was +perfectly clear. He must continue his search until he should find the +person he had seen, and the result would be conclusive, for he would +again see the same face and hear the same voice. Reason told him that he +had in all likelihood been mistaken after all. Reason reminded him that +the church had been dark, the multitude of worshippers closely +crowded together, the voices that sang almost innumerable and wholly +undistinguishable from each other. Reason showed him a throng of +possibilities, all pointing to an error of his perceptions and all in +direct contradiction with the one fact which his loving instinct held +for true. + +The fear of evil, the presentiment of death, defied logic and put its +own construction and interpretation upon the strange event. He neither +believed, nor desired to believe, in a supernatural visitation, yet +the inexplicable certainty of having seen a ghostly vision overwhelmed +reason and all her arguments. Beatrice was dead. Her spirit had passed +in that solemn hour when the Wanderer had stood in the dusky church; he +had looked upon her shadowy wraith, and had heard the echo of a voice +from beyond the stars, whose crystal tones already swelled the diviner +harmony of an angelic strain. + +The impression was so strong at first as to be but one step removed from +conviction. The shadow of a great mourning fell upon him, of a grief +too terrible for words, too solemn for tears, too strong to find any +expression save in death itself. He walked heavily, bending his head, +his eyes half closed as though in bodily pain, the icy pavement rang +like iron under his tread, the frozen air pierced through him, as his +sorrow pierced his heart, the gloom of the fast-sinking winter’s day +deepened as the darkness in his own soul. He, who was always alone, knew +at last what loneliness could mean. While she had lived she had been +with him always, a living, breathing woman, visible to his inner eyes, +speaking to his inward hearing, waking in his sleepless love. He had +sought her with restless haste and untiring strength through the length +and breadth of the whole world, but yet she had never left him, he had +never been separated from her for one moment, never, in the years of his +wandering, had he entered the temple of his heart without finding her +in its most holy place. Men had told him that she was dead, but he had +looked within himself and had seen that she was still alive; the dread +of reading her sacred name carved upon the stone that covered her +resting-place, had chilled him and made his sight tremble, but he had +entered the shrine of his soul and had found her again, untouched by +death, unchanged by years, living, loved, and loving. But now, when +he shut out the dismal street from view, and went to the sanctuary and +kneeled upon the threshold, he saw but a dim vision, as of something +lying upon an altar in the dark, something shrouded in white, something +shapely and yet shapeless, something that had been and was not any more. + +He reached the end of the street, but he felt a reluctance to leave +it, and turned back again, walking still more slowly and heavily than +before. So far as any outward object or circumstance could be said to be +in harmony with his mood, the dismal lane, the failing light, the bitter +air, were at that moment sympathetic to him. The tomb itself is not more +sepulchral than certain streets and places in Prague on a dark +winter’s afternoon. In the certainty that the last and the greatest of +misfortunes had befallen him, the Wanderer turned back into the gloomy +by-way as the pale, wreathing ghosts, fearful of the sharp daylight +and the distant voices of men, sink back at dawn into the graves out +of which they have slowly risen to the outer air in the silence of the +night. + +Death, the arch-steward of eternity, walks the bounds of man’s entailed +estate, and the headstones of men’s graves are landmarks in the great +possession committed to his stewardship, enclosing within their narrow +ring the wretched plot of land which makes up all of life’s inheritance. +From ever to always the generations of men do bondsmen’s service in that +single field, to plough it and sow it, and harrow it and water it, to +lay the sickle to the ripe corn if so be that their serfdom falls in the +years of plenty and the ear is full, to eat the bread of tears, if +their season of servitude be required of them in a time of scarcity and +famine. Bondsmen of death, from birth, they are sent forth out of the +sublime silence of the pathless forest which hems in the open glebe +land of the present and which is eternity, past and to come; bondsmen +of death, from youth to age, they join in the labour of the field, +they plough, they sow, they reap, perhaps, tears they shed many, and of +laughter there is also a little amongst them; bondsmen of death, to the +last, they are taken in the end, when they have served their tale of +years, many or few, and they are led from furrow and grass land, willing +or unwilling, mercifully or cruelly, to the uttermost boundary, and they +are thrust out quickly into the darkness whence they came. For their +place is already filled, and the new husbandmen, their children, have in +their turn come into the field, to eat of the fruit they sowed, to sow +in turn a seed of which they themselves shall not see the harvest, whose +sheaves others shall bind, whose ears others shall thresh, and of whose +corn others shall make bread after them. With our eyes we may yet see +the graves of two hundred generations of men, whose tombs serve but to +mark that boundary more clearly, whose fierce warfare, when they fought +against the master, could not drive back that limit by a handbreadth, +whose uncomplaining labour, when they accepted their lot patiently, +earned them not one scant foot of soil wherewith to broaden their +inheritance as reward for their submission; and of them all, neither +man nor woman was ever forgotten in the day of reckoning, nor was one +suffered to linger in the light. Death will bury a thousand generations +more, in graves as deep, strengthening year by year the strong chain of +his grim landmarks. He will remember us every one when the time comes; +to some of us he will vouchsafe a peaceful end, but some shall pass +away in mortal agony, and some shall be dragged unconscious to the other +side; but all must go. Some shall not see him till he is at hand, and +some shall dream of him in year-long dreams of horror, to be taken +unawares at the last. He will remember us every one and will come to us, +and the place of our rest shall be marked for centuries, for years, or +for seconds, for each a stone, or a few green sods laid upon a mound +beneath the sky, or the ripple on a changing wave when the loaded sack +has slipped from the smooth plank, and the sound of a dull splash has +died away in the wind. There be strong men, as well as weak, who shudder +and grow cold when they think of that yet undated day which must close +with its black letter their calendar of joy and sorrow; there are +weaklings, as well as giants, who fear death for those they love, +but who fear not anything else at all. The master treats courage and +cowardice alike; Achilles and Thersites must alike perish, and none will +be so bold as to say that he can tell the dust of the misshapen varlet +from the ashes of the swift-footed destroyer, whose hair was once so +bright, whose eyes were so fierce, whose mighty heart was so slothless, +so wrathful, so inexorable and so brave. + +The Wanderer was of those who dread nothing save for the one +dearly-beloved object, but who, when that fear is once roused by a real +or an imaginary danger, can suffer in one short moment the agony which +should be distributed through a whole lifetime. The magnitude of his +passion could lend to the least thought or presentiment connected with +it the force of a fact and the overwhelming weight of a real calamity. + +In order to feel any great or noble passion a man must have an +imagination both great and sensitive in at least one direction. The +execution of a rare melody demands as a prime condition an instrument +of wide compass and delicate construction, and one of even more rich and +varied capabilities is needed to render those grand harmonies which are +woven in the modulation of sonorous chords. A skilful hand may draw a +scale from wooden blocks set upon ropes of straw, but the great musician +must hold the violin, or must feel the keys of the organ under his +fingers and the responsive pedals at his feet, before he can expect to +interpret fittingly the immortal thought of the composer. The strings +must vibrate in perfect tune, the priceless wood must be seasoned and +penetrated with the melodies of years, and scores of years, the latent +music must be already trembling to be free, before the hand that draws +the bow can command the ears and hearts of those who hear. So, too, +love, the chief musician of this world, must find an instrument worthy +of his touch before he can show all his power, and make heart and soul +ring with the lofty strains of a sublime passion. Not every one knows +what love means; few indeed know all that love can mean. There is no +more equality among men than there is likeness between them, and no two +are alike. The many have little, the few have much. To the many is given +the faint perception of higher things, which is either the vestige, or +the promise, of a nobler development, past or yet to come. As through a +veil they see the line of beauty which it is not theirs to trace; as +in a dream they hear the succession of sweet tones which they can +themselves never bring together, though their half-grown instinct feels +a vague satisfaction in the sequence; as from another world, they listen +to the poet’s song, wondering, admiring, but powerless over the great +instrument of human speech, from whose 15,000 keys their touch can +draw but the dull, tuneless prose of daily question and answer; as in a +mirage of things unreal, they see the great deeds that are done in +their time for love or hate, for race or country, for ambition and for +vengeance, but though they see the result, and know the motive, the +inward meaning and spirit of it all escapes them. It is theirs to be, +and existence is in itself their all. To think, to create, to act, to +feel can be only for the few. To one is given the transcendent genius +that turns the very stones along life’s road to precious gems of +thought; whose gift it is to find speech in dumb things and eloquence in +the ideal half of the living world; to whom sorrow is a melody and joy +sweet music; to whom the humblest effort of a humble life can furnish +an immortal lyric, and in whom one thought of the Divine can inspire a +sublime hymn. Another stoops and takes a handful of clay from the earth, +and with the pressure of his fingers moulds it to the reality of an +unreal image seen in dreams; or, standing before the vast, rough +block of marble, he sees within the mass the perfection of a faultless +form--he lays the chisel to the stone, the mallet strikes the steel, one +by one the shapeless fragments fly from the shapely limbs, the +matchless curves are uncovered, the breathing mouth smiles through the +petrifaction of a thousand ages, the shroud of stone falls from +the godlike brow, and the Hermes of Olympia stands forth in all his +deathless beauty. Another is born to the heritage of this world’s power, +fore-destined to rule and fated to destroy; the naked sword of destiny +lies in his cradle; the axe of a king-maker awaits the awakening of his +strength; the sceptre of supreme empire hangs within his reach. Unknown, +he dreams and broods over the future; unheeded, he begins to move among +his fellows; a smile, half of encouragement, half of indifference, +greets his first effort; he advances a little farther, and thoughtful +men look grave, another step, and suddenly all mankind cries out and +faces him and would beat him back; but it is too late; one struggle +more, and the hush of a great and unknown fear falls on the wrangling +nations; they are silent, and the world is his. He is the man who +is already thinking when others have scarcely begun to feel; who is +creating before the thoughts of his rivals have reached any conclusion; +who acts suddenly, terribly and irresistibly, before their creations +have received life. And yet, the greatest and the richest inheritance of +all is not his, for it has fallen to another, to the man of heart, and +it is the inheritance of the kingdom of love. + +In all ages the reason of the world has been at the mercy of brute +force. The reign of law has never had more than a passing reality, and +never can have more than that so long as man is human. The individual +intellect and the aggregate intelligence of nations and races have alike +perished in the struggles of mankind, to revive again, indeed, but as +surely to be again put to the edge of the sword. Here and there great +thoughts and great masterpieces have survived the martyrdom of a +thinker, the extinction of a school, the death of a poet, the wreck of a +high civilisation. Socrates is murdered with the creed of immortality on +his very lips; hardly had he spoken the wonderful words recorded in the +_Phaedo_ when the fatal poison sent its deathly chill through his limbs; +the Greeks are gone, yet the Hermes of Olympia remains, mutilated and +maimed, indeed, but faultless still, and still supreme. The very name +of Homer is grown wellnigh as mythic as his blindness. There are those +to-day who, standing by the grave of William Shakespeare, say boldly +that he was not the creator of the works that bear his name. And still, +through the centuries, Achilles wanders lonely by the shore of the +sounding sea; Paris loves, and Helen is false; Ajax raves, and Odysseus +steers his sinking ship through the raging storm. Still, Hamlet the +Avenger swears, hesitates, kills at last, and then himself is slain; +Romeo sighs in the ivory moonlight, and love-bound Juliet hears the +triumphant lark carolling his ringing hymn high in the cool morning +air, and says it is the nightingale--Immortals all, the marble god, the +Greek, the Dane, the love-sick boy, the maiden foredoomed to death. But +how short is the roll-call of these deathless ones! Through what raging +floods of destruction have they lived, through what tempests have they +been tossed, upon what inhospitable shores have they been cast up by +the changing tides of time! Since they were called to life by the +great, half-nameless departed, how often has their very existence been +forgotten by all but a score in tens of millions? Has it been given to +those embodied thoughts of transcendent genius to ride in the whirlwind +of men’s passions or to direct the stormy warfare of half frantic +nations? Since they were born in all their bright perfection, to live +on in unchanging beauty, violence has ruled the world; many a time since +then the sword has mown down its harvest of thinkers, many a time has +the iron harrow of war torn up and scarred the face of the earth. Athens +still stands in broken loveliness, and the Tiber still rolls its tawny +waters heavily through Rome; but Rome and Athens are to-day but places +of departed spirits; they are no longer the seats of life, their broken +hearts are petrified. All men may see the ports through which the +blood flowed to the throbbing centre, the traces of the mighty arteries +through which it was driven to the ends of the earth. But the blood is +dried up, the hearts are broken, and though in their stony ruins those +dead world-hearts be grander and more enduring than any which in our +time are whole and beating, yet neither their endurance nor their +grandeur have saved them from man, the destroyer, nor was the beauty +of their thoughts or the thoughtfully-devised machinery of their +civilisation a shield against a few score thousand rough-hammered +blades, wielded by rough-hewn mortals who recked neither of intellect +nor of civilisation, nor yet of beauty, being but very human men, full +of terribly strong and human passions. Look where you will, throughout +the length and breadth of all that was the world five thousand, or five +hundred years ago; everywhere passion has swept thought before it, and +belief, reason. And we, too, with our reason and our thoughts, shall be +swept from existence and the memory of it. Is this the age of reason, +and is this the reign of law? In the midst of this civilisation of ours +three millions of men lie down nightly by their arms, men trained to +handle rifle and sword, taught to destroy and to do nothing else; and +nearly as many more wait but a summons to leave their homes and join the +ranks. And often it is said that we are on the eve of a universal war. +At the command of a few individuals, at the touch of a few wires, more +than five millions of men in the very prime and glory of strength, +armed as men never were armed since time began, will arise and will kill +civilisation and thought, as both the one and the other have been slain +before by fewer hands and less deadly weapons. Is this reason, or is +this law? Passion rules the world, and rules alone. And passion is +neither of the head, nor of the hand, but of the heart. Passion cares +nothing for the mind. Love, hate, ambition, anger, avarice, either +make a slave of intelligence to serve their impulses, or break down its +impotent opposition with the unanswerable argument of brute force, and +tear it to pieces with iron hands. + +Love is the first, the greatest, the gentlest, the most cruel, the most +irresistible of passions. In his least form he is mighty. A little love +has destroyed many a great friendship. The merest outward semblance of +love has made such havoc as no intellect could repair. The reality has +made heroes and martyrs, traitors and murderers, whose names will not +be forgotten, for glory or for shame. Helen is not the only woman whose +smile has kindled the beacon of a ten years’ war, nor Antony the only +man who has lost the world for a caress. It may be that the Helen who +shall work our destruction is even now twisting and braiding her golden +hair; it may be that the new Antony, who is to lose this same old world +again, already stands upon the steps of Cleopatra’s throne. Love’s day +is not over yet, nor has man outgrown the love of woman. + +But the power to love greatly is a gift, differing much in kind, though +little in degree, from the inspiration of the poet, the genius of the +artist, or the unerring instinct and eagle’s glance of the conqueror; +for conqueror, artist and poet are moved by passion and not by reason, +which is but their servant in so far as it can be commanded to move +others, and their deadliest enemy when it would move themselves. Let the +passion and the instrument but meet, being suited to each other, and all +else must go down before them. Few, indeed, are they to whom is given +that rich inheritance, and they themselves alone know all their wealth, +and all their misery, all the boundless possibilities of happiness that +are theirs, and all the dangers and the terrors that beset their path. +He who has won woman in the face of daring rivals, of enormous odds, of +gigantic obstacles, knows what love means; he who has lost her, having +loved her, alone has measured with his own soul the bitterness of +earthly sorrow, the depth of total loneliness, the breadth of the +wilderness of despair. And he who has sorrowed long, who has long been +alone, but who has watched the small, twinkling ray still burning upon +the distant border of his desert--the faint glimmer of a single star +that was still above the horizon of despair--he only can tell what utter +darkness can be upon the face of the earth when that last star has +set for ever. With it are gone suddenly the very quarters and cardinal +points of life’s chart, there is no longer any right hand or any left, +any north or south, any rising of the sun or any going down, any forward +or backward direction in his path, any heaven above, or any hell below. +The world has stood still and there is no life in the thick, black +stillness. Death himself is dead, and one living man is forgotten +behind, to mourn him as a lost friend, to pray that some new destroyer, +more sure of hand than death himself, may come striding through the +awful silence to make an end at last of the tormented spirit, to bear it +swiftly to the place where that last star ceased to shine, and to let it +down into the restful depths of an unremembering eternity. But into +that place, which is the soul of man, no destroyer can penetrate; that +solitary life neither the sword, nor pestilence, nor age, nor eternity +can extinguish; that immortal memory no night can obscure. There was a +beginning indeed, but end there can be none. + +Such a man was the Wanderer, as he paced the deserted street in the +cruel, gloomy cold of the late day. Between his sight and the star of +his own hope an impenetrable shadow had arisen, so that he saw it no +more. The memory of Beatrice was more than ever distinct to his inner +sense, but the sudden presentiment of her death, real in its working as +any certainty, had taken the reality of her from the ground on which he +stood. For that one link had still been between them. Somewhere, near +or far, during all these years, she, too, had trodden the earth with +her light footsteps, the same universal mother earth on which they both +moved and lived. The very world was hers, since she was touching it, +and to touch it in his turn was to feel her presence. For who could +tell what hidden currents ran in the secret depths, or what mysterious +interchange of sympathy might not be maintained through them? The air +itself was hers, since she was somewhere breathing it; the stars, for +she looked on them; the sun, for it warmed her; the cold of winter, +for it chilled her too; the breezes of spring, for they fanned her pale +cheek and cooled her dark brow. All had been hers, and at the thought +that she had passed away, a cry of universal mourning broke from the +world she had left behind, and darkness descended upon all things, as a +funeral pall. + +Cold and dim and sad the ancient city had seemed before, but it was a +thousandfold more melancholy now, more black, more saturated with the +gloom of ages. From time to time the Wanderer raised his heavy lids, +scarcely seeing what was before him, conscious of nothing but the horror +which had so suddenly embraced his whole existence. Then, all at once, +he was face to face with some one. A woman stood still in the way, a +woman wrapped in rich furs, her features covered by a dark veil which +could not hide the unequal fire of the unlike eyes so keenly fixed on +his. + +“Have you found her?” asked the soft voice. + +“She is dead,” answered the Wanderer, growing very white. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +During the short silence which followed, and while the two were still +standing opposite to each other, the unhappy man’s look did not change. +Unorna saw that he was sure of what he said, and a thrill of triumph, as +jubilant as his despair was profound ran through her. If she had cared +to reason with herself and to examine into her own sincerity, she would +have seen that nothing but genuine passion, good or bad, could have lent +the assurance of her rival’s death such power to flood the dark street +with sunshine. But she was already long past doubt upon that question. +The enchanter had bound her heart with his spells at the first glance, +and the wild nature was already on fire. For one instant the light shot +from her eyes, and then sank again as quickly as it had come. She had +other impulses than those of love, and subtle gifts of perception +that condemned her to know the truth, even when the delusion was most +glorious. He was himself deceived, and she knew it. Beatrice might, +indeed, have died long ago. She could not tell. But as she sought in the +recesses of his mind, she saw that he had no certainty of it, she saw +the black presentiment between him and the image, for she could see the +image too. She saw the rival she already hated, not receiving a vision +of the reality, but perceiving it through his mind, as it had always +appeared to him. For one moment she hesitated still, and she knew +that her whole life was being weighed in the trembling balance of that +hesitation. For one moment her face became an impenetrable mask, her +eyes grew dull as uncut jewels, her breathing ceased, her lips were set +like cold marble. Then the stony mask took life again, the sight grew +keen, and a gentle sigh stirred the chilly air. + +“She is not dead.” + +“Not dead!” The Wanderer started, but fully two seconds after she had +spoken, as a man struck by a bullet in battle, in whom the suddenness of +the shock has destroyed the power of instantaneous sensation. + +“She is not dead. You have dreamed it,” said Unorna, looking at him +steadily. + +He pressed his hand to his forehead and then moved it, as though +brushing away something that troubled him. + +“Not dead? Not dead!” he repeated, in changing tones. + +“Come with me. I will show her to you.” + +He gazed at her and his senses reeled. Her words sounded like rarest +music in his ear; in the darkness of his brain a soft light began to +diffuse itself. + +“Is it possible? Have I been mistaken?” he asked in a low voice, as +though speaking to himself. + +“Come!” said Unorna again very gently. + +“Whither? With you? How can you bring me to her? What power have you to +lead the living to the dead?” + +“To the living. Come.” + +“To the living--yes. I have dreamed an evil dream--a dream of death. She +is not--no, I see it now. She is not dead. She is only very far from +me, very, very far. And yet it was this morning--but I was mistaken, +deceived by some faint likeness. Ah, God! I thought I knew her face! +What is it that you want with me?” + +He asked the question as though again suddenly aware of Unorna’s +presence. She had lifted her veil and her eyes drew his soul into their +mysterious depths. + +“She calls you. Come.” + +“She? She is not here. What can you know of her? Why do you look at me +so?” + +He felt an unaccountable uneasiness under her gaze, like a warning of +danger not far off. The memory of his meeting with her on that same +morning was not clear at that moment, but he had not forgotten the odd +disturbance of his faculties which had distressed him at the time. He +was inclined to resist any return of the doubtful state and to oppose +Unorna’s influence. He felt the fascination of her glance, and he +straightened himself rather proudly and coldly as though to withdraw +himself from it. It was certain that Unorna, at the surprise of meeting +her, had momentarily dispelled the gloomy presentiment which had +given him such terrible pain. And yet, even his disturbed and anxious +consciousness found it more than strange that she should thus press him +to go with her, and so boldly promise to bring him to the object of his +search. He resisted her, and found that resistance was not easy. + +“And yet,” said she, dropping her eyes and seeming to abandon the +attempt, “you said that if you failed to-day you would come back to me. +Have you succeeded, that you need no help?” + +“I have not succeeded.” + +“And if I had not come to you--if I had not met you here, you would have +failed for the last time. You would have carried with you the conviction +of her death to the moment of your own.” + +“It was a horrible delusion, but since it was a delusion it would have +passed away in time.” + +“With your life, perhaps. 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. Her strong will was suddenly veiled by the most gentle and +womanly manner, and a little shiver, real or feigned, passed over her as +she drew the folds of her fur more closely round her. The man before her +could resist the aggressive manifestation of her power, but he was far +too courteous to refuse her request. + +“Which way?” he asked quietly. + +“To the river,” she answered. + +He turned and took his place by her side. For some moments they walked +on in silence. It was already almost twilight. + +“How short the days are!” exclaimed Unorna, rather suddenly. + +“How long, even at their shortest!” replied her companion. + +“They might be short--if you would.” + +He did not answer her, though he glanced quickly at her face. She was +looking down at the pavement before her, as though picking her way, for +there were patches of ice upon the stones. She seemed very quiet. He +could not guess that her heart was beating violently, and that she found +it hard to say six words in a natural tone. + +So far as he himself was concerned he was in no humour for talking. He +had seen almost everything in the world, and had read or heard almost +everything that mankind had to say. The streets of Prague had no +novelty for him, and there was no charm in the chance acquaintance of a +beautiful woman, to bring words to his lips. Words had long since grown +useless in the solitude of a life that was spent in searching for one +face among the millions that passed before his sight. Courtesy had +bidden him to walk with her, because she had asked it, but courtesy did +not oblige him to amuse her, he thought, and she had not the power that +Keyork Arabian had to force him into conversation, least of all into +conversing upon his own inner life. He regretted the few words he had +spoken, and would have taken them back, had it been possible. He felt no +awkwardness in the long silence. + +Unorna for the first time in her life felt that she had not full control +of her faculties. She who was always so calm, so thoroughly mistress of +her own powers, whose judgment Keyork Arabian could deceive, but whose +self-possession he could not move, except to anger, was at the present +moment both weak and unbalanced. Ten minutes earlier she had fancied +that it would be an easy thing to fix her eyes on his and to cast the +veil of a half-sleep over his already half-dreaming senses. She had +fancied that it would be enough to say “Come,” and that he would follow. +She had formed the bold scheme of attaching him to herself, by visions +of the woman whom he loved as she wished to be loved by him. She +believed that if he were once in that state she could destroy the old +love for ever, or even turn it to hate, at her will. And it had seemed +easy. That morning, when he had first come to her, she had fastened her +glance upon him more than once, and she had seen him turn a shade paler, +had noticed the drooping of his lids and the relaxation of his hands. +She had sought him in the street, guided by something surer than +instinct, she had found him, had read his thoughts, and had felt him +yielding to her fixed determination. Then, suddenly, her power had left +her, and as she walked beside him, she knew that if she looked into his +face she would blush and be confused like a shy girl. She almost wished +that he would leave her without a word and without an apology. + +It was not possible, however, to prolong the silence much longer. A +vague fear seized her. Had she really lost all her dominating strength +in the first moments of the first sincere passion she had ever felt? +Was she reduced to weakness by his presence, and unable so much as to +sustain a fragmentary conversation, let alone suggesting to his mind +the turn it should take? She was ashamed of her poverty of spirit in the +emergency. She felt herself tongue-tied, and the hot blood rose to her +face. He was not looking at her, but she could not help fancying that he +knew her secret embarrassment. She hung her head and drew her veil down +so that it should hide even her mouth. + +But her trouble increased with every moment, for each second made it +harder to break the silence. She sought madly for something to say, +and she knew that her cheeks were on fire. Anything would do, no +matter what. The sound of her own voice, uttering the commonest of +commonplaces, would restore her equanimity. But that simple, almost +meaningless phrase would not be found. She would stammer, if she tried +to speak, like a child that has forgotten its lesson and fears the +schoolmaster as well as the laughter of its schoolmates. It would be so +easy if he would say something instead of walking quietly by her side, +suiting his pace to hers, shifting his position so that she might step +upon the smoothest parts of the ill-paved street, and shielding her, as +it were, from the passers-by. There was a courteous forethought for her +convenience and safety in every movement of his, a something which a +woman always feels when traversing a crowded thoroughfare by the side of +a man who is a true gentleman in every detail of life, whether husband, +or friend, or chance acquaintance. For the spirit of the man who +is really thoughtful for woman, as well as sincerely and genuinely +respectful in his intercourse with them, is manifest in his smallest +outward action. + +While every step she took increased the violence of the passion which +had suddenly swept away her strength, every instant added to her +confusion. She was taken out of the world in which she was accustomed +to rule, and was suddenly placed in one where men are men, and women are +women, and in which social conventionalities hold sway. She began to +be frightened. The walk must end, and at the end of it they must part. +Since she had lost her power over him he might go away, for there would +be nothing to bring him to her. She wondered why he would not speak, and +her terror increased. She dared not look up, lest she should find him +looking at her. + +Then they emerged from the street and stood by the river, in a lonely +place. The heavy ice was gray with old snow in some places and black in +others, where the great blocks had been cut out in long strips. It was +lighter here. A lingering ray of sunshine, forgotten by the departing +day, gilded the vast walls and turrets of venerable Hradschin, far +above them on the opposite bank, and tinted the sharp dark spires of +the half-built cathedral which crowns the fortress. The distant ring of +fast-moving skates broke the stillness. + +“Are you angry with me?” asked Unorna, almost humbly, and hardly knowing +what she said. The question had risen to her lips without warning, and +was asked almost unconsciously. + +“I do not understand. Angry? At what? Why should you think I am angry?” + +“You are so silent,” she answered, regaining courage from the mere sound +of her own words. “We have been walking a long time, and you have said +nothing. I thought you were displeased.” + +“You must forgive me. I am often silent.” + +“I thought you were displeased,” she repeated. “I think that you were, +though you hardly knew it. I should be very sorry if you were angry.” + +“Why would you be sorry?” asked the Wanderer with a civil indifference +that hurt Unorna more than any acknowledgment of his displeasure could +have done. + +“Because I would help you, if you would let me.” + +He looked at her with sudden keenness. In spite of herself she blushed +and turned her head away. He hardly noticed the fact, and, if he had, +would assuredly not have put upon it any interpretation approaching to +the truth. He supposed that she was flushed with walking. + +“No one has ever helped me, least of all in the way you mean,” he said. +“The counsels of wise men--of the wisest--have been useless, as well as +the dreams of women who fancy they have the gift of mental sight beyond +the limit of bodily vision.” + +“Who fancy they see!” exclaimed Unorna, almost glad to find that she was +still strong enough to feel annoyance at the slight. + +“I beg your pardon. I do not mean to doubt your powers, of which I have +had no experience.” + +“I did not offer to see for you. I did not offer you a dream.” + +“Would you show me that which I already see, waking and sleeping? Would +you bring to my hearing the sound of a voice which I can hear even now? +I need no help for that.” + +“I can do more than that--for you.” + +“And why for me?” he asked with some curiosity. + +“Because--because you are Keyork Arabian’s friend.” She glanced at his +face, but he showed no surprise. + +“You have seen him this afternoon, of course,” he remarked. + +And odd smile passed over Unorna’s face. + +“Yes. I have seen him this afternoon. He is a friend of mine, and of +yours--do you understand?” + +“He is the wisest of men,” said the Wanderer. “And also the maddest,” he +added thoughtfully. + +“And you think it was in his madness, rather than in his wisdom, that he +advised you to come to me?” + +“Possibly. In his belief in you, at least.” + +“And that may be madness?” She was gaining courage. + +“Or wisdom--if I am mad. He believes in you. That is certain.” + +“He has no beliefs. Have you known him long, and do not know that? With +him there is nothing between knowledge and ignorance.” + +“And he knows, of course, by experience what you can do and what you +cannot do?” + +“By very long experience, as I know him.” + +“Neither your gifts nor his knowledge of them can change dreams to +facts.” + +Unorna smiled again. + +“You can produce a dream--nothing more,” continued the Wanderer, drawn +at last into argument. “I, too, know something of these things. The +wisdom of the Egyptians is not wholly lost yet. You may possess some +of it, as well as the undeveloped power which could put all their magic +within your reach if you knew how to use it. Yet a dream is a dream.” + +“Philosophers have disputed that,” answered Unorna. “I am no +philosopher, but I can overthrow the results of all their disputations.” + +“You can do this. If I resign my will into your keeping you can cause +me to dream. You can call up vividly before me the remembered and +unremembered sights of my life. You can make me see clearly the sights +impressed upon your own memory. You might do that, and yet you could +be showing me nothing which I do not see now before me--of those things +which I care to see.” + +“But suppose that you were wrong, and that I had no dream to show you, +but a reality?” + +She spoke the words very earnestly, gazing into his eyes at last without +fear. Something in her tone struck him and fixed his attention. + +“There is no sleep needed to see realities,” he said. + +“I did not say that there was. I only asked you to come with me to the +place where she is.” + +The Wanderer started slightly and forgot all the instinct of opposition +to her which he had felt so strongly before. + +“Do you mean that you know--that you can take me to her----” he could +not find words. A strange, overmastering astonishment took possession +of him, and with it came wild hope and the wilder longing to reach its +realisation instantly. + +“What else could I have meant? What else did I say?” Her eyes were +beginning to glitter in the gathering dusk. + +The Wanderer no longer avoided their look, but he passed his hand over +his brow, as though dazed. + +“I only asked you to come with me,” she repeated softly. “There is +nothing supernatural about that. When I saw that you did not believe me +I did not try to lead you then, though she is waiting for you. She bade +me bring you to her.” + +“You have seen her? You have talked with her? She sent you? Oh, for +God’s sake, come quickly!--come, come!” + +He put out his hand as though to take hers and lead her away. She +grasped it eagerly. He had not seen that she had drawn off her glove. He +was lost. Her eyes held him and her fingers touched his bare wrist. His +lids drooped and his will was hers. In the intolerable anxiety of the +moment he had forgotten to resist, he had not even thought of resisting. + +There were great blocks of stone in the desolate place, landed there +before the river had frozen for a great building, whose gloomy, +unfinished mass stood waiting for the warmth of spring to be completed. +She led him by the hand, passive and obedient as a child, to a sheltered +spot and made him sit down upon one of the stones. It was growing dark. + +“Look at me,” she said, standing before him, and touching his brow. He +obeyed. + +“You are the image in my eyes,” she said, after a moment’s pause. + +“Yes. I am the image in your eyes,” he answered in a dull voice. + +“You will never resist me again, I command it. Hereafter it will be +enough for me to touch your hand, or to look at you, and if I say, +‘Sleep,’ you will instantly become the image again. Do you understand +that?” + +“I understand it.” + +“Promise!” + +“I promise,” he replied, without perceptible effort. + +“You have been dreaming for years. From this moment you must forget all +your dreams.” + +His face expressed no understanding of what she said. She hesitated +a moment and then began to walk slowly up and down before him. His +half-glazed look followed her as she moved. She came back and laid her +hand upon his head. + +“My will is yours. You have no will of your own. You cannot think +without me,” She spoke in a tone of concentrated determination, and a +slight shiver passed over him. + +“It is of no use to resist, for you have promised never to resist me +again,” she continued. “All that I command must take place in your mind +instantly, without opposition. Do you understand?” + +“Yes,” he answered, moving uneasily. + +For some seconds she again held her open palm upon his head. She seemed +to be evoking all her strength for a great effort. + +“Listen to me, and let everything I say take possession of your mind for +ever. My will is yours, you are the image in my eyes, my word is your +law. You know what I please that you should know. You forget what I +command you to forget. You have been mad these many years, and I am +curing you. You must forget your madness. You have now forgotten it. I +have erased the memory of it with my hand. There is nothing to remember +any more.” + +The dull eyes, deep-set beneath the shadows of the overhanging brow, +seemed to seek her face in the dark, and for the third time there was +a nervous twitching of the shoulders and limbs. Unorna knew the symptom +well, but had never seen it return so often, like a protest of the body +against the enslaving of the intelligence. She was nervous in spite +of her success. The immediate results of hypnotic suggestion are +not exactly the same in all cases, even in the first moments; its +consequences may be widely different with different individuals. Unorna, +indeed, possessed an extraordinary power, but on the other hand she had +to deal with an extraordinary organisation. She knew this instinctively, +and endeavoured to lead the sleeping mind by degrees to the condition in +which she wished it to remain. + +The repeated tremor in the body was the outward sign of a mental +resistance which it would not be easy to overcome. The wisest course was +to go over the ground already gained. This she was determined to do by +means of a sort of catechism. + +“Who am I?” she asked. + +“Unorna,” answered the powerless man promptly, but with a strange air of +relief. + +“Are you asleep?” + +“No.” + +“Awake?” + +“No.” + +“In what state are you?” + +“I am an image.” + +“And where is your body?” + +“Seated upon that stone.” + +“Can you see your face?” + +“I see it distinctly. The eyes in the body are glassy.” + +“The body is gone now. You do not see it any more. Is that true?” + +“It is true. I do not see it. I see the stone on which it was sitting.” + +“You are still in my eyes. Now”--she touched his head again--“now, you +are no longer an image. You are my mind.” + +“Yes. I am your mind.” + +“You, my Mind, know that I met to-day a man called the Wanderer, whose +body you saw when you were in my eyes. Do you know that or not?” + +“I know it. I am your mind.” + +“You know, Mind, that the man was mad. He had suffered for many years +from a delusion. In pursuit of the fixed idea he had wandered far +through the world. Do you know whither his travels had led him?” + +“I do not know. That is not in your mind. You did not know it when I +became your mind.” + +“Good. Tell me, Mind, what was this man’s delusion?” + +“He fancied that he loved a woman whom he could not find.” + +“The man must be cured. You must know that he was mad and is now sane. +You, my Mind, must see that it was really a delusion. You see it now.” + +“Yes. I see it.” + +Unorna watched the waking sleeper narrowly. It was now night, but the +sky had cleared and the starlight falling upon the snow in the lonely, +open place, made it possible to see very well. Unorna seemed as +unconscious of the bitter cold as her subject, whose body was in a +state past all outward impressions. So far she had gone through all the +familiar process of question and answer with success, but this was not +all. She knew that if, when he awoke, the name he loved still remained +in his memory, the result would not be accomplished. She must +produce entire forgetfulness, and to do this, she must wipe out every +association, one by one. She gathered her strength during a short pause. +She was greatly encouraged by the fact that the acknowledgment of the +delusion had been followed by no convulsive reaction in the body. She +was on the very verge of a complete triumph, and the concentration of +her will during a few moments longer might win the battle. + +She could not have chosen a spot better suited for her purpose. Within +five minutes’ walk of streets in which throngs of people were moving +about, the scene which surrounded her was desolate and almost wild. The +unfinished building loomed like a ruin behind her; the rough hewn blocks +lay like boulders in a stony desert; the broad gray ice lay like a floor +of lustreless iron before her under the uncertain starlight. Only afar +off, high up in the mighty Hradschin, lamps gleamed here and there from +the windows, the distant evidences of human life. All was still. Even +the steely ring of the skates had ceased. + +“And so,” she continued, presently, “this man’s whole life has been a +delusion, ever since he began to fancy in the fever of an illness that +he loved a certain woman. Is this clear to you, my Mind?” + +“It is quite clear,” answered the muffled voice. + +“He was so utterly mad that he even gave that woman a name--a name, when +she had never existed except in his imagination.” + +“Except in his imagination,” repeated the sleeper, without resistance. + +“He called her Beatrice. The name was suggested to him because he had +fallen ill in a city of the South where a woman called Beatrice +once lived and was loved by a great poet. That was the train of +self-suggestion in his delirium. Mind, do you understand?” + +“He suggested to himself the name in his illness.” + +“In the same way that he suggested to himself the existence of the woman +whom he afterwards believed he loved?” + +“In exactly the same way.” + +“It was all a curious and very interesting case of auto-hypnotic +suggestion. It made him very mad. He is now cured of it. Do you see that +he is cured?” + +The sleeper gave no answer. The stiffened limbs did not move, indeed, +nor did the glazed eyes reflect the starlight. But he gave no answer. +The lips did not even attempt to form words. Had Unorna been less +carried away by the excitement in her own thoughts, or less absorbed in +the fierce concentration of her will upon its passive subject, she would +have noticed the silence and would have gone back again over the old +ground. As it was, she did not pause. + +“You understand therefore, my Mind, that this Beatrice was entirely the +creature of the man’s imagination. Beatrice does not exist, because she +never existed. Beatrice never had any real being. Do you understand?” + +This time she waited for an answer, but none came. + +“There never was any Beatrice,” she repeated firmly, laying her hand +upon the unconscious head and bending down to gaze into the sightless +eyes. + +The answer did not come, but a shiver like that of an ague shook the +long, graceful limbs. + +“You are my Mind,” she said fiercely. “Obey me! There never was any +Beatrice, there is no Beatrice now, and there never can be.” + +The noble brow contracted in a look of agonising pain, and the +whole frame shook like an aspen leaf in the wind. The mouth moved +spasmodically. + +“Obey me! Say it!” cried Unorna with passionate energy. + +The lips twisted themselves, and the face was as gray as the gray snow. + +“There is--no--Beatrice.” The words came out slowly, and yet not +distinctly, as though wrung from the heart by torture. + +Unorna smiled at last, but the smile had not faded from her lips when +the air was rent by a terrible cry. + +“By the Eternal God of Heaven!” cried the ringing voice. “It is a +lie!--a lie!--a lie!” + +She who had never feared anything earthly or unearthly shrank back. She +felt her heavy hair rising bodily upon her head. + +The Wanderer had sprung to his feet. The magnitude and horror of the +falsehood spoken had stabbed the slumbering soul to sudden and terrible +wakefulness. The outline of his tall figure was distinct against the +gray background of ice and snow. He was standing at his full height, his +arms stretched up to heaven, his face luminously pale, his deep eyes +on fire and fixed upon her face, forcing back her dominating will upon +itself. But he was not alone! + +“Beatrice!” he cried in long-drawn agony. + +Between him and Unorna something passed by, something dark and soft and +noiseless, that took shape slowly--a woman in black, a veil thrown back +from her forehead, her white face turned towards the Wanderer, her white +hands hanging by her side. She stood still, and the face turned, and the +eyes met Unorna’s, and Unorna knew that it was Beatrice. + +There she stood, between them, motionless as a statue, impalpable as +air, but real as life itself. The vision, if it was a vision, lasted +fully a minute. Never, to the day of her death, was Unorna to forget +that face, with its deathlike purity of outline, with its unspeakable +nobility of feature. + +It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. A low broken sound of pain +escaped from the Wanderer’s lips, and with his arms extended he fell +forwards. The strong woman caught him and he sank to the ground gently, +in her arms, his head supported upon her shoulder, as she kneeled under +the heavy weight. + +There was a sound of quick footsteps on the frozen snow. A Bohemian +watchman, alarmed by the loud cry, was running to the spot. + +“What has happened?” he asked, bending down to examine the couple. + +“My friend has fainted,” said Unorna calmly. “He is subject to it. You +must help me to get him home.” + +“Is it far?” asked the man. + +“To the House of the Black Mother of God.” + + + +CHAPTER IX + +The principal room of Keyork Arabian’s dwelling was in every way +characteristic of the man. In the extraordinary confusion which at first +disturbed a visitor’s judgment, some time was needed to discover the +architectural bounds of the place. The vaulted roof was indeed apparent, +as well as small portions of the wooden flooring. Several windows, which +might have been large had they filled the arched embrasures in which +they were set, admitted the daylight when there was enough of it in +Prague to serve the purpose of illumination. So far as could be seen +from the street, they were commonplace windows without shutters and with +double casements against the cold, but from within it was apparent that +the tall arches in the thick walls had been filled in with a thinner +masonry in which the modern frames were set. So far as it was possible +to see, the room had but two doors; the one, masked by a heavy curtain +made of a Persian carpet, opened directly upon the staircase of the +house; the other, exactly opposite, gave access to the inner apartments. +On account of its convenient size, however, the sage had selected for +his principal abiding place this first chamber, which was almost large +enough to be called a hall, and here he had deposited the extraordinary +and heterogeneous collection of objects, or, more property speaking, of +remains, upon the study of which he spent a great part of his time. + +Two large tables, three chairs and a divan completed the list of all +that could be called furniture. The tables were massive, dark, and +old-fashioned; the feet at each end consisted of thick flat boards sawn +into a design of simple curves, and connected by strong crosspieces +keyed to them with large wooden bolts. The chairs were ancient folding +stools, with movable backs and well-worn cushions of faded velvet. +The divan differed in no respect from ordinary oriental divans in +appearance, and was covered with a stout dark Bokhara carpet of no great +value; but so far as its use was concerned, the disorderly heaps of +books and papers that lay upon it showed that Keyork was more inclined +to make a book-case of it than a couch. + +The room received its distinctive character however neither from its +vaulted roof, nor from the deep embrasures of its windows, nor from +its scanty furniture, but from the peculiar nature of the many curious +objects, large and small, which hid the walls and filled almost all +the available space on the floor. It was clear that every one of the +specimens illustrated some point in the great question of life and death +which formed the chief study of Keyork Arabian’s latter years; for by +far the greater number of the preparations were dead bodies, of men, +of women, of children, of animals, to all of which the old man had +endeavoured to impart the appearance of life, and in treating some of +which he had attained results of a startling nature. The osteology of +man and beast was indeed represented, for a huge case, covering one +whole wall, was filled to the top with a collection of many hundred +skulls of all races of mankind, and where real specimens were missing, +their place was supplied by admirable casts of craniums; but this +reredos, so to call it, of bony heads, formed but a vast, grinning +background for the bodies which stood and sat and lay in half-raised +coffins and sarcophagi before them, in every condition produced by +various known and lost methods of embalming. There were, it is true, +a number of skeletons, disposed here and there in fantastic attitudes, +gleaming white and ghostly in their mechanical nakedness, the bones of +human beings, the bones of giant orang-outangs, of creatures large and +small down to the flimsy little framework of a common bull frog, strung +on wires as fine as hairs, which squatted comfortably upon an old book +near the edge of a table, as though it had just skipped to that point in +pursuit of a ghostly fly and was pausing to meditate a farther spring. +But the eye did not discover these things at the first glance. Solemn, +silent, strangely expressive, lay three slim Egyptians, raised at an +angle as though to give them a chance of surveying their fellow-dead, +the linen bandages unwrapped from their heads and arms and shoulders, +their jet-black hair combed and arranged and dressed by Keyork’s hand, +their faces softened almost to the expression of life by one of his +secret processes, their stiffened joints so limbered by his art that +their arms had taken natural positions again, lying over the edges of +the sarcophagi in which they had rested motionless and immovable through +thirty centuries. For the man had pursued his idea in every shape +and with every experiment, testing, as it were, the potential +imperishability of the animal frame by the degree of life-like plumpness +and softness and flexibility which it could be made to take after a +mummification of three thousand years. And he had reached the conclusion +that, in the nature of things, the human body might vie, in resisting +the mere action of time, with the granite of the pyramids. Those had +been his earliest trials. The results of many others filled the room. +Here a group of South Americans, found dried in the hollow of an +ancient tree, had been restored almost to the likeness of life, and were +apparently engaged in a lively dispute over the remains of a meal--as +cold as themselves and as human. There, towered the standing body of +an African, leaning upon a knotted club, fierce, grinning, lacking only +sight in the sunken eyes to be terrible. There again, surmounting a +lay figure wrapped in rich stuffs, smiled the calm and gentle face of a +Malayan lady--decapitated for her sins, so marvellously preserved +that the soft dark eyes still looked out from beneath the heavy, +half-drooping lids, and the full lips, still richly coloured, parted a +little to show the ivory teeth. Other sights there were, more ghastly +still, triumphs of preservation, if not of semi-resuscitation, over +decay, won on its own most special ground. Triumphs all, yet almost +failures in the eyes of the old student, they represented the mad +efforts of an almost supernatural skill and superhuman science to +revive, if but for one second, the very smallest function of the living +body. Strange and wild were the trials he had made; many and great +the sacrifices and blood offerings lavished on his dead in the hope +of seeing that one spasm which would show that death might yet be +conquered; many the engines, the machines, the artificial hearts, the +applications of electricity that he had invented; many the powerful +reactives he had distilled wherewith to excite the long dead nerves, +or those which but two days had ceased to feel. The hidden essence +was still undiscovered, the meaning of vitality eluded his profoundest +study, his keenest pursuit. The body died, and yet the nerves could +still be made to act as though alive for the space of a few hours--in +rare cases for a day. With his eyes he had seen a dead man spring half +across a room from the effects of a few drops of musk--on the first day; +with his eyes he had seen the dead twist themselves, and move and grin +under the electric current--provided it had not been too late. But that +“too late” had baffled him, and from his first belief that life might +be restored when once gone, he had descended to what seemed the simpler +proposition of the two, to the problem of maintaining life indefinitely +so long as its magic essence lingered in the flesh and blood. And now he +believed that he was very near the truth; how terribly near he had yet +to learn. + +On that evening when the Wanderer fell to the earth before the shadow of +Beatrice, Keyork Arabian sat alone in his charnel-house. The brilliant +light of two powerful lamps illuminated everything in the place, for +Keyork loved light, like all those who are intensely attached to life +for its own sake. The yellow rays flooded the life-like faces of his +dead companions, and streamed upwards to the heterogeneous objects that +filled the shelves almost to the spring of the vault--objects which all +reminded him of the conditions of lives long ago extinct, endless heaps +of barbarous weapons, of garments of leather and of fish skin, Amurian, +Siberian, Gothic, Mexican, and Peruvian; African and Red Indian +masks, models of boats and canoes, sacred drums, Liberian idols, Runic +calendars, fiddles made of human skulls, strange and barbaric ornaments, +all producing together an amazing richness of colour--all things in +which the man himself had taken but a passing interest, the result of +his central study--life in all its shapes. + +He sat alone. The African giant looked down at his dwarf-like form +as though in contempt of such half-grown humanity; the Malayan lady’s +bodiless head turned its smiling face towards him; scores of dead +beings seemed to contemplate half in pity, half in scorn, their would-be +reviver. Keyork Arabian was used to their company and to their silence. +Far beyond the common human horror of dead humanity, if one of them had +all at once nodded to him and spoken to him he would have started with +delight and listened with rapture. But they were all still dead, and +they neither spoke or moved a finger. A thought that had more hope in it +than any which had passed through his brain for many years now occupied +and absorbed him. A heavy book lay open on the table by his side, and +from time to time he glanced at a phrase which seemed to attract him. +It was always the same phrase, and two words alone sufficed to bring +him back to contemplation of it. Those two words were “Immortality” + and “Soul.” He began to speak aloud to himself, being by nature fond of +speech. + +“Yes. The soul is immortal. I am quite willing to grant that. But it +does not in any way follow that it is the source of life, or the seat +of intelligence. The Buddhists distinguished it even from the +individuality. And yet life holds it, and when life ends it takes its +departure. How soon? I do not know. It is not a condition of life, +but life is one of its conditions. Does it leave the body when life is +artificially prolonged in a state of unconsciousness--by hypnotism, +for instance? Is it more closely bound up with animal life, or with +intelligence? If with either, has it a definite abiding place in the +heart, or in the brain? Since its presence depends directly on life, so +far as I know, it belongs to the body rather than to the brain. I once +made a rabbit live an hour without its head. With a man that experiment +would need careful manipulation--I would like to try it. Or is it all +a question of that phantom, Vitality? Then the presence of the soul +depends upon the potential excitability of the nerves, and, as far as +we know, it must leave the body not more than twenty-four hours after +death, and it certainly does not leave the body at the moment of dying. +But if of the nerves, then what is the condition of the soul in the +hypnotic state? Unorna hypnotises our old friend there--and our young +one, too. For her, they have nerves. At her touch they wake, they sleep, +they move, they feel, they speak. But they have no nerves for me. I can +cut them with knives, burn them, turn the life-blood of the one into +the arteries of the other--they feel nothing. If the soul is of the +nerves--or of the vitality, then they have souls for Unorna, and none +for me. That is absurd. Where is that old man’s soul? He has slept for +years. Has not his soul been somewhere else in the meanwhile? If we +could keep him asleep for centuries, or for scores of centuries, like +that frog found alive in a rock, would his soul--able by the hypothesis +to pass through rocks or universes--stay by him? Could an ingenious +sinner escape damnation for a few thousand years by being hypnotised? +Verily the soul is a very unaccountable thing, and what is still more +unaccountable is that I believe in it. Suppose the case of the ingenious +sinner. Suppose that he could not escape by his clever trick. Then +his soul must inevitably taste the condition of the damned while he is +asleep. But when he is waked at last, and found to be alive, his soul +must come back to him, glowing from the eternal flames. Unpleasant +thought! Keyork Arabian, you had far better not go to sleep at present. +Since all that is fantastic nonsense, on the face of it, I am inclined +to believe that the presence of the soul is in some way a condition +requisite for life, rather than depending upon it. I wish I could buy a +soul. It is quite certain that life is not a mere mechanical or chemical +process. I have gone too far to believe that. Take man at the very +moment of death--have everything ready, do what you will--my artificial +heart is a very perfect instrument, mechanically speaking--and how long +does it take to start the artificial circulation through the carotid +artery? Not a hundredth part so long a time as drowned people often lie +before being brought back, without a pulsation, without a breath. Yet +I never succeeded, though I have made the artificial heart work on a +narcotised rabbit, and the rabbit died instantly when I stopped the +machine, which proves that it was the machine that kept it alive. +Perhaps if one applied it to a man just before death he might live on +indefinitely, grow fat and flourish so long as the glass heart worked. +Where would his soul be then? In the glass heart, which would have +become the seat of life? Everything, sensible or absurd, which I can +put into words makes the soul seem an impossibility--and yet there is +something which I cannot put into words, but which proves the soul’s +existence beyond all doubt. I wish I could buy somebody’s soul and +experiment with it.” + +He ceased and sat staring at his specimens, going over in his memory the +fruitless experiments of a lifetime. A loud knocking roused him from his +reverie. He hastened to open the door and was confronted by Unorna. +She was paler than usual, and he saw from her expression that there was +something wrong. + +“What is the matter?” he asked, almost roughly. + +“He is in a carriage downstairs,” she answered quickly. “Something has +happened to him. I cannot wake him, you must take him in--” + +“To die on my hands? Not I!” laughed Keyork in his deepest voice. “My +collection is complete enough.” + +She seized him suddenly by both arms, and brought her face near to his. + +“If you dare to speak of death----” + +She grew intensely white, with a fear she had not before known in her +life. Keyork laughed again, and tried to shake himself free of her grip. + +“You seem a little nervous,” he observed calmly. “What do you want of +me?” + +“Your help, man, and quickly! Call your people! Have him carried +upstairs! Revive him! do something to bring him back!” + +Keyork’s voice changed. + +“Is he in real danger?” he asked. “What have you done to him?” + +“Oh, I do not know what I have done!” cried Unorna desperately. “I do +not know what I fear----” + +She let him go and leaned against the doorway, covering her face with +her hands. Keyork stared at her. He had never seen her show so much +emotion before. Then he made up his mind. He drew her into his room and +left her standing and staring at him while he thrust a few objects into +his pockets and threw his fur coat over him. + +“Stay here till I come back,” he said, authoritatively, as he went out. + +“But you will bring him here?” she cried, suddenly conscious of his +going. + +The door had already closed. She tried to open it, in order to follow +him, but she could not. The lock was of an unusual kind, and either +intentionally or accidentally Keyork had shut her in. For a few moments +she tried to force the springs, shaking the heavy wood work a very +little in the great effort she made. Then, seeing that it was useless, +she walked slowly to the table and sat down in Keyork’s chair. + +She had been in the place before, and she was as free from any +unpleasant fear of the dead company as Keyork himself. To her, as to +him, they were but specimens, each having a peculiar interest, as a +thing, but all destitute of that individuality, of that grim, latent +malice, of that weird, soulless, physical power to harm, with which +timid imaginations endow dead bodies. + +She scarcely gave them a glance, and she certainly gave them no thought. +She sat before the table, supporting her head in her hands and trying +to think connectedly of what had just happened. She knew well enough how +the Wanderer had lain upon the frozen ground, his head supported on her +knee, while the watchman had gone to call a carriage. She remembered how +she had summoned all her strength and had helped to lift him in, as few +women could have done. She remembered every detail of the place, and +everything she had done, even to the fact that she had picked up his hat +and a stick he had carried and had taken them into the vehicle with her. +The short drive through the ill-lighted streets was clear to her. She +could still feel the pressure of his shoulder as he had leaned heavily +against her; she could see the pale face by the fitful light of the +lanterns as they passed, and of the lamps that flashed in front of the +carriage with each jolting of the wheels over the rough paving-stones. +She remembered exactly what she had done, her efforts to wake him, at +first regular and made with the certainty of success, then more and more +mad as she realised that something had put him beyond the sphere of her +powers for the moment, if not for ever; his deathly pallor, his chilled +hands, his unnatural stillness--she remembered it all, as one remembers +circumstances in real life a moment after they have taken place. But +there remained also the recollection of a single moment during which +her whole being had been at the mercy of an impression so vivid that +it seemed to stand alone divested of any outward sensations by which +to measure its duration. She, who could call up visions in the minds of +others, who possessed the faculty of closing her bodily eyes in order to +see distant places and persons in the state of trance, she, who expected +no surprises in her own act, had seen something very vividly, which +she could not believe had been a reality, and which she yet could not +account for as a revelation of second sight. That dark, mysterious +presence that had come bodily, yet without a body, between her and the +man she loved was neither a real woman, nor the creation of her own +brain, nor a dream seen in hypnotic state. She had not the least idea +how long it had stood there; it seemed an hour, and it seemed but a +second. But that incorporeal thing had a life and a power of its own. +Never before had she felt that unearthly chill run through her, nor +that strange sensation in her hair. It was a thing of evil omen, and the +presage was already about to be fulfilled. The spirit of the dark woman +had arisen at the sound of the words in which he denied her; she had +risen and had come to claim her own, to rob Unorna of what seemed most +worth coveting on earth--and she could take him, surely, to the place +whence she came. How could Unorna tell that he was not already gone, +that his spirit had not passed already, even when she was lifting his +weight from the ground? + +At the despairing thought she started and looked up. She had almost +expected to see that shadow beside her again. But there was nothing. +The lifeless bodies stood motionless in their mimicry of life under the +bright light. The swarthy negro frowned, the face of the Malayan woman +wore still its calm and gentle expression. Far in the background the +rows of gleaming skulls grinned, as though at the memory of their four +hundred lives; the skeleton of the orang-outang stretched out its long +bony arms before it; the dead savages still squatted round the remains +of their meal. The stillness was oppressive. + +Unorna rose to her feet in sudden anxiety. She did not know how long +she had been alone. She listened anxiously at the door for the sound +of footsteps on the stairs, but all was silent. Surely, Keyork had not +taken him elsewhere, to his lodgings, where he would not be cared for. +That was impossible. She must have heard the sound of the wheels as +the carriage drove away. She glanced at the windows and saw that the +casements were covered with small, thick curtains which would muzzle +the sound. She went to the nearest, thrust the curtain aside, opened the +inner and the second glass and looked out. Though the street below was +dim, she could see well enough that the carriage was no longer there. +It was the bitterest night of the year and the air cut her like a knife, +but she would not draw back. She strained her sight in both directions, +searching in the gloom for the moving lights of a carriage, but she saw +nothing. At last she shut the window and went back to the door. They +must be on the stairs, or still below, perhaps, waiting for help to +carry him up. The cold might kill him in his present state, a cold that +would kill most things exposed to it. Furiously she shook the door. It +was useless. She looked about for an instrument to help her strength. +She could see nothing--no--yes--there was the iron-wood club of the +black giant. She went and took it from his hand. The dead thing trembled +all over, and rocked as though it would fall, and wagged its great head +at her, but she was not afraid. She raised the heavy club and struck +upon the door, upon the lock, upon the panels with all her might. The +terrible blows sent echoes down the staircase, but the door did not +yield, nor the lock either. Was the door of iron and the lock of +granite? she asked herself. Then she heard a strange, sudden noise +behind her. She turned and looked. The dead negro had fallen bodily from +his pedestal to the floor, with a dull, heavy thud. She did not desist, +but struck the oaken planks again and again with all her strength. Then +her arms grew numb and she dropped the club. It was all in vain. Keyork +had locked her in and had taken the Wanderer away. + +She went back to her seat and fell into an attitude of despair. The +reaction from the great physical efforts she had made overcame her. It +seemed to her that Keyork’s only reason for taking him away must be that +he was dead. Her head throbbed and her eyes began to burn. The great +passion had its will of her and stabbed her through and through with +such pain as she had never dreamed of. The horror of it all was too deep +for tears, and tears were by nature very far from her eyes at all times. +She pressed her hands to her breast and rocked herself gently backwards +and forwards. There was no reason left in her. To her there was no +reason left in anything if he were gone. And if Keyork Arabian could not +cure him, who could? She knew now what that old prophecy had meant, +when they had told her that love would come but once, and that the +chief danger of her life lay in a mistake on that decisive day. Love had +indeed come upon her like a whirlwind, he had flashed upon her like +the lightning, she had tried to grasp him and keep him, and he was gone +again--for ever. Gone through her own fault, through her senseless folly +in trying to do by art what love would have done for himself. Blind, +insensate, mad! She cursed herself with unholy curses, and her beautiful +face was strained and distorted. With unconscious fingers she tore at +her heavy hair until it fell about her like a curtain. In the raging +thirst of a great grief for tears that would not flow she beat her +bosom, she beat her face, she struck with her white forehead the heavy +table before her, she grasped her own throat, as though she would tear +the life out of herself. Then again her head fell forward and her body +swayed regularly to and fro, and low words broke fiercely from her +trembling lips now and then, bitter words of a wild, strong language in +which it is easier to curse than to bless. As the sudden love that had +in a few hours taken such complete possession of her was boundless, so +its consequences were illimitable. In a nature strange to fear, the fear +for another wrought a fearful revolution. Her anger against herself was +as terrible as her fear for him she loved was paralysing. The instinct +to act, the terror lest it should be too late, the impossibility of +acting at all so long as she was imprisoned in the room, all three came +over her at once. + +The mechanical effort of rocking her body from side to side brought no +rest; the blow she struck upon her breast in her frenzy she felt no more +than the oaken door had felt those she had dealt it with the club. She +could not find even the soothing antidote of bodily pain for her intense +moral suffering. Again the time passed without her knowing or guessing +of its passage. + +Driven to desperation she sprang at last from her seat and cried aloud. + +“I would give my soul to know that he is safe!” + +The words had not died away when a low groan passed, as it were, round +the room. The sound was distinctly that of a human voice, but it seemed +to come from all sides at once. Unorna stood still and listened. + +“Who is in this room?” she asked in loud clear tones. + +Not a breath stirred. She glanced from one specimen to another, as +though suspecting that among the dead some living being had taken a +disguise. But she knew them all. There was nothing new to her there. She +was not afraid. Her passion returned. + +“My soul!--yes!” she cried again, leaning heavily on the table, “I would +give it if I could know, and it would be little enough!” + +Again that awful sound filled the room, and rose now almost to a wail +and died away. + +Unorna’s brow flushed angrily. In the direct line of her vision stood +the head of the Malayan woman, its soft, embalmed eyes fixed on hers. + +“If there are people hidden here,” cried Unorna fiercely, “let them show +themselves! let them face me! I say it again--I would give my immortal +soul!” + +This time Unorna saw as well as heard. The groan came, and the wail +followed it and rose to a shriek that deafened her. And she saw how +the face of the Malayan woman changed; she saw it move in the bright +lamp-light, she saw the mouth open. Horrified, she looked away. Her eyes +fell upon the squatting savages--their heads were all turned towards +her, she was sure that she could see their shrunken chests heave as they +took breath to utter that terrible cry again and again; even the fallen +body of the African stirred on the floor, not five paces from her. Would +their shrieking never stop? All of them--every one--even to the white +skulls high up in the case; not one skeleton, not one dead body that did +not mouth at her and scream and moan and scream again. + +Unorna covered her ears with her hands to shut out the hideous, +unearthly noise. She closed her eyes lest she should see those dead +things move. Then came another noise. Were they descending from their +pedestals and cases and marching upon her, a heavy-footed company of +corpses? + +Fearless to the last, she dropped her hands and opened her eyes. + +“In spite of you all,” she cried defiantly, “I will give my soul to have +him safe!” + +Something was close to her. She turned and saw Keyork Arabian at her +elbow. There was an odd smile on his usually unexpressive face. + +“Then give me that soul of yours, if you please,” he said. “He is quite +safe and peacefully asleep. You must have grown a little nervous while I +was away.” + + + +CHAPTER X + +Unorna let herself sink into a chair. She stared almost vacantly at +Keyork, then glanced uneasily at the motionless specimens, then stared +at him again. + +“Yes,” she said at last. “Perhaps I was a little nervous. Why did you +lock me in? I would have gone with you. I would have helped you.” + +“An accident--quite an accident,” answered Keyork, divesting himself of +his fur coat. “The lock is a peculiar one, and in my hurry I forgot to +show you the trick of it.” + +“I tried to get out,” said Unorna with a forced laugh. “I tried to +break the door down with a club. I am afraid I have hurt one of your +specimens.” + +She looked about the room. Everything was in its usual position, except +the body of the African. She was quite sure that when she had head that +unearthly cry, the dead faces had all been turned towards her. + +“It is no matter,” replied Keyork in a tone of indifference which was +genuine. “I wish somebody would take my collection off my hands. I +should have room to walk about without elbowing a failure at every +step.” + +“I wish you would bury them all,” suggested Unorna, with a slight +shudder. + +Keyork looked at her keenly. + +“Do you mean to say that those dead things frightened you?” he asked +incredulously. + +“No; I do not. I am not easily frightened. But something odd +happened--the second strange thing that has happened this evening. Is +there any one concealed in this room?” + +“Not a rat--much less a human being. Rats dislike creosote and corrosive +sublimate, and as for human beings----” + +He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. + +“Then I have been dreaming,” said Unorna, attempting to look relieved. +“Tell me about him. Where is he?” + +“In bed--at his hotel. He will be perfectly well to-morrow.” + +“Did he wake?” she asked anxiously. + +“Yes. We talked together.” + +“And he was in his right mind?” + +“Apparently. But he seems to have forgotten something.” + +“Forgotten? What? That I had made him sleep?” + +“Yes. He had forgotten that too.” + +“In Heaven’s name, Keyork, tell me what you mean! Do not keep me--” + +“How impatient women are!” exclaimed Keyork with exasperating calm. +“What is it that you most want him to forget?” + +“You cannot mean----” + +“I can, and I do. He has forgotten Beatrice. For a witch--well, you are +a very remarkable one, Unorna. As a woman of business----” He shook his +head. + +“What do you mean, this time? What did you say?” Her questions came in +a strained tone and she seemed to have difficulty in concentrating her +attention, or in controlling her emotions, or both. + +“You paid a large price for the information,” observed Keyork. + +“What price? What are you speaking of? I do not understand.” + +“Your soul,” he answered, with a laugh. “That was what you offered to +any one who would tell you that the Wanderer was safe. I immediately +closed with your offer. It was an excellent one for me.” + +Unorna tapped the table impatiently. + +“It is odd that a man of your learning should never be serious,” she +said. + +“I supposed that you were serious,” he answered. “Besides, a bargain +is a bargain, and there were numerous witnesses to the transaction,” he +added, looking round the room at his dead specimens. + +Unorna tried to laugh with him. + +“Do you know, I was so nervous that I fancied all those creatures were +groaning and shrieking and gibbering at me, when you came in.” + +“Very likely they were,” said Keyork Arabian, his small eyes twinkling. + +“And I imagined that the Malayan woman opened her mouth to scream, and +that the Peruvian savages turned their heads; it was very strange--at +first they groaned, and then they wailed, and then they howled and +shrieked at me.” + +“Under the circumstances, that is not extraordinary.” + +Unorna stared at him rather angrily. He was jesting, of course, and she +had been dreaming, or had been so overwrought by excitement as to have +been made the victim of a vivid hallucination. Nevertheless there was +something disagreeable in the matter-of-fact gravity of his jest. + +“I am tired of your kind of wit,” she said. + +“The kind of wit which is called wisdom is said to be fatiguing,” he +retorted. + +“I wish you would give me an opportunity of being wearied in that way.” + +“Begin by opening your eyes to facts, then. It is you who are trying +to jest. It is I who am in earnest. Did you, or did you not, offer your +soul for a certain piece of information? Did you, or did you not, hear +those dead things moan and cry? Did you, or did you not, see them move?” + +“How absurd!” cried Unorna. “You might as well ask whether, when one +is giddy, the room is really going round? Is there any practical +difference, so far as sensation goes, between a mummy and a block of +wood?” + +“That, my dear lady, is precisely what we do not know, and what we most +wish to know. Death is not the change which takes place at a moment +which is generally clearly defined, when the heart stops beating, and +the eye turns white, and the face changes colour. Death comes some time +after that, and we do not know exactly when. It varies very much in +different individuals. You can only define it as the total and final +cessation of perception and apperception, both functions depending on +the nerves. In ordinary cases Nature begins of herself to destroy the +nerves by a sure process. But how do you know what happens when decay +is not only arrested but prevented before it has begun? How can you +foretell what may happen when a skilful hand has restored the tissues of +the body to their original flexibility, or preserved them in the state +in which they were last sensitive?” + +“Nothing can ever make me believe that a mummy can suddenly hear and +understand,” said Unorna. “Much less that it can move and produce +a sound. I know that the idea has possessed you for many years, but +nothing will make me believe it possible.” + +“Nothing?” + +“Nothing short of seeing and hearing.” + +“But you have seen and heard.” + +“I was dreaming.” + +“When you offered your soul?” + +“Not then, perhaps. I was only mad then.” + +“And on the ground of temporary insanity you would repudiate the +bargain?” + +Unorna shrugged her shoulders impatiently and did not answer. Keyork +relinquished the fencing. + +“It is of no importance,” he said, changing his tone. “Your dream--or +whatever it was--seems to have been the second of your two experiences. +You said there were two, did you not? What was the first?” + +Unorna sat silent for some minutes, as though collecting her thoughts. +Keyork, who never could have enough light, busied himself with another +lamp. The room was now brighter than it generally was in the daytime. + +Unorna watched him. She did not want to make confidences to him, and yet +she felt irresistibly impelled to do so. He was a strange compound of +wisdom and levity, in her opinion, and his light-hearted moods were +those which she most resented. She was never sure whether he was in +reality tactless, or frankly brutal. She inclined to the latter view of +his character, because he always showed such masterly skill in excusing +himself when he had gone too far. Neither his wisdom nor his love of +jesting explained to her the powerful attraction he exercised over her +whole nature, and of which she was, in a manner, ashamed. She could +quarrel with him as often as they met, and yet she could not help being +always glad to meet him again. She could not admit that she liked him +because she dominated him; on the contrary, he was the only person she +had ever met over whom she had no influence whatever, who did as he +pleased without consulting her, and who laughed at her mysterious power +so far as he himself was concerned. Nor was her liking founded upon any +consciousness of obligation. If he had helped her to the best of his +ability in the great experiment, it was also clear enough that he had +the strongest personal interest in doing so. He loved life with a mad +passion for its own sake, and the only object of his study was to find +a means of living longer than other men. All the aims and desires and +complex reasonings of his being tended to this simple expression--the +wish to live. To what idolatrous self-worship Keyork Arabian might be +capable of descending, if he ever succeeded in eliminating death from +the equation of his immediate future, it was impossible to say. The +wisdom of ages bids us beware of the man of one idea. He is to be feared +for his ruthlessness, for his concentration, for the singular strength +he has acquired in the centralization of his intellectual power, and +because he has welded, as it were, the rough metal of many passions and +of many talents into a single deadly weapon which he wields for a single +purpose. Herein lay, perhaps, the secret of Unorna’s undefined fear of +Keyork and of her still less definable liking for him. + +She leaned one elbow on the table and shaded her eyes from the brilliant +light. + +“I do not know why I should tell you,” she said at last. “You will only +laugh at me, and then I shall be angry, and we shall quarrel as usual.” + +“I may be of use,” suggested the little man gravely. “Besides, I have +made up my mind never to quarrel with you again, Unorna.” + +“You are wise, my dear friend. It does no good. As for your being of use +in this case, the most I can hope is that you may find me an explanation +of something I cannot understand.” + +“I am good at that. I am particularly good at explanations--and, +generally, at all _post facto_ wisdom.” + +“Keyork, do you believe that the souls of the dead can come back and be +visible to us?” + +Keyork Arabian was silent for a few seconds. + +“I know nothing about it,” he answered. + +“But what do you think?” + +“Nothing. Either it is possible, or it is not, and until the one +proposition or the other is proved I suspend my judgment. Have you seen +a ghost?” + +“I do not know. I have seen something----” She stopped, as though the +recollections were unpleasant. + +“Then” said Keyork, “the probability is that you saw a living person. +Shall I sum up the question of ghosts for you?” + +“I wish you would, in some way that I can understand.” + +“We are, then, in precisely the same position with regard to the belief +in ghosts which we occupy towards such questions as the abolition of +death. The argument in both cases is inductive and all but conclusive. +We do not know of any case, in the two hundred generations of men, more +or less, with whose history we are in some degree acquainted, of any +individual who has escaped death. We conclude that all men must die. +Similarly, we do not know certainly--not from real, irrefutable evidence +at least--that the soul of any man or woman dead has ever returned +visibly to earth. We conclude, therefore, that none ever will. There +is a difference in the two cases, which throws a slight balance of +probability on the side of the ghost. Many persons have asserted that +they have seen ghosts, though none have ever asserted that men do not +die. For my own part, I have had a very wide, practical, and intimate +acquaintance with dead people--sometimes in very queer places--but I +have never seen anything even faintly suggestive of a ghost. Therefore, +my dear lady, I advise you to take it for granted that you have seen a +living person.” + +“I never shivered with cold and felt my hair rise upon my head at the +sight of any living thing,” said Unorna dreamily, and still shading her +eyes with her hand. + +“But might you not feel that if you chanced to see some one whom you +particularly disliked?” asked Keyork, with a gentle laugh. + +“Disliked?” repeated Unorna in a harsh voice. She changed her position +and looked at him. “Yes, perhaps that is possible. I had not thought of +that. And yet--I would rather it had been a ghost.” + +“More interesting, certainly, and more novel,” observed Keyork, slowly +polishing his smooth cranium with the palm of his hand. His head, and +the perfect hemisphere of his nose, reflected the light like ivory balls +of different sizes. + +“I was standing before him,” said Unorna. “The place was lonely and +it was already night. The stars shone on the snow, and I could see +distinctly. Then she--that woman--passed softly between us. He cried +out, calling her by name, and then fell forward. After that, the woman +was gone. What was it that I saw?” + +“You are quite sure that it was not really a woman?” + +“Would a woman, and of all women that one, have come and gone without a +word?” + +“Not unless she is a very singularly reticent person,” answered Keyork, +with a laugh. “But you need not go so far as the ghost theory for an +explanation. You were hypnotised, my dear friend, and he made you see +her. That is as simple as anything need be.” + +“But that is impossible, because----” Unorna stopped and changed colour. + +“Because you had hypnotised him already,” suggested Keyork gravely. + +“The thing is not possible,” Unorna repeated, looking away from him. + +“I believe it to be the only natural explanation. You had made him +sleep. You tried to force his mind to something contrary to its firmest +beliefs. I have seen you do it. He is a strong subject. His mind +rebelled, yielded, then made a final and desperate effort, and then +collapsed. That effort was so terrible that it momentarily forced your +will back upon itself, and impressed his vision on your sight. There are +no ghosts, my dear colleague. There are only souls and bodies. If the +soul can be defined as anything it can be defined as Pure Being in the +Mode of Individuality but quite removed from the Mode of Matter. As for +the body--well, there it is before you, in a variety of shapes, and in +various states of preservation, as incapable of producing a ghost as +a picture or a statue. You are altogether in a very nervous condition +to-day. It is really quite indifferent whether that good lady be alive +or dead.” + +“Indifferent!” exclaimed Unorna fiercely. Then she was silent. + +“Indifferent to the validity of the theory. If she is dead, you did not +see her ghost, and if she is alive you did not see her body, because, +if she had been there in the flesh, she would have entered into an +explanation--to say the least. Hypnosis will explain anything and +everything, without causing you a moment’s anxiety for the future.” + +“Then I did not hear shrieks and moans, nor see your specimens moving +when I was here along just now?” + +“Certainly not! Hypnosis again. Auto-hypnosis this time. You should +really be less nervous. You probably stared at the lamp without +realising the fact. You know that any shining object affects you in +that way, if you are not careful. It is a very bright lamp, too. +Instantaneous effect--bodies appear to move and you hear unearthly +yells--you offer your soul for sale and I buy it, appearing in the nick +of time? If your condition had lasted ten seconds longer you would have +taken me for his majesty and lived, in imagination, through a dozen +years or so of sulphurous purgatorial treatment under my personal +supervision, to wake up and find yourself unscorched--and unredeemed, as +ever.” + +“You are a most comforting person, Keyork,” said Unorna, with a faint +smile. “I only wish I could believe everything you tell me.” + +“You must either believe me or renounce all claim to intelligence,” + answered the little man, climbing from his chair and sitting upon the +table at her elbow. His short, sturdy legs swung at a considerable +height above the floor, and he planted his hands firmly upon the board +on either side of him. The attitude was that of an idle boy, and was +so oddly out of keeping with his age and expression that Unorna almost +laughed as she looked at him. + +“At all events,” he continued, “you cannot doubt my absolute sincerity. +You come to me for an explanation. I give you the only sensible one that +exists, and the only one which can have a really sedative effect upon +your excitement. Of course, if you have any especial object in +believing in ghosts--if it affords you any great and lasting pleasure to +associate, in imagination, with spectres, wraiths, and airily-malicious +shadows, I will not cross your fancy. To a person of solid nerves +a banshee may be an entertaining companion, and an apparition in a +well-worn winding-sheet may be a pretty toy. For all I know, it may be +a delight to you to find your hair standing on end at the unexpected +appearance of a dead woman in a black cloak between you and the person +with whom you are engaged in animated conversation. All very well, as +a mere pastime, I say. But if you find that you are reaching a point on +which your judgment is clouded, you had better shut up the magic lantern +and take the rational view of the case.” + +“Perhaps you are right.” + +“Will you allow me to say something very frank, Unorna?” asked Keyork +with unusual diffidence. + +“If you can manage to be frank without being brutal.” + +“I will be short, at all events. It is this. I think you are becoming +superstitious.” He watched her closely to see what effect the speech +would produce. She looked up quickly. + +“Am I? What is superstition?” + +“Gratuitous belief in things not proved.” + +“I expected a different definition from you.” + +“What did you expect me to say?” + +“That superstition is belief.” + +“I am not a heathen,” observed Keyork sanctimoniously. + +“Far from it,” laughed Unorna. “I have heard that devils believe and +tremble.” + +“And you class me with those interesting things, my dear friend?” + +“Sometimes: when I am angry with you.” + +“Two or three times a day, then? Not more than that?” inquired the sage, +swinging his heels, and staring at the rows of skulls in the background. + +“Whenever we quarrel. It is easy for you to count the occasions.” + +“Easy, but endless. Seriously, Unorna, I am not the devil. I can prove +it to you conclusively on theological grounds.” + +“Can you? They say that his majesty is a lawyer, and a successful one, +in good practice.” + +“What caused Satan’s fall? Pride. Then pride is his chief +characteristic. Am I proud, Unorna? The question is absurd, I have +nothing to be proud of--a little old man with a gray beard, of whom +nobody ever heard anything remarkable. No one ever accused me of pride. +How could I be proud of anything? Except of your acquaintance, my dear +lady,” he added gallantly, laying his hand on his heart, and leaning +towards her as he sat. + +Unorna laughed at the speech, and threw back her dishevelled hair with a +graceful gesture. Keyork paused. + +“You are very beautiful,” he said thoughtfully, gazing at her face and +at the red gold lights that played in the tangled tresses. + +“Worse and worse!” she exclaimed, still laughing. “Are you going to +repeat the comedy you played so well this afternoon, and make love to me +again?” + +“If you like. But I do not need to win your affections now.” + +“Why not?” + +“Have I not bought your soul, with everything in it, like a furnished +house?” he asked merrily. + +“Then you are the devil after all?” + +“Or an angel. Why should the evil one have a monopoly in the +soul-market? But you remind me of my argument. You would have distracted +Demosthenes in the heat of a peroration, or Socrates in the midst of his +defence, if you had flashed that hair of yours before their old eyes. +You have almost taken the life out of my argument. I was going to say +that my peculiarity is not less exclusive than Lucifer’s, though it +takes a different turn. I was going to confess with the utmost frankness +and the most sincere truth that my only crime against Heaven is a most +perfect, unswerving, devotional love for my own particular Self. In that +attachment I have never wavered yet--but I really cannot say what may +become of Keyork Arabian if he looks at you much longer.” + +“He might become a human being,” suggested Unorna. + +“How can you be so cruel as to suggest such a horrible possibility?” + cried the gnome with a shudder, either real or extremely well feigned. + +“You are betraying yourself, Keyork. You must control your feelings +better, or I shall find out the truth about you.” + +He glanced keenly at her, and was silent for a while. Unorna rose slowly +to her feet, and standing beside him, began to twist her hair into a +great coil upon her head. + +“What made you let it down?” asked Keyork with some curiosity, as he +watched her. + +“I hardly know,” she answered, still busy with the braids. “I was +nervous, I suppose, as you say, and so it got loose and came down.” + +“Nervous about our friend?” + +She did not reply, but turned from him with a shake of the head and took +up her fur mantle. + +“You are not going?” said Keyork quietly, in a tone of conviction. + +She started slightly, dropped the sable, and sat down again. + +“No,” she said, “I am not going yet. I do not know what made me take my +cloak.” + +“You have really no cause for nervousness now that it is all over,” + remarked the sage, who had not descended from his perch on the table. +“He is very well. It is one of those cases which are interesting as +being new, or at least only partially investigated. We may as well speak +in confidence, Unorna, for we really understand each other. Do you not +think so?” + +“That depends on what you have to say.” + +“Not much--nothing that ought to offend you. You must consider, my +dear,” he said, assuming an admirably paternal tone, “that I might be +your father, and that I have your welfare very much at heart, as well as +your happiness. You love this man--no, do not be angry, do not interrupt +me. You could not do better for yourself, nor for him. I knew him years +ago. He is a grand man--the sort of man I would like to be. Good. You +find him suffering from a delusion, or a memory, whichever it be. Not +only is this delusion--let us call it so--ruining his happiness and +undermining his strength, but so long as it endures, it also completely +excludes the possibility of his feeling for you what you feel for him. +Your own interest coincides exactly with the promptings of real, human +charity. And yours is in reality a charitable nature, dear Unorna, +though you are sometimes a little hasty with poor old Keyork. Good +again. You, being moved by a desire for this man’s welfare, most kindly +and wisely take steps to cure him of his madness. The delusion is +strong, but your will is stronger. The delusion yields after a violent +struggle during which it has even impressed itself upon your own senses. +The patient is brought home, properly cared for, and disposed to +rest. Then he wakes, apparently of his own accord, and behold! he is +completely cured. Everything has been successful, everything is perfect, +everything has followed the usual course of such mental cures by means +of hypnosis. The only thing I do not understand is the waking. That is +the only thing which makes me uneasy for the future, until I can see it +properly explained. He had no right to wake without your suggestion, if +he was still in the hypnotic state; and if he had already come out of +the hypnotic state by a natural reaction, it is to be feared that the +cure may not be permanent.” + +Unorna had listened attentively, as she always did when Keyork delivered +himself of a serious opinion upon a psychiatric case. Her eyes gleamed +with satisfaction as he finished. + +“If that is all that troubles you,” she said, “you may set your mind +at rest. After he had fallen, and while the watchman was getting the +carriage, I repeated my suggestion and ordered him to wake without pain +in an hour.” + +“Perfect! Splendid!” cried Keyork, clapping his hands loudly together. +“I did you an injustice, my dear Unorna. You are not so nervous as I +thought, since you forgot nothing. What a woman! Ghost-proof, and able +to think connectedly even at such a moment! But tell me, did you not +take the opportunity of suggesting something else?” His eyes twinkled +merrily, as he asked the question. + +“What do you mean?” inquired Unorna, with sudden coldness. + +“Oh, nothing so serious as you seem to think. I was only wondering +whether a suggestion of reciprocation might not have been wise.” + +She faced him fiercely. + +“Hold your peace, Keyork Arabian!” she cried. + +“Why?” he asked with a bland smile, swinging his little legs and +stroking his long beard. + +“There is a limit! Must you for ever be trying to suggest, and trying +to guide me in everything I do? It is intolerable! I can hardly call my +soul my own!” + +“Hardly, considering my recent acquisition of it,” returned Keyork +calmly. + +“That wretched jest is threadbare.” + +“A jest! Wretched? And threadbare, too? Poor Keyork! His wit is failing +at last.” + +He shook his head in mock melancholy over his supposed intellectual +dotage. Unorna turned away, this time with the determination to leave +him. + +“I am sorry if I have offended you,” he said, very meekly. “Was what I +said so very unpardonable?” + +“If ignorance is unpardonable, as you always say, then your speech +is past forgiveness,” said Unorna, relenting by force of habit, but +gathering her fur around her. “If you know anything of women--” + +“Which I do not,” observed the gnome in a low-toned interruption. + +“Which you do not--you would know how much such love as you advise me to +manufacture by force of suggestion could be worth in a woman’s eyes. You +would know that a woman will be loved for herself, for her beauty, for +her wit, for her virtues, for her faults, for her own love, if you will, +and by a man conscious of all his actions and free of his heart; not by +a mere patient reduced to the proper state of sentiment by a trick of +hypnotism, or psychiatry, or of whatever you choose to call the effect +of this power of mine which neither you, nor I, nor any one can explain. +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.” + +“So you are a fatalist, Unorna,” observed her companion, still stroking +and twisting his beard. “It is strange that we should differ upon so +many fundamental questions, you and I, and yet be such good friends. Is +it not?” + +“The strangest thing of all is that I should submit to your exasperating +ways as I do.” + +“It does not strike me that it is I who am quarrelling this time,” said +Keyork. + +“I confess, I would almost prefer that to your imperturbable coolness. +What is this new phase? You used not to be like this. You are planning +some wickedness. I am sure of it.” + +“And that is all the credit I get for keeping my temper! Did I not say a +while ago that I would never quarrel with you again?” + +“You said so, but--” + +“But you did not expect me to keep my word,” said Keyork, slipping from +his seat on the table with considerable agility and suddenly standing +close before her. “And do you not yet know that when I say a thing I do +it, and that when I have got a thing I keep it?” + +“So far as the latter point is concerned, I have nothing to say. But you +need not be so terribly impressive; and unless you are going to break +your word, by which you seem to set such store, and quarrel with me, you +need not look at me so fiercely.” + +Keyork suddenly let his voice drop to its deepest and most vibrating +key. + +“I only want you to remember this,” he said. “You are not an ordinary +woman, as I am not an ordinary man, and the experiment we are making +together is an altogether extraordinary one. I have told you the truth. +I care for nothing but my individual self, and I seek nothing but the +prolongation of life. If you endanger the success of the great trial +again, as you did to-day, and if it fails, I will never forgive you. +You will make an enemy of me, and you will regret it while you live, +and longer than that, perhaps. So long as you keep the compact there +is nothing I will not do to help you--nothing within the bounds of your +imagination. And I can do much. Do you understand?” + +“I understand that you are afraid of losing my help.” + +“That is it--of losing your help. I am not afraid of losing you--in the +end.” + +Unorna smiled rather scornfully at first, as she looked down upon the +little man’s strange face and gazed fearlessly into his eyes. But as she +looked, the smile faded, and the colour slowly sank from her face, +until she was very pale. And as she felt herself losing courage before +something which she could not understand, Keyork’s eyes grew brighter +and brighter till they glowed like drops of molten metal. A sound as of +many voices wailing in agony rose and trembled and quavered in the air. +With a wild cry, Unorna pressed her hands to her ears and fled towards +the entrance. + +“You are very nervous to-night,” observed Keyork, as he opened the door. + +Then he went silently down the stairs by her side and helped her into +the carriage, which had been waiting since his return. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +A month had passed since the day on which Unorna had first seen the +Wanderer, and since the evening when she had sat so long in conversation +with Keyork Arabian. The snow lay heavily on all the rolling moorland +about Prague, covering everything up to the very gates of the black +city; and within, all things were as hard and dark and frozen as ever. +The sun was still the sun, no doubt, high above the mist and the gloom +which he had no power to pierce, but no man could say that he had seen +him in that month. At long intervals indeed, a faint rose-coloured glow +touched the high walls of the Hradschin and transfigured for an instant +the short spires of the unfinished cathedral, hundreds of feet above +the icebound river and the sepulchral capital; sometimes, in the dim +afternoons, a little gold filtered through the heavy air and tinged the +snow-steeples of the Teyn Kirche, and yellowed the stately tower of +the town hall; but that was all, so far as the moving throngs of silent +beings that filled the streets could see. The very air men breathed +seemed to be stiffening with damp cold. For that is not the glorious +winter of our own dear north, where the whole earth is a jewel of +gleaming crystals hung between two heavens, between the heaven of the +day, and the heaven of the night, beautiful alike in sunshine and in +starlight, under the rays of the moon, at evening and again at dawn; +where the pines and hemlocks are as forests of plumes powdered thick +with dust of silver; where the black ice rings like a deep-toned bell +beneath the heel of the sweeping skate--the ice that you may follow a +hundred miles if you have breath and strength; where the harshest voice +rings musically among the icicles and the snow-laden boughs; where the +quick jingle of sleigh bells far off on the smooth, deep track brings +to the listener the vision of our own merry Father Christmas, with snowy +beard, and apple cheeks, and peaked fur cap, and mighty gauntlets, +and hampers and sacks full of toys and good things and true northern +jollity; where all is young and fresh and free; where eyes are bright +and cheeks are red, and hands are strong and hearts are brave; where +children laugh and tumble in the diamond dust of the dry, driven snow; +where men and women know what happiness can mean; where the old are as +the giant pines, green, silver-crowned landmarks in the human forest, +rather than as dried, twisted, sapless trees fit only to be cut down and +burned, in that dear north to which our hearts and memories still turn +for refreshment, under the Indian suns, and out of the hot splendour of +calm southern seas. The winter of the black city that spans the frozen +Moldau is the winter of the grave, dim as a perpetual afternoon in a +land where no lotus ever grew, cold with the unspeakable frigidness of a +reeking air that thickens as oil but will not be frozen, melancholy as a +stony island of death in a lifeless sea. + +A month had gone by, and in that time the love that had so suddenly +taken root in Unorna’s heart had grown to great proportions as love will +when, being strong and real, it is thwarted and repulsed at every turn. +For she was not loved. She had destroyed the idol and rooted out the +memory of it, but she could not take its place. She had spoken the truth +when she had told Keyork that she would be loved for herself, or not at +all, and that she would use neither her secret arts nor her rare gifts +to manufacture a semblance when she longed for a reality. + +Almost daily she saw him. As in a dream he came to her and sat by her +side, hour after hour, talking of many things, calm, apparently, and +satisfied in her society, but strangely apathetic and indifferent. +Never once in those many days had she seen his pale face light up with +pleasure, nor his deep eyes show a gleam of interest; never had the tone +of his voice been disturbed in its even monotony; never had the touch of +his hand, when they met and parted, felt the communication of the thrill +that ran through hers. + +It was very bitter, for Unorna was proud with the scarcely reasoning +pride of a lawless, highly gifted nature, accustomed to be obeyed and +little used to bending under any influence. She brought all the skill +she could command to her assistance; she talked to him, she told him of +herself, she sought his confidence, she consulted him on every matter, +she attempted to fascinate his imagination with tales of a life which +even he could never have seen; she even sang to him old songs and +snatches of wonderful melodies which, in her childhood, had still +survived the advancing wave of silence that has overwhelmed the Bohemian +people within the memory of living man, bringing a change into the daily +life and temperament of a whole nation which is perhaps unparalleled in +any history. He listened, he smiled, he showed a faint pleasure and a +great understanding in all these things, and he came back day after +day to talk and listen again. But that was all. She felt that she could +amuse him without charming him. + +And Unorna suffered terribly. Her cheek grew thinner and her eyes +gleamed with sudden fires. She was restless, and her beautiful hands, +from seeming to be carved in white marble, began to look as though they +were chiselled out of delicate transparent alabaster. She slept little +and thought much, and if she did not shed tears, it was because she +was too strong to weep for pain and too proud to weep from anger and +disappointment. And yet her resolution remained firm, for it was part +and parcel of her inmost self, and was guarded by pride on the one hand +and an unalterable belief in fate on the other. + +To-day they sat together, as they had so often sat, among the flowers +and the trees in the vast conservatory, she in her tall, carved chair +and he upon a lower seat before her. They had been silent for some +minutes. It was not yet noon, but it might have been early morning in a +southern island, so soft was the light, so freshly scented the air, so +peaceful the tinkle of the tiny fountain. Unorna’s expression was sad, +as she gazed in silence at the man she loved. There was something gone +from his face, she thought, since she had first seen him, and it was to +bring that something back that she would give her life and her soul if +she could. + +Suddenly her lips moved and a sad melody trembled in the air. Unorna +sang, almost as though singing to herself. The Wanderer’s deep eyes met +hers and he listened. + + “When in life’s heaviest hour + Grief crowds upon the heart + One wondrous prayer + My memory repeats. + + “The harmony of the living words + Is full of strength to heal, + There breathes in them a holy charm + Past understanding. + + “Then, as a burden from my soul, + Doubt rolls away, + And I believe--believe in tears, + And all is light--so light!” + +She ceased, and his eyes were still upon her, calm, thoughtful, +dispassionate. The colour began to rise in her cheek. She looked down +and tapped upon the carved arm of the chair with an impatient gesture +familiar to her. + +“And what is that one prayer?” asked the Wanderer. “I knew the song long +ago, but I have never guessed what that magic prayer can be like.” + +“It must be a woman’s prayer; I cannot tell you what it is.” + +“And are you so sad to-day, Unorna? What makes you sing that song?” + +“Sad? No, I am not sad,” she answered with an effort. “But the words +rose to my lips and so I sang.” + +“They are pretty words,” said her companion, almost indifferently. “And +you have a very beautiful voice,” he added thoughtfully. + +“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. He gazed at the plants, and his glance +wandered from one to the other, as though he did not see them, being +lost in meditation. The voice had been calm and clear as ever, but it +was the first time he had ever said so much, and Unorna’s heart stood +still, half fire and half ice. She could not speak. + +“You are very much to me,” he said again, at last. “Since I have been +in this place a change has come over me. I seem to myself to be a man +without an object, without so much as a real thought. Keyork tells me +that there is something wanting, that the something is woman, and that +I ought to love. I cannot tell. I do not know what love is, and I never +knew. Perhaps it is the absence of it that makes me what I am--a body +and an intelligence without a soul. Even the intelligence I begin to +doubt. What sense has there ever been in all my wanderings? Why have I +been in every place, in every city? What went I forth to see? Not even a +reed shaken by the wind! I have spoken all languages, read thousands of +books, known men in every land--and for what? It is as though I had once +had an object in it all, though I know that there was none. But I have +realised the worthlessness of my life since I have been here. Perhaps +you have shown it to me, or helped me to see it. I cannot tell. I ask +myself again and again what it was all for, and I ask in vain. I am +lonely, indeed, in the world, but it has been my own choice. I remember +that I had friends once, when I was younger, but I cannot tell what has +become of one of them. They wearied me, perhaps, in those days, and the +weariness drove me from my own home. For I have a home, Unorna, and I +fancy that when old age gets me at last I shall go there to die, in one +of those old towers by the northern sea. I was born there, and there +my mother died and my father, before I knew them; it is a sad place! +Meanwhile, I may have thirty years, or forty, or even more to live. +Shall I go on living this wandering, aimless life? And if not what shall +I do? Love, says Keyork Arabian--who never loved anything but himself, +but to whom that suffices, for it passes the love of woman!” + +“That is true, indeed,” said Unorna in a low voice. + +“And what he says might be true also, if I were capable of loving. But +I feel that I am not. I am as incapable of that as of anything else. I +ought to despise myself, and yet I do not. I am perfectly contented, and +if I am not happy I at least do not realise what unhappiness means. Am I +not always of the same even temper?” + +“Indeed you are.” 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. “Even if I had, +what right have I to make myself the judge of your life?” + +“The right of friendship,” answered the Wanderer very quietly. “You are +my best friend, Unorna.” + +Unorna’s anger rose within her. She remembered how in that very place, +and but a month earlier, she had offered Israel Kafka her friendship, +and it was as though a heavy retribution were now meted out to her for +her cruelty on that day. She remembered his wrath and his passionate +denunciations of friendship, his scornful refusal, his savage attempt to +conquer her will, his failure and his defeat. She remembered how she had +taken her revenge, delivering him over in his sleep to Keyork Arabian’s +will. She wished that, like him, she could escape from the wound of the +word in a senseless lethargy of body and mind. She knew now what he had +suffered, for she suffered it all herself. He, at least, had been free +to speak his mind, to rage and storm and struggle. She must sit still +and hide her agony, at the risk of losing all. She bit her white lips +and turned her head away, and was silent. + +“You are my best friend,” the Wanderer repeated in his calm voice, +and every syllable pierced her like a glowing needle. “And does not +friendship give rights which ought to be used? If, as I think, Unorna, +you look upon me as an idler, as a worthless being, as a man without as +much as the shadow of a purpose in the world, it is but natural that you +should despise me a little, even though you may be very fond of me. Do +you not see that?” + +Unorna stared at him with an odd expression for a moment. + +“Yes--I am fond of you!” she exclaimed, almost harshly. Then she +laughed. He seemed not to notice her tone. + +“I never knew what friendship was before,” he went on. “Of course, as +I said, I had friends when I was little more than a boy, boys and young +men like myself, and our friendship came to this, that we laughed, and +feasted and hunted together, and sometimes even quarrelled, and caring +little, thought even less. But in those days there seemed to be nothing +between that and love, and love I never understood, that I can remember. +But friendship like ours, Unorna, was never dreamed of among us. Such +friendship as this, when I often think that I receive all and give +nothing in return.” + +Again Unorna laughed, so strangely that the sound of her own voice +startled her. + +“Why do you laugh like that?” he asked. + +“Because what you say is so unjust to yourself,” she answered, nervously +and scarcely seeing him where he sat. “You seem to think it is all on +your side. And yet, I just told you that I was fond of you.” + +“I think it is a fondness greater than friendship that we feel for each +other,” he said, presently, thrusting the probe of a new hope into the +tortured wound. + +“Yes?” she spoke faintly, with averted face. + +“Something more--a stronger tie, a closer bond. Unorna, do you believe +in the migration of the soul throughout ages, from one body to another?” + +“Sometimes,” she succeeded in saying. + +“I do not believe in it,” he continued. “But I see well enough how men +may, since I have known you. We have grown so intimate in these few +weeks, we seem to understand each other so wholly, with so little +effort, we spend such happy, peaceful hours together every day, that +I can almost fancy our two selves having been together through a whole +lifetime in some former state, living together, thinking together, +inseparable from birth, and full of an instinctive, mutual +understanding. I do not know whether that seems an exaggeration to you +or not. Has the same idea ever crossed your mind?” + +She said something, or tried to say something, but the words were +inaudible; he interpreted them as expressive of assent, and went on, in +a musing tone, as though talking quite as much to himself as to her. + +“And that is the reason why it seems as though we must be more than +friends, though we have known each other so short a time. Perhaps it is +too much to say.” + +He hesitated, and paused. Unorna breathed hard, not daring to think of +what might be coming next. He talked so calmly, in such an easy tone, +it was impossible that he could be making love. She remembered the +vibrations in his voice when, a month ago, he had told her his story. +She remembered the inflection of the passionate cry he had uttered when +he had seen the shadow of Beatrice stealing between them, she knew the +ring of his speech when he loved, for she had heard it. It was not there +now. And yet, the effort not to believe would have been too great for +her strength. + +“Nothing that you could say would be--” she stopped herself--“would pain +me,” she added, desperately, in the attempt to complete the sentence. + +He looked somewhat surprised, and then smiled. + +“No. I shall never say anything, nor do anything, which could give you +pain. What I meant was this. I feel towards you, and with you, as I can +fancy a man might feel to a dear sister. Can you understand that?” + +In spite of herself she started. He had but just said that he would +never give her pain. He did not guess what cruel wounds he was +inflicting now. + +“You are surprised,” he said, with intolerable self-possession. “I +cannot wonder. I remember to have very often thought that there are few +forms of sentimentality more absurd than that which deceives a man into +the idea that he can with impunity play at being a brother to a young +and beautiful woman. I have always thought so, and I suppose that in +whatever remains of my indolent intelligence I think so still. But +intelligence is not always so reliable as instinct. I am not young +enough nor foolish enough either, to propose that we should swear +eternal brother-and-sisterhood--or perhaps I am not old enough, who can +tell? Yet I feel how perfectly safe it would be for either of us.” + +The steel had been thrust home, and could go no farther. Unorna’s +unquiet temper rose at his quiet declaration of his absolute security. +The colour came again to her cheek, a little hotly, and though there +was a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke, yet her eyes flashed +beneath the drooping lids. + +“Are you sure it would be safe?” she asked. + +“For you, of course there can be no danger possible,” he said, in +perfect simplicity of good faith. “For me--well, I have said it. I +cannot imagine love coming near me in any shape, by degrees or unawares. +It is a strange defect in my nature, but I am glad of it since it makes +this pleasant life possible.” + +“And why should you suppose that there is no danger for me?” asked +Unorna, with a quick glance and a silvery laugh. She was recovering her +self-possession. + +“For you? Why should there be? How could there be? No woman ever loved +me, then why should you? Besides--there are a thousand reasons, one +better than the other.” + +“I confess I would be glad to hear a few of them, my friend. You were +good enough just now to call me young and beautiful. You are young too, +and certainly not repulsive in appearance. You are gifted, you have led +an interesting life--indeed, I cannot help laughing when I think how +many reasons there are for my falling in love with you. But you are very +reassuring, you tell me there is no danger. I am willing to believe.” + +“It is safe to do that,” answered the Wanderer with a smile, “unless you +can find at least one reason far stronger than those you give. Young +and passably good-looking men are not rare, and as for men of genius who +have led interesting lives, many thousands have been pointed out to me. +Then why, by any conceivable chance, should your choice fall on me?” + +“Perhaps because I am so fond of you already,” said Unorna, looking away +lest her eyes should betray what was so far beyond fondness. “They say +that the most enduring passions are either born in a single instant, +or are the result of a treacherously increasing liking. Take the latter +case. Why is it impossible, for you or for me? We are slipping from mere +liking into friendship, and for all I know we may some day fall headlong +from friendship into love. It would be very foolish no doubt, but it +seems to me quite possible. Do you not see it?” + +The Wanderer laughed lightly. It was years since he had laughed, until +this friendship had begun. + +“What can I say?” he asked. “If you, the woman, acknowledge yourself +vulnerable, how can I, the man, be so discourteous as to assure you that +I am proof? And yet, I feel that there is no danger for either of us.” + +“You are still sure?” + +“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. +“But to you--what would the world say, if it learned that you were in +love with Unorna, that you were married to the Witch?” + +“The world? What is the world to me, or what am I to it? What is my +world? If it is anything, it consists of a score of men and women who +chance to be spending their allotted time on earth in that corner of +the globe in which I was born, who saw me grow to manhood, and who most +inconsequently arrogate to themselves the privilege of criticising my +actions, as they criticise each other’s; who say loudly that this is +right and that is wrong, and who will be gathered in due time to their +insignificant fathers with their own insignificance thick upon them, as +is meet and just. If that is the world I am not afraid of its judgments +in the very improbable case of my falling in love with you.” + +Unorna shook her head. There was a momentary relief in discussing the +consequences of a love not yet born in him. + +“That would not be all,” she said. “You have a country, you have a home, +you have obligations--you have all those things which I have not.” + +“And not one of those which you have.” + +She glanced at him again, for there was a truth in the words which hurt +her. Love, at least, was hers in abundance, and he had it not. + +“How foolish it is to talk like this!” she exclaimed. “After all, when +people love, they care very little what the world says. If I loved any +one”--she tried to laugh carelessly--“I am sure I should be indifferent +to everything or every one else.” + +“I am sure you would be,” assented the Wanderer. + +“Why?” She turned rather suddenly upon him. “Why are you sure?” + +“In the first place because you say so, and secondly because you have +the kind of nature which is above common opinion.” + +“And what kind of nature may that be?” + +“Enthusiastic, passionate, brave.” + +“Have I so many good qualities?” + +“I am always telling you so.” + +“Does it give you pleasure to tell me what you think of me?” + +“Does it pain you to hear it?” asked the Wanderer, somewhat surprised at +the uncertainty of her temper, and involuntarily curious as to the cause +of the disturbance. + +“Sometimes it does,” Unorna answered. + +“I suppose I have grown awkward and tactless in my lonely life. You must +forgive me if I do not understand my mistake. But since I have annoyed +you, I am sorry for it. Perhaps you do not like such speeches because +you think I am flattering you and turning compliments. You are wrong if +you think that. I am sincerely attached to you, and I admire you very +much. May I not say as much as that?” + +“Does it do any good to say it?” + +“If I may speak of you at all I may express myself with pleasant +truths.” + +“Truths are not always pleasant. Better not to speak of me at any time.” + +“As you will,” answered the Wanderer bending his head as though in +submission to her commands. But he did not continue the conversation, +and a long silence ensued. + +He wandered what was passing in her mind, and his reflections led to no +very definite result. Even if the idea of her loving him had presented +itself to his intelligence he would have scouted it, partly on the +ground of its apparent improbability, and partly, perhaps, because +he had of late grown really indolent, and would have resented any +occurrence which threatened to disturb the peaceful, objectless course +of his days. He put down her quick changes of mood to sudden caprice, +which he excused readily enough. + +“Why are you so silent?” Unorna asked, after a time. + +“I was thinking of you,” he answered, with a smile. “And since you +forbade me to speak of you, I said nothing.” + +“How literal you are!” she exclaimed impatiently. + +“I could see no figurative application of your words,” he retorted, +beginning to be annoyed at her prolonged ill humour. + +“Perhaps there was none.” + +“In that case--” + +“Oh, do not argue! I detest argument in all shapes, and most of all when +I am expected to answer it. You cannot understand me--you never will--” + She broke off suddenly and looked at him. + +She was angry with him, with herself, with everything, and in her anger +she loved him tenfold better than before. Had he not been blinded by his +own absolute coldness he must have read her heart in the look she gave +him, for his eyes met hers. But he saw nothing. The glance had been +involuntary, but Unorna was too thoroughly a woman not to know all that +it had expressed and would have conveyed to the mind of any one not +utterly incapable of love, all that it might have betrayed even to this +man who was her friend and talked of being her brother. She realised +with terrible vividness the extent of her own passion and the appalling +indifference of its objet. A wave of despair rose and swept over her +heart. Her sight grew dim and she was conscious of sharp physical pain. +She did not even attempt to speak, for she had no thoughts which could +take the shape of words. She leaned back in her chair, and tried to draw +her breath, closing her eyes, and wishing she were alone. + +“What is the matter?” asked the Wanderer, watching her in surprise. + +She did not answer. He rose and stood beside her, and lightly touched +her hand. + +“Are you ill?” he asked again. + +She pushed him away, almost roughly. + +“No,” she answered shortly. + +Then, all at once, as though repenting of her gesture, her hand sought +his again, pressed it hard for a moment, and let it fall. + +“It is nothing,” she said. “It will pass. Forgive me.” + +“Did anything I said----” he began. + +“No, no; how absurd!” + +“Shall I go. Yes, you would rather be alone----” he hesitated. + +“No--yes--yes, go away and come back later. It is the heat perhaps; is +it not hot here?” + +“I daresay,” he answered absently. + +He took her hand and then left her, wondering exceedingly over a matter +which was of the simplest. + +It was some time before Unorna realised that he was gone. She had +suffered a severe shock, not to be explained by any word or words +which he had spoken, as much as by the revelation of her own utter +powerlessness, of her total failure to touch his heart, but most +directly of all the consequence of a sincere passion which was assuming +dangerous proportions and which threatened to sweep away even her pride +in its irresistible course. + +She grew calmer when she found herself alone, but in a manner she grew +also more desperate. A resolution began to form itself in her mind +which she would have despised and driven out of her thoughts a few hours +earlier; a resolution destined to lead to strange results. She began to +think of resorting once more to a means other than natural in order to +influence the man she loved. + +In the first moments she had felt sure of herself, and the certainty +that the Wanderer had forgotten Beatrice as completely as though she had +never existed had seemed to Unorna a complete triumph. With little or no +common vanity she had nevertheless felt sure that the man must love +her for her own sake. She knew, when she thought of it, that she was +beautiful, unlike other women, and born to charm all living things. +She compared in her mind the powers she controlled at will, and the +influence she exercised without effort over every one who came near +her. It had always seemed to her enough to wish in order to see the +realisation of her wishes. But she had herself never understood how +closely the wish was allied with the despotic power of suggestion which +she possessed. But in her love she had put a watch over her mysterious +strength and had controlled it, saying that she would be loved for +herself or not at all. She had been jealous of every glance, lest it +should produce a result not natural. She had waited to be won, instead +of trying to win. She had failed, and passion could be restrained no +longer. + +“What does it matter how, if only he is mine!” she exclaimed fiercely, +as she rose from her carved chair an hour after he had left her. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Israel Kafka found himself seated in the corner of a comfortable +carriage with Keyork Arabian at his side. He opened his eyes quite +naturally, and after looking out of the window stretched himself as +far as the limits of the space would allow. He felt very weak and very +tired. The bright colour had left his olive cheeks, his lips were pale +and his eyes heavy. + +“Travelling is very tiring,” he said, glancing at Keyork’s face. + +The old man rubbed his hands briskly and laughed. + +“I am as fresh as ever,” he answered. “It is true that I have the +happy faculty of sleeping when I get a chance and that no preoccupation +disturbs my appetite.” + +Keyork Arabian was in a very cheerful frame of mind. He was conscious +of having made a great stride towards the successful realisation of his +dream. Israel Kafka’s ignorance, too, amused him, and gave him a fresh +and encouraging proof of Unorna’s amazing powers. + +By a mere exercise of superior will this man, in the very prime of youth +and strength, had been deprived of a month of his life. Thirty days were +gone, as in the flash of a second, and with them was gone also something +less easily replaced, or at least more certainly missed. In Kafka’s mind +the passage of time was accounted for in a way which would have +seemed supernatural twenty years ago, but which at the present day is +understood in practice if not in theory. For thirty days he had been +stationary in one place, almost motionless, an instrument in Keyork’s +skilful hands, a mere reservoir of vitality upon which the sage had +ruthlessly drawn to the fullest extent of its capacities. He had been +fed and tended in his unconsciousness, he had, unknown to himself, +opened his eyes at regular intervals, and had absorbed through his ears +a series of vivid impressions destined to disarm his suspicions, when +he was at last allowed to wake and move about the world again. With +unfailing forethought Keyork had planned the details of a whole series +of artificial reminiscences, and at the moment when Kafka came to +himself in the carriage the machinery of memory began to work as Keyork +had intended that it should. + +Israel Kafka leaned back against the cushions and reviewed his life +during the past month. He remembered very well the afternoon when, +after a stormy interview with Unorna, he had been persuaded by Keyork to +accompany the latter upon a rapid southward journey. He remembered how +he had hastily packed together a few necessaries for the expedition, +while Keyork stood at his elbow advising him what to take and what to +leave, with the sound good sense of an experienced traveller, and he +could almost repeat the words of the message he had scrawled on a sheet +of paper at the last minute to explain his sudden absence from his +lodging--for the people of the house had all been away when he was +packing his belongings. Then the hurry of the departure recalled itself +to him, the crowds of people at the Franz Josef station, the sense +of rest in finding himself alone with Keyork in a compartment of the +express train; after that he had slept during most of the journey, +waking to find himself in a city of the snow-driven Tyrol. With +tolerable distinctness he remembered the sights he had seen, and +fragments of conversation--then another departure, still southward, +the crossing of the Alps, Italy, Venice--a dream of water and sun and +beautiful buildings, in which the varied conversational powers of his +companion found constant material. As a matter of fact the conversation +was what was most clearly impressed upon Kafka’s mind, as he recalled +the rapid passage from one city to another, and realised how many +places he had visited in one short month. From Venice southwards, +again, Florence, Rome, Naples, Sicily, by sea to Athens and on to +Constantinople, familiar to him already from former visits--up the +Bosphorus, by the Black Sea to Varna, and then, again, a long period of +restful sleep during the endless railway journey--Pesth, Vienna, rapidly +revisited and back at last to Prague, to the cold and the gray snow and +the black sky. It was not strange, he thought, that his recollections +of so many cities should be a little confused. A man would need a fine +memory to catalogue the myriad sights which such a trip offers to the +eye, the innumerable sounds, familiar and unfamiliar, which strike +the ear, the countless sensations of comfort, discomfort, pleasure, +annoyance and admiration, which occupy the nerves without intermission. +There was something not wholly disagreeable in the hazy character of the +retrospect, especially to a nature such as Kafka’s, full of undeveloped +artistic instincts and of a passionate love of all sensuous beauty, +animate and inanimate. The gorgeous pictures rose one after the other +in his imagination, and satisfied a longing of which he felt that he had +been vaguely aware before beginning the journey. None of these lacked +reality, any more than Keyork himself, thought it seemed strange to the +young man that he should actually have seen so much in so short a time. + +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. It had taken place in Palermo. The heat +had seemed intense by contrast with the bitter north he had left behind. +Keyork had gone out and he had been alone in a strange hotel. His head +swam in the stifling scirocco. He had sent for a local physician, and +the old-fashioned doctor had then and there taken blood from his arm. +He had lost so much that he had fainted. The doctor had been gone when +Keyork returned, and the sage had been very angry, abusing in most +violent terms the ignorance which could still apply such methods. Israel +Kafka knew that the lancet had left a wound on his arm and that the +scar was still visible. He remembered, too, that he had often felt tired +since, and that Keyork had invariably reminded him of the circumstances, +attributing to it the weariness from which he suffered, and indulging +each time in fresh abuse of the benighted doctor. + +Very skilfully had the whole story been put together in all its minutest +details, carefully thought out and written down in the form of a +journal before it had been impressed upon his sleeping mind with all +the tyrannic force of Unorna’s strong will. And there was but little +probability that Israel Kafka would ever learn what had actually been +happening to him while he fancied that he had been travelling swiftly +from place to place. He could still wonder, indeed, that he should +have yielded so easily to Keyork’s pressing invitation to accompany the +latter upon such an extraordinary flight, but he remembered then his +last interview with Unorna and it seemed almost natural that in his +despair he should have chosen to go away. Not that his passion for +the woman was dead. Intentionally, or by an oversight, Unorna had not +touched upon the question of his love for her, in the course of her +otherwise well-considered suggestions. Possibly she had believed that +the statement she had forced from his lips was enough and that he would +forget her without any further action on her part. Possibly, too, Unorna +was indifferent and was content to let him suffer, believing that his +devotion might still be turned to some practical use. However that may +be, when Israel Kafka opened his eyes in the carriage he still loved +her, though he was conscious that in his manner of loving a change had +taken place, of which he was destined to realise the consequences before +another day had passed. + +When Keyork answered his first remark, he turned and looked at the old +man. + +“I suppose you are tougher than I,” he said, languidly. “You will hardly +believe it, but I have been dozing already, here, in the carriage, since +we left the station.” + +“No harm in that. Sleep is a great restorative,” laughed Keyork. + +“Are you so glad to be in Prague again?” asked Kafka. “It is a +melancholy place. But you laugh as though you actually liked the sight +of the black houses and the gray snow and the silent people.” + +“How can a place be melancholy? The seat of melancholy is the liver. +Imagine a city with a liver--of brick and mortar, or stone and cement, +a huge mass of masonry buried in its centre, like an enormous fetish, +exercising a mysterious influence over the city’s health--then you may +imagine a city as suffering from melancholy.” + +“How absurd!” + +“My dear boy, I rarely say absurd things,” answered Keyork +imperturbably. “Besides, as a matter of fact, there is nothing absurd. +But you suggested rather a fantastic idea to my imagination. The brick +liver is not a bad conception. Far down in the bowels of the earth, in +a black cavern hollowed beneath the lowest foundations of the oldest +church, the brick liver was built by the cunning magicians of old, to +last for ever, to purify the city’s blood, to regulate the city’s life, +and in a measure to control its destinies by means of its passions. A +few wise men have handed down the knowledge of the brick liver to each +other from generation to generation, but the rest of the inhabitants are +ignorant of its existence. 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. + +“It is a very practical idea,” continued Keyork, amused with his own +fancies, “and it will yet be carried out. The great cities of the +next century will each have a liver of brick and mortar and iron and +machinery, a huge mechanical purifier. You smile! Ah, my dear boy, truth +and phantasm are very much the same to you! You are too young. How +can you be expected to care for the great problem of problems, for the +mighty question of prolonging life?” + +Keyork laughed again, with a meaning in his laughter which escaped his +companion altogether. + +“How can you be expected to care?” he repeated. “And yet men used to say +that it was the duty of strong youth to support the trembling weakness +of feeble old age.” + +His eyes twinkled with a diabolical mirth. + +“No,” said Kafka. “I do not care. Life is meant to be short. Life is +meant to be storm, broken with gleams of love’s sunshine. Why prolong +it? If it is unhappy you would only draw out the unhappiness to greater +lengths, and such joy as it has is joy only because it is quick, sudden, +violent. I would concentrate a lifetime into an instant, if I could, +and then die content in having suffered everything, enjoyed everything, +dared everything in the flash of a great lightning between two total +darknesses. But to drag on through slow sorrows, or to crawl through a +century of contentment--never! Better be mad, or asleep, and unconscious +of the time.” + +“You are a very desperate person!” exclaimed Keyork. “If you had the +management of this unstable world you would make it a very convulsive +and nervous place. We should all turn into flaming ephemerides, +fluttering about the crater of a perpetually active volcano. I prefer +the system of the brick liver. There is more durability in it.” + +The carriage stopped before the door of Kafka’s dwelling. Keyork got out +with him and stood upon the pavement while the porter took the slender +luggage into the house. He smiled as he glanced at the leathern +portmanteau which was supposed to have made such a long journey while +it had in reality lain a whole month in a corner of Keyork’s great room +behind a group of specimens. He had opened it once or twice in that +time, had disturbed the contents and had thrown in a few objects from +his heterogeneous collection, as reminiscences of the places visited +in imagination by Kafka, and of the acquisition of which the latter was +only assured in his sleeping state. They would constitute a tangible +proof of the journey’s reality in case the suggestion proved less +thoroughly successful than was hoped, and Keyork prided himself upon +this supreme touch. + +“And now,” he said, taking Kafka’s hand, “I would advise you to rest as +long as you can. I suppose that it must have been a fatiguing trip for +you, though I myself am as fresh as a May morning. There is nothing +wrong with you, but you are tired. Repose, my dear boy, repose, and +plenty of it. That infernal Sicilian doctor! I shall never forgive him +for bleeding you as he did. There is nothing so weakening. Good-bye--I +shall hardly see you again to-day, I fancy.” + +“I cannot tell,” answered the young man absently. “But let me thank +you,” he added, with a sudden consciousness of obligation, “for your +pleasant company, and for making me go with you. I daresay it has done +me good, though I feel unaccountably tired--I feel almost old.” + +His tired eyes and haggard face showed that this at least was no +illusion. 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. + +“He will not die this time,” remarked Keyork Arabian to himself, as he +sent the carriage away and began to walk towards his own home. “Not +this time. But it was a sharp strain, and it would not be safe to try it +again.” + +He thrust his gloved hands into the pockets of his fur coat, so that the +stick he held stood upright against his shoulder in a rather military +fashion. The fur cap sat a little to one side on his strange head, his +eyes twinkled, his long white beard waved in the cold wind, and his +whole appearance was that of a jaunty gnome-king, well satisfied with +the inspection of his treasure chamber. + +And he had cause for satisfaction, as he knew well enough when he +thought of the decided progress made in the great experiment. The cost +at which that progress had been obtained was nothing. Had Israel Kafka +perished altogether under the treatment he had received, Keyork Arabian +would have bestowed no more attention upon the catastrophe than would +have been barely necessary in order to conceal it and to protect himself +and Unorna from the consequences of the crime. In the duel with death, +the life of one man was of small consequence, and Keyork would have +sacrificed thousands to his purposes with equal indifference to their +intrinsic value and with a proportionately greater interest in the +result to be attained. There was a terrible logic in his mental process. +Life was a treasure literally inestimable in value. Death was the +destroyer of this treasure, devised by the Supreme Power as a sure means +of limiting man’s activity and intelligence. To conquer Death on his own +ground was to win the great victory over that Power, and to drive back +to an indefinite distance the boundaries of human supremacy. + +It was assuredly not for the sake of benefiting mankind at large that +he pursued his researches at all sacrifices and at all costs. The +prime object of all his consideration was himself, as he unhesitatingly +admitted on all occasions, conceiving perhaps that it was easier to +defend such a position than to disclaim it. There could be no doubt +that in the man’s enormous self-estimation, the Supreme Power occupied a +place secondary to Keyork Arabian’s personality, and hostile to it. And +he had taken up arms, as Lucifer, assuming his individual right to live +in spite of God, Man and Nature, convinced that the secret could be +discovered and determined to find it and to use it, no matter at what +price. In him there was neither ambition, nor pride, nor vanity in the +ordinary meaning of these words. For passion ceases with the cessation +of comparison between man and his fellows, and Keyork Arabian +acknowledged no ground for such a comparison in his own case. He had +matched himself in a struggle with the Supreme Power, and, directly, +with that Power’s only active representative on earth, with death. +It was well said of him that he had no beliefs, for he knew of no +intermediate position between total suspension of judgment, and the +certainty of direct knowledge. And it was equally true that he was no +atheist, as he had sanctimoniously declared of himself. He admitted +the existence of the Power; he claimed the right to assail it, and he +grappled with the greatest, the most terrible, the most universal and +the most stupendous of Facts, which is the Fact that all men die. Unless +he conquered, he must die also. He was past theories, as he was beyond +most other human weaknesses, and facts had for him the enormous value +they acquire in the minds of men cut off from all that is ideal. + +In Unorna he had found the instrument he had sought throughout half a +lifetime. With her he had tried the great experiment and pushed it to +the very end; and when he conducted Israel Kafka to his home, he already +knew that the experiment had succeeded. His plan was a simple one. He +would wait a few months longer for the final result, he would select his +victim, and with Unorna’s help he would himself grow young again. + +“And who can tell,” he asked himself, “whether the life restored by such +means may not be more resisting and stronger against deathly influences +than before? Is it not true that the older we grow the more slowly +we grow old? Is not the gulf which divides the infant from the man of +twenty years far wider than that which lies between the twentieth and +the fortieth years, and that again more full of rapid change than the +third score? Take, too, the wisdom of my old age as against the folly +of a scarce grown boy, shall not my knowledge and care and forethought +avail to make the same material last longer on the second trial than on +the first?” + +No doubt of that, he thought, as he walked briskly along the pavement +and entered his own house. In his great room he sat down by the table +and fell into a long meditation upon the most immediate consequences of +his success in the difficult undertaking he had so skilfully brought +to a conclusion. His eyes wandered about the room from one specimen to +another, and from time to time a short, scornful laugh made his white +beard quiver. As he had said once to Unorna, the dead things reminded +him of many failures; but he had never before been able to laugh at +them and at the unsuccessful efforts they represented. It was different +to-day. Without lifting his head he turned up his bright eyes, under the +thick, finely-wrinkled lids, as though looking upward toward that Power +against which he strove. The glance was malignant and defiant, human and +yet half-devilish. Then he looked down again, and again fell into deep +thought. + +“And if it is to be so,” he said at last, rising suddenly and letting +his open hand fall upon the table, “even then, I am provided. She cannot +free herself from that bargain, at all events.” + +Then he wrapped his furs around him and went out again. Scarce a hundred +paces from Unorna’s door he met the Wanderer. He looked up into the +cold, calm face, and put out his hand, with a greeting. + +“You look as though you were in a very peaceful frame of mind,” observed +Keyork. + +“Why should I be anything but peaceful?” asked the other, “I have +nothing to disturb me.” + +“True, true. You possess a very fine organisation. I envy you your +magnificent constitution, my dear friend. I would like to have some of +it, and grow young again.” + +“On your principle of embalming the living, I suppose.” + +“Exactly,” answered the sage with a deep, rolling laugh. “By the bye, +have you been with our friend Unorna? I suppose that is a legitimate +question, though you always tell me I am tactless.” + +“Perfectly legitimate, my dear Keyork. Yes, I have just left her. It is +like a breath of spring morning to go there in these days.” + +“You find it refreshing?” + +“Yes. There is something about her that I could describe as soothing, if +I were aware of ever being irritable, which I am not.” + +Keyork smiled and looked down, trying to dislodge a bit of ice from the +pavement with the point of his stick. + +“Soothing--yes. That is just the expression. Not exactly the quality +most young and beautiful women covet, eh? But a good quality in its way, +and at the right time. How is she to-day?” + +“She seemed to have a headache--or she was oppressed by the heat. +Nothing serious, I fancy, but I came away, as I fancied I was tiring +her.” + +“Not likely,” observed Keyork. “Do you know Israel Kafka?” he asked +suddenly. + +“Israel Kafka,” repeated the Wanderer thoughtfully, as though searching +in his memory. + +“Then you do not,” said Keyork. “You could only have seen him since you +have been here. He is one of Unorna’s most interesting patients, and +mine as well. He is a little odd.” + +Keyork tapped his ivory forehead significantly with one finger. + +“Mad,” suggested the Wanderer. + +“Mad, if you prefer the term. He has fixed ideas. In the first place, +he imagines that he has just been travelling with me in Italy, and is +always talking of our experiences. Humour him, if you meet him. He is in +danger of being worse if contradicted.” + +“Am I likely to meet him?” + +“Yes. He is often here. His other fixed idea is that he loves Unorna to +distraction. He has been dangerously ill during the last few weeks but +is better now, and he may appear at any moment. Humour him a little if +he wearies you with his stories. That is all I ask. Both Unorna and I +are interested in the case.” + +“And does not Unorna care for him at all?” inquired the other +indifferently. + +“No, indeed. On the contrary, she is annoyed at his insistance, but sees +that it is a phase of insanity and hopes to cure it before long.” + +“I see. What is he like? I suppose he is an Israelite.” + +“From Moravia--yes. The wreck of a handsome boy,” said Keyork +carelessly. “This insanity is an enemy of good looks. The nerves give +way--then the vitality--the complexion goes--men of five and twenty +years look old under it. But you will see for yourself before long. +Good-bye. I will go in and see what is the matter with Unorna.” + +They parted, the Wanderer continuing on his way along the street with +the same calm, cold, peaceful expression which had elicited Keyork’s +admiration, and Keyork himself going forward to Unorna’s door. His face +was very grave. He entered the house by a small side door and ascended +by a winding staircase directly to the room from which, an hour or two +earlier, he had carried the still unconscious Israel Kafka. Everything +was as he had left it, and he was glad to be certified that Unorna had +not disturbed the aged sleeper in his absence. Instead of going to her +at once he busied himself in making a few observations and in putting +in order certain of his instruments and appliances. Then at last he went +and found Unorna. She was walking up and down among the plants and he +saw at a glance that something had happened. Indeed the few words spoken +by the Wanderer had suggested to him the possibility of a crisis, and he +had purposely lingered in the inner apartment, in order to give her time +to recover her self-possession. She started slightly when he entered, +and her brows contracted, but she immediately guessed from his +expression that he was not in one of his aggressive moods. + +“I have just rectified a mistake which might have had rather serious +consequences,” he said, stopping before her and speaking earnestly and +quietly. + +“A mistake?” + +“We remembered everything, except that our wandering friend and Kafka +were very likely to meet, and that Kafka would in all probability refer +to his delightful journey to the south in my company.” + +“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. “How came we to be so +imprudent! One word, and he might have suspected--” + +“He could not have suspected all,” answered Keyork. “No man could +suspect that.” + +“Nevertheless, I suppose what we have done is not exactly--justifiable.” + +“Hardly. It is true that criminal law has not yet adjusted itself to +meet questions of suggestion and psychic influence, but it draws +the line, most certainly, somewhere between these questions and the +extremity to which we have gone. Happily the law is at an immeasurable +distance from science, and here, as usual in such experiments, no one +could prove anything, owing to the complete unconsciousness of the +principal witnesses.” + +“I do not like to think that we have been near to such trouble,” said +Unorna. + +“Nor I. It was fortunate that I met the Wanderer when I did.” + +“And the other? Did he wake as I ordered him to do? Is all right? Is +there no danger of his suspecting anything?” + +It seemed as though Unorna had momentarily forgotten that such a +contingency might be possible, and her anxiety returned with the +recollection. Keyork’s rolling laughter reverberated among the plants +and filled the whole wide hall with echoes. + +“No danger there,” he answered. “Your witchcraft is above criticism. +Nothing of that kind that you have ever undertaken has failed.” + +“Except against you,” said Unorna, thoughtfully. + +“Except against me, of course. How could you ever expect anything of the +kind to succeed against me, my dear lady?” + +“And why not? After all, in spite of our jesting, you are not a +supernatural being.” + +“That depends entirely on the interpretation you give to the word +supernatural. But, my dear friend and colleague, let us not deceive +each other, though we are able between us to deceive other people into +believing almost anything. There is nothing in all this witchcraft of +yours but a very powerful moral influence at work--I mean apart from the +mere faculty of clairvoyance which is possessed by hundreds of common +somnambulists, and which, in you, is a mere accident. The rest, this +hypnotism, this suggestion, this direction of others’ wills, is a +moral affair, a matter of direct impression produced by words. Mental +suggestion may in rare cases succeed, when the person to be influenced +is himself a natural clairvoyant. But these cases are not worth taking +into consideration. Your influence is a direct one, chiefly exercised by +means of your words and through the impression of power which you +know how to convey in them. It is marvellous, I admit. But the very +definition puts me beyond your power.” + +“Why?” + +“Because there is not a human being alive, and I do not believe that a +human being ever lived, who had the sense of independent individuality +which I have. Let a man have the very smallest doubt concerning his own +independence--let that doubt be ever so transitory and produced by any +accident whatsoever--and he is at your mercy.” + +“And you are sure that no accident could shake your faith in yourself?” + +“My consciousness of myself, you mean. No. I am not sure. But, my dear +Unorna, I am very careful in guarding against accidents of all sorts, +for I have attempted to resuscitate a great many dead people and I have +never succeeded, and I know that a false step on a slippery staircase +may be quite as fatal as a teaspoonful of prussic acid--or an unrequited +passion. I avoid all these things and many others. If I did not, and if +you had any object in getting me under your influence, you would +succeed sooner or later. Perhaps the day is not far distant when I will +voluntarily sleep under your hand.” + +Unorna glanced quickly at him. + +“And in that case,” he added, “I am sure you could make me believe +anything you pleased.” + +“What are you trying to make me understand?” she asked, suspiciously, +for he had never before spoken of such a possibility. + +“You look anxious and weary,” he said in a tone of sympathy in which +Unorna could not detect the least false modulation, though she fancied +from his fixed gaze that he meant her to understand something which he +could not say. “You look tired,” he continued, “though it is becoming +to your beauty to be pale--I always said so. I will not weary you. I was +only going to say that if I were under your influence--you might easily +make me believe that you were not yourself, but another woman--for the +rest of my life.” + +They stood looking at each other in silence during several seconds. Then +Unorna seemed to understand what he meant. + +“Do you really believe that is possible?” she asked earnestly. + +“I know it. I know of a case in which it succeeded very well.” + +“Perhaps,” she said, thoughtfully. “Let us go and look at him.” + +She moved in the direction of the aged sleeper’s room and they both left +the hall together. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Unorna was superstitious, as Keyork Arabian had once told her. She +did not thoroughly understand herself and she had very little real +comprehension of the method by which she produced such remarkable +results. She was gifted with a sensitive and active imagination, which +supplied her with semi-mystic formulae of thought and speech in place +of reasoned explanations, and she undoubtedly attributed much of her own +power to supernatural influences. In this respect, at least, she was +no farther advanced than the witches of older days, and if her inmost +convictions took a shape which would have seemed incomprehensible to +those predecessors of hers, this was to be attributed in part to the +innate superiority of her nature, and partly, also, to the high degree +of cultivation in which her mental faculties had reached development. + +Keyork Arabian might spend hours in giving her learned explanations of +what she did, but he never convinced her. Possibly he was not convinced +himself, and he still hesitated, perhaps, between the two great theories +advanced to explain the phenomena of hypnotism. He had told her that he +considered her influence to be purely a moral one, exerted by means of +language and supported by her extraordinary concentrated will. But +it did not follow that he believed what he told her, and it was not +improbable that he might have his own doubts on the subject--doubts +which Unorna was not slow to suspect, and which destroyed for her the +whole force of his reasoning. She fell back upon a sort of grossly +unreasonable mysticism, combined with a blind belief in those hidden +natural forces and secret virtues of privileged objects, which formed +the nucleus of mediaeval scientific research. The field is a fertile +one for the imagination and possesses a strange attraction for certain +minds. There are men alive in our own time to whom the transmutation of +metals does not seem an impossibility, nor the brewing of the elixir of +life a matter to be scoffed at as a matter of course. The world is full +of people who, in their inmost selves, put faith in the latent qualities +of precious stones and amulets, who believe their fortunes, their +happiness, and their lives to be directly influenced by some trifling +object which they have always upon them. We do not know enough to state +with assurance that the constant handling of any particular metal, or +gem, may not produce a real and invariable corresponding effect upon +the nerves. But we do know most positively that, when the belief in such +talismans is once firmly established, the moral influence they exert +upon men through the imagination is enormous. From this condition of +mind to that in which auguries are drawn from outward and apparently +accidental circumstances, is but a step. If Keyork Arabian inclined to +the psychic rather than to the physical school in his view of Unorna’s +witchcraft and in his study of hypnotism in general, his opinion +resulted naturally from his great knowledge of mankind, and of the +unacknowledged, often unsuspected, convictions which in reality direct +mankind’s activity. It was this experience, too, and the certainty to +which it had led him, that put him beyond the reach of Unorna’s power so +long as he chose not to yield himself to her will. Her position was +in reality diametrically opposed to his, and although he repeated his +reasonings to her from time to time, he was quite indifferent to the +nature of her views, and never gave himself any real trouble to make her +change them. The important point was that she should not lose anything +of the gifts she possessed, and Keyork was wise enough to see that the +exercise of them depended in a great measure upon her own conviction +regarding their exceptional nature. + +Unorna herself believed in everything which strengthened and developed +that conviction, and especially in the influences of time and place. It +appeared to her a fortunate circumstance, when she at last determined +to overcome her pride, that the resolution should have formed itself +exactly a month after she had so successfully banished the memory of +Beatrice from the mind of the man she loved. She felt sure of producing +a result as effectual if, this time, she could work the second change +in the same place and under the same circumstances as the first. And to +this end everything was in her favour. She needed not to close her eyes +to fancy that thirty days had not really passed between then and now, as +she left her house in the afternoon with the Wanderer by her side. + +He had come back and had found her once more herself, calm, collected, +conscious of her own powers. No suspicion of the real cause of the +disturbance he had witnessed crossed his mind, still less could he guess +what thing she meditated as she directed their walk towards that lonely +place by the river which had been the scene of her first great effort. +She talked lightly as they went, and he, in that strange humour of +peaceful, well-satisfied indifference which possessed him, answered her +in the same strain. It was yet barely afternoon, but there was already a +foretaste of coming evening in the chilly air. + +“I have been thinking of what you said this morning,” she said, suddenly +changing the current of the conversation. “Did I thank you for your +kindness?” She smiled as she laid her hand gently upon his arm, to cross +a crowded street, and she looked up into his quiet face. + +“Thank me? For what? On the contrary--I fancied that I had annoyed you.” + +“Perhaps I did not quite understand it all at first,” she answered +thoughtfully. “It is hard for a woman like me to realise what it would +be to have a brother--or a sister, or any one belonging to me. I needed +to think of the idea. Do you know that I am quite alone in the world?” + +The Wanderer had accepted her as he found her, strangely alone, +indeed, and strangely independent of the world, a beautiful, singularly +interesting woman, doing good, so far as he knew, in her own way, +separated from ordinary existence by some unusual circumstances, and +elevated above ordinary dangers by the strength and the pride of her own +character. And yet, indolent and indifferent as he had grown of late, he +was conscious of a vague curiosity in regard to her story. Keyork either +really knew nothing, or pretended to know nothing of her origin. + +“I see that you are alone,” said the Wanderer. “Have you always been +so?” + +“Always. I have had an odd life. You could not understand it, if I told +you of it.” + +“And yet I have been lonely too--and I believe I was once unhappy, +though I cannot think of any reason for it.” + +“You have been lonely--yes. But yours was another loneliness more +limited, less fatal, more voluntary. It must seem strange to you--I do +not even positively know of what nation I was born.” + +Her companion looked at her in surprise, and his curiosity increased. + +“I know nothing of myself,” she continued. “I remember neither father +nor mother. I grew up in the forest, among people who did not love me, +but who taught me, and respected me as though I were their superior, and +who sometimes feared me. When I look back, I am amazed at their learning +and their wisdom--and ashamed of having learned so little.” + +“You are unjust to yourself.” + +Unorna laughed. + +“No one ever accused me of that,” she said. “Will you believe it? I do +not even know where that place was. I cannot tell you even the name of +the kingdom in which it lay. I learned a name for it and for the forest, +but those names are in no map that has ever fallen into my hands. I +sometimes feel that I would go to the place if I could find it.” + +“It is very strange. And how came you here?” + +“I was told the time had come. We started at night. It was a long +journey, and I remember feeling tired as I was never tired before or +since. They brought me here, they left me in a religious house among +nuns. Then I was told that I was rich and free. My fortune was brought +with me. That, at least, I know. But those who received it and who take +care of it for me, know no more of its origin than I myself. Gold tells +no tales, and the secret has been well kept. I would give much to know +the truth--when I am in the humour.” + +She sighed, and then laughed again. + +“You see why it is that I find the idea of a brother so hard to +understand,” she added, and then was silent. + +“You have all the more need of understanding it, my dear friend,” the +Wanderer answered, looking at her thoughtfully. + +“Yes--perhaps so. I can see what friendship is. I can almost guess what +it would be to have a brother.” + +“And have you never thought of more than that?” He asked the question +in his calmest and most friendly tone, somewhat deferentially as though +fearing lest it should seem tactless and be unwelcome. + +“Yes, I have thought of love also,” she answered, in a low voice. But +she said nothing more, and they walked on for some time in silence. + +They came out upon the open place by the river which she remembered +so well. Unorna glanced about her and her face fell. The place was the +same, but the solitude was disturbed. It was not Sunday as it had been +on that day a month ago. All about the huge blocks of stone, groups +of workmen were busy with great chisels and heavy hammers, hewing and +chipping and fashioning the material that it might be ready for use in +the early spring. Even the river was changed. Men were standing upon the +ice, cutting it into long symmetrical strips, to be hauled ashore. Some +of the great pieces were already separated from the main ice, and sturdy +fellows, clad in dark woollen, were poling them over the dark water to +the foot of the gently sloping road where heavy carts stood ready to +receive the load when cut up into blocks. The dark city was taking in a +great provision of its own coldness against the summer months. + +Unorna looked about her. Everywhere there were people at work, and she +was more disappointed than she would own to herself at the invasion of +the solitude. The Wanderer looked from the stone-cutters to the ice-men +with a show of curiosity. + +“I have not seen so much life in Prague for many a day,” he observed. + +“Let us go,” answered Unorna, nervously. “I do not like it. I cannot +bear the sight of people to-day.” + +They turned in a new direction, Unorna guiding her companion by a +gesture. They were near to the Jewish quarter, and presently were +threading their way through narrow and filthy streets thronged with +eager Hebrew faces, and filled with the hum of low-pitched voices +chattering together, not in the language of the country, but in a base +dialect of German. They were in the heart of Prague, in that dim quarter +which is one of the strongholds of the Israelite, whence he directs +great enterprises and sets in motion huge financial schemes, in which +Israel sits, as a great spider in the midst of a dark web, dominating +the whole capital with his eagle’s glance and weaving the destiny of the +Bohemian people to suit his intricate speculations. For throughout the +length and breadth of Slavonic and German Austria the Jew rules, and +rules alone. + +Unorna gathered her furs more closely about her, in evident disgust at +her surroundings, but still she kept on her way. Her companion, scarcely +less familiar with the sights of Prague than she herself, walked by her +side, glancing carelessly at the passing people, at the Hebrew signs, at +the dark entrances that lead to courts within courts and into labyrinths +of dismal lanes and passages, looking at everything with the same serene +indifference, and idly wondering what made Unorna choose to walk that +way. Then he saw that she was going towards the cemetery. They +reached the door, were admitted and found themselves alone in the vast +wilderness. + +In the midst of the city lies the ancient burial ground, now long +disused but still undisturbed, many acres of uneven land, covered so +thickly with graves, and planted so closely with granite and sandstone +slabs, that the paths will scarce allow two persons to walk side by +side. The stones stand and lie in all conceivable positions, erect, +slanting at every angle, prostrate upon the earth or upon others already +fallen before them--two, three, and even four upon a grave, where +generations of men have been buried one upon the other--stones large +and small, covered with deep-cut inscriptions in the Hebrew character, +bearing the sculpture of two uplifted hands, wherever the Kohns, the +children of the tribe of Aaron, are laid to rest, or the gracefully +chiselled ewer of the Levites. Here they lie, thousands upon thousands +of dead Jews, great and small, rich and poor, wise and ignorant, +neglected individually, but guarded as a whole with all the tenacious +determination of the race to hold its own, and to preserve the +sacredness of its dead. In the dim light of the winter’s afternoon it +is as though a great army of men had fallen fighting there, and had +been turned to stone as they fell. Rank upon rank they lie, with that +irregularity which comes of symmetry destroyed, like columns and files +of soldiers shot down in the act of advancing. And in winter, the gray +light falling upon the untrodden snow throws a pale reflection upwards +against each stone, as though from the myriad sepulchres a faintly +luminous vapour were rising to the outer air. Over all, the rugged +brushwood and the stunted trees intertwine their leafless branches and +twigs in a thin, ghostly network of gray, that clouds the view of the +farther distance without interrupting it, a forest of shadowy skeletons +clasping fleshless, bony hands one with another, from grave to grave, as +far as the eye can see. + +The stillness in the place is intense. Not a murmur of distant life from +the surrounding city disturbs the silence. At rare intervals a strong +breath of icy wind stirs the dead branches and makes them crack and +rattle against the gravestones and against each other as in a dance of +death. It is a wild and dreary place. In the summer, indeed, the thick +leafage lends it a transitory colour and softness, but in the depth of +winter, when there is nothing to hide the nakedness of truth, when the +snow lies thick upon the ground and the twined twigs and twisted +trunks scarce cast a tracery of shadow under the sunless sky, the utter +desolation and loneliness of the spot have a horror of their own, not to +be described, but never to be forgotten. + +Unorna walked forward in silence, choosing a path so narrow that +her companion found himself obliged to drop behind and follow in her +footsteps. In the wildest part of this wilderness of death there is a +little rising of the ground. Here both the gravestones and the stunted +trees are thickest, and the solitude is, if possible, even more complete +than elsewhere. As she reached the highest point Unorna stood still, +turned quickly towards the Wanderer and held out both her hands towards +him. + +“I have chosen this place, because it is quiet,” she said, with a soft +smile. + +Hardly knowing why he did so, he laid his hands in hers and looked +kindly down to her upturned face. + +“What is it?” he asked, meeting her eyes. + +She was silent, and her fingers did not unclasp themselves. He looked at +her, and saw for the hundredth time that she was very beautiful. There +was a faint colour in her cheeks, and her full lips were just parted +as though a loving word had escaped them which she would not willingly +recall. Against the background of broken neutral tints, her figure stood +out, an incarnation of youth and vitality. If she had often looked weary +and pale of late, her strength and freshness had returned to her now +in all their abundance. The Wanderer knew that he was watching her, and +knew that he was thinking of her beauty and realising the whole extent +of it more fully than ever before, but beyond this point his thoughts +could not go. He was aware that he was becoming fascinated by her eyes, +and he felt that with every moment it was growing harder for him to +close his own, or to look away from her, and then, an instant later, he +knew that it would be impossible. Yet he made no effort. He was passive, +indifferent, will-less, and her gaze charmed him more and more. He was +already in a dream, and he fancied that the beautiful figure shone with +a soft, rosy light of its own in the midst of the gloomy waste. Looking +into her sunlike eyes, he saw there twin images of himself, that drew +him softly and surely into themselves until he was absorbed by them +and felt that he was no longer a reality but a reflection. Then a deep +unconsciousness stole over all his senses and he slept, or passed into +that state which seems to lie between sleep and trance. + +Unorna needed not to question him this time, for she saw that he was +completely under her influence. Yet she hesitated at the supreme moment, +and then, though to all real intents she was quite alone, a burning +flush of shame rose to her face, and her heart sank within her. She felt +that she could not do it. + +She dropped his hands. They fell to his sides as though they had been of +lead. Then she turned from him and pressed her aching forehead against +a tall weather-worn stone that rose higher than her own height from the +midst of the hillock. + +Her woman’s nature rebelled against the trick. It was the truest thing +in her and perhaps the best, which protested so violently against the +thing she meant to do; it was the simple longing to be loved for her own +sake, and of the man’s own free will, to be loved by him with the love +she had despised in Israel Kafka. But would this be love at all, this +artificial creation of her suggestion reacting upon his mind? Would it +last? Would it be true, faithful, tender? Above all, would it be real, +even for a moment? She asked herself a thousand questions in a second of +time. + +Then the ready excuse flashed upon her--the pretext which the heart will +always find when it must have its way. Was it not possible, after all, +that he was beginning to love her even now? Might not that outburst of +friendship which had surprised her and wounded her so deeply, be the +herald of a stronger passion? She looked up quickly and met his vacant +stare. + +“Do you love me?” she asked, almost before she knew what she was going +to say. + +“No.” The answer came in the far-off voice that told of his +unconsciousness, a mere toneless monosyllable breathed upon the murky +air. But it stabbed her like the thrust of a jagged knife. A long +silence followed, and Unorna leaned against the great slab of carved +sandstone. + +Even to her there was something awful in his powerless, motionless +presence. The noble face, pale and set as under a mask, the thoughtful +brow, the dominating features, were not those of a man born to be a +plaything to the will of a woman. The commanding figure towered in the +grim surroundings like a dark statue, erect, unmoving, and in no way +weak. And yet she knew that she had but to speak and the figure would +move, the lips would form words, the voice would reach her ear. He would +raise this hand or that, step forwards or backwards, at her command, +affirm what she bid him affirm, and deny whatever she chose to hear +denied. For a moment she wished that he had been as Keyork Arabian, +stronger than she; then, with the half-conscious comparison the passion +for the man himself surged up and drowned every other thought. She +almost forgot that for the time he was not to be counted among the +living. She went to him, and clasped her hands upon his shoulder, and +looked up into his scarce-seeing eyes. + +“You must love me,” she said, “you must love me because I love you so. +Will you not love me, dear? I have waited so long for you!” + +The soft words vibrated in his sleeping ear but drew forth neither +acknowledgment nor response. Like a marble statue he stood still, and +she leaned upon his shoulder. + +“Do you not hear me?” she cried in a more passionate tone. “Do you not +understand me? Why is it that your love is so hard to win? Look at me! +Might not any man be proud to love me? Am I not beautiful enough for +you? And yet I know that I am fair. Or are you ashamed because people +call me a witch? Why then I will never be one again, for your sake! What +do I care for it all? Can it be anything to me--can anything have worth +that stands between me and you? Ah, love--be not so very hard!” + +The Wanderer did not move. His face was as calm as a sculptured stone. + +“Do you despise me for loving you?” she asked again, with a sudden +flush. + +“No. I do not despise you.” Something in her tone had pierced through +his stupor and had found an answer. She started at the sound of his +voice. It was as though he had been awake and had known the weight of +what she had been saying, and her anger rose at the cold reply. + +“No--you do not despise me, and you never shall!” she exclaimed +passionately. “You shall love me, as I love you--I will it, with all +my will! We are created to be all, one to the other, and you shall not +break through the destiny of love. Love me, as I love you--love me with +all your heart, love me with all your mind, love me with all your soul, +love me as man never loved woman since the world began! I will it, I +command it--it shall be as I say--you dare not disobey me--you cannot if +you would.” + +She paused, but this time no answer came. There was not even a +contraction of the stony features. + +“Do you hear all I say?” she asked. + +“I hear.” + +“Then understand and answer me,” she said. + +“I do not understand. I cannot answer.” + +“You must. You shall. I will have it so. You cannot resist my will, and +I will it with all my might. You have no will--you are mine, your body, +your soul, and your thoughts, and you must love me with them all from +now until you die--until you die,” she repeated fiercely. + +Again he was silent. She felt that she had no hold upon his heart or +mind, seeing that he was not even disturbed by her repeated efforts. + +“Are you a stone, that you do not know what love is?” she cried, +grasping his hand in hers and looking with desperate eyes into his face. + +“I do not know what love is,” he answered, slowly. + +“Then I will tell you what love is,” she said, and she took his hand and +pressed it upon her own brow. + +The Wanderer started at the touch, as though he would have drawn back. +But she held him fast, and so far, at least, he was utterly subject to +her. His brow contracted darkly, and his face grew paler. + +“Read it there,” she cried. “Enter into my soul and read what love is, +in his own great writing. Read how he steals suddenly into the sacred +place, and makes it his, and tears down the old gods and sets up his +dear image in their stead--read how he sighs, and speaks, and weeps, +and loves--and forgives not, but will be revenged at the last. Are you +indeed of stone, and have you a stone for a heart? Love can melt even +stones, being set in man as the great central fire in the earth to burn +the hardest things to streams of liquid flame! And see, again, how very +soft and gentle he can be! See how I love you--see how sweet it is--how +very lovely a thing it is to love as woman can. There--have you felt it +now? Have you seen into the depths of my soul and into the hiding-places +of my heart? Let it be so in your own, then, and let it be so for ever. +You understand now. You know what it all is--how wild, how passionate, +how gentle and how great! Take to yourself this love of mine--is it not +all yours? Take it, and plant it with strong roots and seeds of undying +life in your own sleeping breast, and let it grow, and grow, till it +is even greater than it was in me, till it takes us both into itself, +together, fast bound in its immortal bonds, to be two in one, in life +and beyond life, for ever and ever and ever to the end of ends!” + +She ceased and she saw that his face was no longer expressionless and +cold. A strange light was upon his features, the passing radiance of +a supreme happiness seen in the vision of a dream. Again she laid her +hands upon his shoulder clasped together, as she had done at first. She +knew that her words had touched him and she was confident of the result, +confident as one who loves beyond reason. Already in imagination she +fancied him returning to consciousness, not knowing that he had slept, +but waking with a gentle word just trembling upon his lips, the words +she longed to hear. + +One moment more, she thought. It was good to see that light upon +his face, to fancy how that first word would sound, to feel that the +struggle was past and that there was nothing but happiness in the +future, full, overflowing, overwhelming, reaching from earth to heaven +and through time to eternity. One moment, only, before she let him +wake--it was such glory to be loved at last! Still the light was there, +still that exquisite smile was on his lips. And they would be always +there now, she thought. + +At last she spoke. + +“Then love, since you are mine, and I am yours, wake from the dream to +life itself--wake, not knowing that you have slept, knowing only that +you love me now and always--wake, love wake!” + +She waved her delicate hand before his eyes and still resting the other +upon his shoulder, watched the returning brightness in the dark pupils +that had been glazed and fixed a moment before. And as she looked, her +own beauty grew radiant in the splendour of a joy even greater than she +had dreamed of. As it had seemed to him when he had lost himself in her +gaze, so now she also fancied that the grim, gray wilderness was full of +a soft rosy light. The place of the dead was become the place of life; +the great solitude was peopled as the whole world could never be for +her; the crumbling gravestones were turned to polished pillars in the +temple of an immortal love, and the ghostly, leafless trees blossomed +with the undying flowers of the earthly paradise. + +One moment only, and then all was gone. The change came, sure, swift and +cruel. As she looked, it came, gradual, in that it passed through every +degree, but sudden also, as the fall of a fair and mighty building, +which being undermined in its foundations passes in one short minute +through the change from perfect completeness to hopeless and utter ruin. + +All the radiance, all the light, all the glory were gone in an instant. +Her own supremely loving look had not vanished, her lips still parted +sweetly, as forming the word that was to answer his, and the calm +indifferent face of the waking man was already before her. + +“What is it?” he asked, in his kind and passionless voice. “What were +you going to ask me, Unorna?” + +It was gone. The terribly earnest appeal had been in vain. Not a trace +of that short vision of love remained impressed upon his brain. + +With a smothered cry of agony Unorna leaned against the great slab of +stone behind her and covered her eyes. The darkness of night descended +upon her, and with it the fire of a burning shame. + +Then a loud and cruel laugh rang through the chilly air, such a laugh as +the devils in hell bestow upon the shame of a proud soul that knows +its own infinite bitterness. Unorna started and uncovered her eyes, her +suffering changed in a single instant to ungovernable and destroying +anger. She made a step forwards and then stopped short, breathing hard. +The Wanderer, too, had turned, more quickly than she. Between two tall +gravestones, not a dozen paces away, stood a man with haggard face and +eyes on fire, his keen, worn features contorted by a smile in which +unspeakable satisfaction struggled for expression with a profound +despair. + +The man was Israel Kafka. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +The Wanderer looked from Unorna to Kafka with profound surprise. He had +never seen the man and had no means of knowing who he was, still less of +guessing what had brought him to the lonely place, or why he had broken +into a laugh, of which the harsh, wild tones still echoed through the +wide cemetery. Totally unconscious of all that had happened to himself +during the preceding quarter of an hour, the Wanderer was deprived of +the key to the situation. He only understood that the stranger was for +some reason or other deeply incensed against Unorna, and he realised +that the intruder had, on the moment of appearance, no control over +himself. + +Israel Kafka remained where he stood, between the two tall stones, one +hand resting on each, his body inclined a little forward, his dark, +sunken eyes, bloodshot and full of a turbid, angry brightness, bent +intently upon Unorna’s face. He looked as though he were about to move +suddenly forwards, but it was impossible to foresee that he might not +as suddenly retreat, as a lean and hungry tiger crouches for a moment in +uncertainty whether to fight or fly, when after tracking down his man +he finds him not alone and defenceless as he had anticipated, but +well-armed and in company. + +The Wanderer’s indolence was only mental, and was moreover transitory +and artificial. When he saw Unorna advance, he quickly placed himself +between her and Israel Kafka, and looked from one to the other. + +“Who is this man?” he asked. “And what does he want of you?” + +Unorna made as though she would pass him. But he laid his hand upon +her arm with a gesture that betrayed his anxiety for her safety. At his +touch, her face changed for a moment and a faint blush dyed her cheek. + +“You may well ask who I am,” said the Moravian, speaking in a voice +half-choked with passion and anger. “She will tell you she does not know +me--she will deny my existence to my face. But she knows me very well. I +am Israel Kafka.” + +The Wanderer looked at him more curiously. He remembered what he had +heard but a few hours earlier from Keyork concerning the young fellow’s +madness. The situation now partially explained itself. + +“I understand,” he said, looking at Unorna. “He seems to be dangerous. +What shall I do with him?” + +He asked the question as calmly as though it had referred to the +disposal of an inanimate object, instead of to the taking into custody +of a madman. + +“Do with me?” cried Kafka, advancing suddenly a step forwards from +between the slabs. “Do with me? Do you speak of me as though I were a +dog--a dumb animal--but I will----” + +He choked and coughed, and could not finish the sentence. There was a +hectic flush in his cheek and his thin, graceful frame shook violently +from head to foot. Unable to speak for the moment, he waved his hand in +a menacing gesture. 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. Her anger was terrible. She had suffered enough secret shame +already in stooping to the use of her arts in such a course. It had cost +her one of the greatest struggles of her life, and her disappointment +at the result had been proportionately bitter. In that alone she had +endured almost as much pain as she could bear. But to find suddenly that +her humiliation, her hot speech, her failure, the look which she knew +had been on her face until the moment when the Wanderer awoke, that +all this had been seen and heard by Israel Kafka was intolerable. Even +Keyork’s unexpected appearance could not have so fired her wrath. Keyork +might have laughed at her afterwards, but her failure would have been no +triumph to him. Was not Keyork enlisted on her side, ready to help her +at all times, by word or deed, in accordance with the terms of their +agreement? But of all men Kafka, whom she had so wronged, was the one +man who should have been ignorant of her defeat and miserable shame. + +“Go!” she cried, with a gesture of command. Her eyes flashed and her +extended hand trembled. + +There was such concentrated fury in a single word that the Wanderer +started in surprise, ignorant as he was of the true state of things. + +“You are uselessly unkind,” he said gravely. “The poor man is mad. Let +me take him away.” + +“Leave him to me,” she answered imperiously. “He will obey me.” + +But Israel Kafka did not turn. He rested one hand upon the slab and +faced her. As when many different forces act together at one point, +producing after the first shock a resultant little expected, so the many +passions that were at work in his face finally twisted his lips into a +smile. + +“Yes,” he said, in a low tone, which did not express submission. “Leave +me to her! Leave me to the Witch and to her mercy. It will be the end +this time. 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. + +“I will silence you,” answered the Wanderer coldly. “Your madness +excuses you, perhaps, but it does not justify me in allowing you to +insult a woman.” + +Kafka’s anger took a new direction. Even madmen are often calmed by the +quiet opposition of a strong and self-possessed man. And Kafka was not +mad. He was no coward either, but the subtlety of his race was in him. +As oil dropped by the board in a wild tempest does not calm the waves, +but momentarily prevents their angry crests from breaking, so the +Israelite’s quick tact veiled the rough face of his dangerous humour. + +“I insult no one,” he said, almost deferentially. “Least of all her whom +I have worshipped long and lost at last. You accuse me unjustly of that, +and though my speech may have been somewhat rude, yet may I be forgiven +for the sake of what I have suffered. For I have suffered much.” + +Seeing that he was taking a more courteous tone, the Wanderer folded his +arms and left Unorna free to move, awaiting her commands, or the +further development of events. He saw in her face that her anger was not +subsiding, and he wondered less at it after hearing Kafka’s insulting +speech. It was a pity, he thought, that any one should take so seriously +a maniac’s words, but he was nevertheless resolved that they should not +be repeated. After all, it would be an easy matter, if the man again +overstepped the bounds of gentle speech, to take him bodily away from +Unorna’s presence. + +“And are you going to charm our ears with a story of your sufferings?” + Unorna asked, in a tone so cruel, that the Wanderer expected a quick +outburst of anger from Kafka, in reply. But he was disappointed in this. +The smile still lingered on the Moravian’s face, when he answered, and +his expressive voice, no longer choking with passion, grew very soft and +musical. + +“It is not mine to charm,” he said. “It is not given to me to make +slaves of all living things with hand and eye and word. Such power +Nature does not give to all, she has given none to me. I have no spell +to win Unorna’s love--and if I had, I cannot say that I would take a +love thus earned.” + +He paused a moment and Unorna grew paler. She started, but then did not +move again. His words had power to wound her, but she trembled lest the +Wanderer should understand their hidden meaning, and she was silent, +biding her time and curbing her passion. + +“No,” continued Kafka, “I was not thus favoured in my nativity. The +star of love was not in the ascendant, the lord of magic charms was +not trembling upon my horizon, the sun of earthly happiness was not +enthroned in my mid-heaven. How could it be? She had it all, this Unorna +here, and Nature, generous in one mad moment, lavished upon her all +there was to give. For she has all, and we have nothing, as I have +learned and you will learn before you die.” + +He looked at the Wanderer as he spoke. His hollow eyes seemed calm +enough, and in his dejected attitude and subdued tone there was +nothing that gave warning of a coming storm. The Wanderer listened, +half-interested and yet half-annoyed by his persistence. Unorna herself +was silent still. + +“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. Heaven had put on all its glories--across its +silent breast was bound the milk-white ribband, its crest was crowned +with God’s crown-jewels, the great northern stars, its mighty form was +robed in the mantle of majesty set with the diamonds of suns and worlds, +great and small, far and near--not one tiny spark of all the myriad +million gems was darkened by a breath of wind-blown mist. The earth was +very still, all wrapped in peace and lulled in love. The great trees +pointed their dark spires upwards from the temple of the forest to the +firmament of the greater temple on high. In the starlight the year’s +first roses breathed out the perfume gathered from the departed sun, and +every dewdrop in the short, sweet grass caught in its little self the +reflection of heaven’s vast glory. Only, in the universal stillness, the +nightingale sang the song of songs, and bound the angel of love with the +chains of her linked melody and made him captive in bonds stronger than +his own.” + +Israel Kafka spoke dreamily, resting against the stone beside him, +seemingly little conscious of the words that fell in oriental imagery +from his lips. In other days Unorna had heard him speak like this to +her, and she had loved the speech, though not the man, and sometimes for +its sake she had wished her heart could find its fellow in his. And even +now, the tone and the words had a momentary effect upon her. What would +have sounded as folly, overwrought, sentimental, almost laughable, +perhaps, to other women, found an echo in her own childish memories and +a sympathy in her belief in her own mysterious nature. The Wanderer had +heard men talk as Israel Kafka talked, in other lands, where speech is +prized by men and women not for its tough strength but for its wealth of +flowers. + +“And love was her first captive,” said the Moravian, “and her first +slave. Yes, I will tell you the story of Unorna’s life. She is angry +with me now. Well, let it be. It is my fault--or hers. What matter? She +cannot quite forget me out of mind--and I? Has Lucifer forgotten God?” + +He sighed, and a momentary light flashed in his eyes. Something in the +blasphemous strength of the words attracted the Wanderer’s attention. +Utterly indifferent himself, he saw that there was something more +than madness in the man before him. He found himself wondering what +encouragement Unorna had given the seed of passion that it should have +grown to such strength, and he traced the madness back to the love, +instead of referring the love to the madness. But he said nothing. + +“So she was born,” continued Kafka, dreaming on. “She was born amid +the perfume of the roses, under the starlight, when the nightingale +was singing. And all things that lived, loved her, and submitted to her +voice and hand, and to her eyes and to her unspoken will, as running +water follows the course men give it, winding and gliding, falling +and rushing, full often of a roar of resistance that covers the deep, +quick-moving stream, flowing in spite of itself through the channel that +is dug for it to the determined end. And nothing resisted her. Neither +man nor woman nor child had any strength to oppose against her magic. +The wolf hounds licked her feet, the wolves themselves crouched fawning +in her path. For she is without fear--as she is without mercy. Is that +strange? What fear can there be for her who has the magic charm, who +holds sleep in the one hand and death in the other, and between whose +brows is set the knowledge of what shall be hereafter? Can any one harm +her? Has any one the strength to harm her? Is there anything on earth +which she covets and which shall not be hers?” + +Though his voice was almost as soft as before, the evil smile flickered +again about his drawn lips as he looked into Unorna’s face. He wondered +why she did not face him and crush him and force him to sleep with +her eyes as he knew she could do. But he himself was past fear. He had +suffered too much and cared not what chanced to him now. But she should +know that he knew all, if he told her so with his latest breath. Despair +had given him a strange control of his anger and of his words, and +jealousy had taught him the art of wounding swiftly, surely and with a +light touch. Sooner or later she would turn upon him and annihilate him +in a dream of unconsciousness; he knew that, and he knew that such faint +power of resisting her as he had ever possessed was gone. But so long as +she was willing to listen to him, so long would he torture her with +the sting of her own shame, and when her patience ended, or her caprice +changed, he would find some bitter word to cast at her in the moment +before losing his consciousness of thought and his power to speak. +This one chance of wounding was given to him and he would use it to the +utmost, with all subtlety, with all cruelty, with all determination to +torture. + +“Whatsoever she covets is hers to take. No one escapes the spell in the +end, no one resists the charm. And yet it is written in the book of her +fate that she shall one day taste the fruit of ashes, and drink of the +bitter water. It is written that whosoever slays with the sword shall +die by the sword also. She has killed with love, and by love she shall +perish. I loved her once. I know what I am saying.” + +Again he paused, lingering thoughtfully upon the words. The Wanderer +glanced at Unorna as though asking her whether he should not put a +sudden end to the strange monologue. 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 then you will make an end of me. I see. I accept the +offer. I can even thank you for your patience. You are kind to-day--I +have known you harder. Well, then, I will speak out. I will tell my +story, not that any one may judge between you and me. There is neither +judge nor justice for those who love in vain. So I loved you. That is +the whole story. Do you understand me, sir? I loved this woman, but she +would not love me. That is all. And what of it, and what then? Look at +her, and look at me--the beginning and the end.” + +In a manner familiar to Orientals the unhappy man laid one finger upon +his own breast, and with the other hand pointed at Unorna’s fair young +face. The Wanderer’s eyes obeyed the guiding gesture, and he looked from +one to the other, and again the belief crossed his thoughts that there +was less of madness about Israel Kafka than Keyork would have had him +think. Trying to read the truth from Unorna’s eyes, he saw that they +avoided his, and he fancied he detected symptoms of distress in her +pallor and contracted lips. 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. There is a history in those three words which neither the +eloquent tongue nor the skilled pen can tell. See how coldly I speak. +I command my speech, I may pick and choose among ten thousand words and +phrases, and describe love at my leisure. She grants me time; she is +very merciful to-day. What would you have me say? You know what love +is. Think of such love as yours can have been, and take twice that, and +three times over, and a hundred thousand times, and cram it, burning, +flaming, melting into your bursting heart--then you would know a tenth +of what I have known. Love, indeed! Who can have known love but me? I +stand alone. Since the dull, unlovely world first jarred and trembled +and began to move, there has not been another of my kind, nor has man +suffered as I have suffered, and been crushed and torn and thrown aside +to die, without even the mercy of a death-wound. Describe it? Tell +it? Look at me! I am both love’s description and the epitaph on his +gravestone. In me he lived, me he tortured, with me he dies never to +live again as he has lived this once. There is no justice and no mercy! +Think not that it is enough to love and that you will be loved in +return. Do not think that--do not dream that. Do you not know that the +fiercest drought is as a spring rain to the rocks, which thirst not and +need no refreshment?” + +Again he fixed his eyes on Unorna’s face and faintly smiled. Apparently +she was displeased. + +“What is it that you would say?” she asked coldly. “What is this that +you tell us of rocks and rain, and death-wounds, and the rest? You +say you loved me once--that was a madness. You say that I never loved +you--that, at least, is truth. Is that your story? 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. And yet--I +love you still, I love you so well in spite of all that I cannot laugh +at you as I would, even though I were to see you again clinging to the +rock and imploring it to take pity on your thirst. And he who dies for +you, Unorna--of him you ask nothing, save that he will crawl away and +die alone, and not disturb your delicate life with such an unseemly +sight.” + +“You talk of death!” exclaimed Unorna scornfully. “You talk of dying for +me because you are ill to-day. To-morrow, Keyork Arabian will have cured +you, and then, for aught I know, you will talk of killing me instead. +This is child’s talk, boy’s talk. If we are to listen to you, you must +be more eloquent. You must give us such a tale of woe as shall draw +tears from our eyes and sobs from our breasts--then we will applaud you +and let you go. That shall be your reward.” + +The Wanderer glanced at her in surprise. There was a bitterness in her +tone of which he had not believed her soft voice capable. + +“Why do you hate him so if he is mad?” he asked. + +“The reason is not far to seek,” said Kafka. “This woman here--God made +her crooked-hearted! Love her, and she will hate you as only she has +learned how to hate. Show her that cold face of yours, and she will love +you so that she will make a carpet of her pride for you to walk on--ay, +or spit on either, if you deign to be so kind. She has a wonderful kind +of heart, for it freezes when you burn it, and melts when you freeze +it.” + +“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 turned quickly as he stood, and looked +at Unorna. + +“Do not listen to his ravings,” she said. The words seemed weak and +poorly chosen, and there was a strange look in her face as though she +were either afraid or desperate, or both. + +“She loves you,” said Israel Kafka calmly. “And you do not know it. She +has power over you, as she has over me, but the power to make you love +her she has not. She will destroy you, and your state will be no better +than mine to-day. We shall have moved on a step, for I shall be dead and +you will be the madman, and she will have found another to love and +to torture. The world is full of them. Her altar will never lack +sacrifices.” + +The Wanderer’s face was grave. + +“You may be mad or not,” he said. “I cannot tell. But you say monstrous +things, and you shall not repeat them.” + +“Did she not say that I might speak?” asked Kafka with a bitter laugh. + +“I will keep my word,” said Unorna. “You seek your own destruction. Find +it in your own way. It will not be the less sure. Speak--say what you +will. You shall not be interrupted.” + +The Wanderer drew back, not understanding what was passing, nor why +Unorna was so long-suffering. + +“Say all you have to say,” she repeated, coming forward so that she +stood directly in front of Israel Kafka. “And you,” she added, speaking +to the Wanderer, “leave him to me. He is quite right--I can protect +myself if I need any protection.” + +“You remember how we parted, Unorna?” said Kafka. “It is a month to-day. +I did not expect a greeting of you when I came back, or, if I did expect +it, I was foolish and unthinking. I should have known you better. I +should have known that there is one half of your word which you never +break--the cruel half, and one thing which you cannot forgive, and +which is my love for you. And yet that is the very thing which I cannot +forget. I have come back to tell you so. You may as well know it.” + +Unorna’s expression grew cold, as she saw that he abandoned the strain +of reproach and spoke once more of his love for her. + +“Yes, I see what you mean,” he said, very quietly. “You mean to show me +by your face that you give me no hope. I should have known that by other +things I have seen here. God knows, I have seen enough! But I meant to +find you alone. I went to your home, I saw you go out, I followed you, +I entered here--I heard all--and I understood, for I know your power, +as this man cannot know it. Do you wonder that I followed you? Do you +despise me? Do you think I still care, because you do? Love is stronger +than the woman loved and for her we do deeds of baseness, unblushingly, +which she would forbid our doing, and for which she despises us when +she hates us, and loves us the more dearly when she loves us at all. You +hate me--then despise me, too, if you will. It is too late to care. I +followed you like a spy, I saw what I expected to see, I have suffered +what I knew I should suffer. You know that I have been away during this +whole month, and that I have travelled thousands of leagues in the hope +of forgetting you.” + +“And yet I fancied I had seen you within the month,” Unorna said, with a +cruel smile. + +“They say that ghosts haunt the places they have loved,” answered Kafka +unmoved. “If that be true I may have troubled your dreams and you may +have seen me. I have come back broken in body and in heart. I think I +have come back to die here. The life is going out of me, but before it +is quite gone I can say two things. I can tell you that I know you at +last, and that, in spite of the horror of knowing what you are, I love +you still.” + +“Am I so very horrible?” she asked scornfully. + +“You know what you are, better than I can tell you, but not better than +I know. I know even the secret meaning of your moods and caprices. I +know why you are willing to listen to me, this last time, so patiently, +with only now and then a sneer and a cutting laugh.” + +“Why?” + +“In order to make me suffer the more. You will never forgive me now, for +you know that I know, and that alone is a sin past all forgiveness, and +over and above that I am guilty of the crime of loving when you have no +love for me.” + +“And as a last resource you come to me and recapitulate your misdeeds. +The plan is certainly original, though it lacks wit.” + +“There is least wit where there is most love, Unorna. I take no account +of the height of my folly when I see the depth of my love, which has +swallowed up myself and all my life. In the last hour I have known its +depth and breadth and strength, for I have seen what it can bear. And +why should I complain of it? Have I not many times said that I would die +for you willingly--and is it not dying for you to die of love for you? +To prove my faith it were too easy a death. When I look into your face I +know that there is in me the heart that made true Christian martyrs----” + +Unorna laughed. + +“Would you be a martyr?” she asked. + +“Nor for your Faith--but for the faith I once had in you, and for the +love that no martyrdom could kill. Ay--to prove that love I would die a +hundred deaths--and to gain yours I would die the death eternal.” + +“And you would have deserved it. Have you not deserved enough already, +enough of martyrdom, for tracking me to-day, following me stealthily, +like a thief and a spy, to find out my ends and my doings?” + +“I love you, Unorna.” + +“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? Yes, and mad, too! And my madness is all you have left +me--take it--it is yours! You cannot kill my love. Deny my words, deny +your deeds! Let all be false in you--it is but one pain more, and my +heart is not broken yet. It will bear another. Tell me that what I saw +had no reality--that you did not make him sleep--here, on this spot, +before my eyes--that you did not pour your love into his sleeping ears, +that you did not command, implore, entreat--and fail! What is it all to +me, whether you speak truth or not? Tell me it is not true that I would +die a thousand martyrdoms for your sake, as you are, and if you were a +thousand times worse than you are! Your wrong, your right, your truth, +your falsehood, you yourself are swallowed up in the love I bear you! I +love you always, and I will say it, and say it again--ah, your eyes! I +love them, too! Take me into them, Unorna--whether in hate or love--but +in love--yes--love--Unorna--golden Unorna!” + +With the cry on his lips--the name he had given her in other days--he +made one mad step forwards, throwing out his arms as though to clasp +her to him. But it was too late. Even while he had been speaking her +mysterious influence had overpowered him, as he had known that it would, +when she so pleased. + +She caught his two hands in the air, and pressed him back and held him +against the tall slab. The whole pitilessness of her nature gleamed like +a cold light in her white face. + +“There was a martyr of your race once,” she said in cruel tones. “His +name was Simon Abeles. You talk of martyrdom! You shall know what it +means--though it be too good for you, who spy upon the woman whom you +say you love.” + +The hectic flush of passion sank from Israel Kafka’s cheek. Rigid, +with outstretched arms and bent head, he stood against the ancient +gravestone. Above him, as though raised to heaven in silent +supplication, were the sculptured hands that marked the last +resting-place of a Kohn. + +“You shall know now,” said Unorna. “You shall suffer indeed.” + + + +CHAPTER XV[*] + + [*] The deeds here described were done in Prague on the + twenty-first day of February in the year 1694. Lazarus and + his accomplice Levi Kurtzhandel, or Brevimanus, or “the + short-handed,” were betrayed by their own people. Lazarus + hanged himself in prison, and Levi suffered death by the + wheel--repentant, it is said, and himself baptized. A full + account of the trial, written in Latin, was printed, and a + copy of it may be seen in the State Museum in Prague. The + body of Simon Abeles was exhumed and rests in the Teyn + Kirche, in the chapel on the left of the high altar. The + slight extension of certain scenes not fully described in + the Latin volume will be pardoned in a work of fiction. + +Unorna’s voice sank from the tone of anger to a lower pitch. She spoke +quietly and very distinctly as though to impress every word upon the ear +of the man who was in her power. The Wanderer listened, too, scarcely +comprehending at first, but slowly yielding to the influence she exerted +until the vision rose before him also with all its moving scenes, in all +its truth and in all its horror. As in a dream the deeds that had been +passed before him, the desolate burial-ground was peopled with forms +and faces of other days, the gravestones rose from the earth and piled +themselves into gloomy houses and remote courts and dim streets and +venerable churches, the dry and twisted trees shrank down, and broadened +and swung their branches as arms, and drew up their roots out of the +ground as feet under them and moved hither and thither. And the knots +and bosses and gnarls upon them became faces, dark, eagle-like and +keen, and the creaking and crackling of the boughs and twigs under the +piercing blast that swept by, became articulate and like the voices of +old men talking angrily together. There were sudden changes from day to +night and from night to day. 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. He no longer +stood with outstretched arms, his back against a crumbling slab, his +filmy eyes fixed on Unorna’s face. He grew younger; his features were +those of a boy of scarcely thirteen years, pale, earnest and brightened +by a soft light which followed him hither and thither, and he was not +alone. He moved with others through the old familiar streets of +the city, clothed in a fashion of other times, speaking in accents +comprehensible but unlike the speech of to-day, acting in a dim and +far-off life that had once been. + +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. It was to him an illusion of which he understood +the key and penetrated the secret, but it was marvellous in its way, +and he was held enthralled from the first moment when it began to unfold +itself. He understood further that Israel Kafka was in a state different +from this, that he was suffering all the reality of another life, which +to the Wanderer was but a dream. For the moment all his faculties had a +double perception of things and sounds, distinguishing clearly between +the fact and the mirage that distorted and obscured it. For the moment +he was aware that his reason was awake though his eyes and his ears +might be sleeping. Then the unequal contest between the senses and the +intellect ceased, and while still retaining the dim consciousness that +the source of all he saw and heard lay in Unorna’s brain, he allowed +himself to be led quickly from one scene to another, absorbed and taken +out of himself by the horror of the deeds done before him. + +At first, indeed, the vision, though vivid, seemed objectless and of +uncertain meaning. The dark depths of the Jews’ quarter of the city +were opened, and it was towards evening. Throngs of gowned men, crooked, +bearded, filthy, vulture-eyed, crowded upon each other in a narrow +public place, talking in quick, shrill accents, gesticulating, with +hands and arms and heads and bodies, laughing, chuckling, chattering, +hook-nosed and loose-lipped, grasping fat purses in lean fingers, +shaking greasy curls that straggled out under caps of greasy fur, +glancing to right and left with quick, gleaming looks that pierced the +gloom like fitful flashes of lightning, plucking at each other by the +sleeve and pointing long fingers and crooked nails, two, three and four +at a time, as markers, in their ready reckoning, a writhing mass of +humanity, intoxicated by the smell of gold, mad for its possession, half +hysteric with the fear of losing it, timid, yet dangerous, poisoned to +the core by the sweet sting of money, terrible in intelligence, vile +in heart, contemptible in body, irresistible in the unity of their +greed--the Jews of Prague, two hundred years ago. + +In one corner of the dusky place there was a little light. A boy stood +there, beside a veiled woman, and the light that seemed to cling about +him was not the reflection of gold. He was very young. His pale face had +in it all the lost beauty of the Jewish race, the lips were clearly cut, +even, pure in outline and firm, the forehead broad with thought, the +features noble, aquiline--not vulture-like. Such a face might holy +Stephen, Deacon and Protomartyr, have turned upon the young men who laid +their garments at the fee of the unconverted Saul. + +He stood there, looking on at the scene in the market-place, not +wondering, for nothing of it was new to him, not scorning, for he felt +no hate, not wrathful, for he dreamed of peace. He would have had it +otherwise--that was all. He would have had the stream flow back upon +its source and take a new channel for itself, he would have seen the +strength of his people wielded in cleaner deeds for nobler aims. The +gold he hated, the race for it he despised, the poison of it he +loathed, but he had neither loathing nor contempt nor hatred for the men +themselves. He looked upon them and he loved to think that the carrion +vulture might once again be purified and lifted on strong wings and +become, as in old days, the eagle of the mountains. + +For many minutes he gazed in silence. Then he sighed and turned away. He +held certain books in his hand, for he had come from the school of the +synagogue where, throughout the short winter days, the rabbis taught him +and his companions the mysteries of the sacred tongue. The woman by his +side was a servant in his father’s house, and it was her duty to attend +him through the streets, until the day when, being judged a man, he +should be suddenly freed from the bondage of childish things. + +“Let us go,” he said in a low voice. “The air is full of gold and heavy. +I cannot breathe it.” + +“Whither?” asked the woman. + +“Thou knowest,” he answered. And suddenly the faint radiance that was +always about him grew brighter, and spread out arms behind him, to the +right and left, in the figure of a cross. + +They walked together, side by side, quickly and often glancing behind +them as though to see whether they were followed. And yet it seemed as +though it was not they who moved, but the city about them which changed. +The throng of busy Jews grew shadowy and disappeared, their shrill +voices were lost in the distance. There were other people in the street, +of other features and in different garbs, of prouder bearing and hot, +restless manner, broad-shouldered, erect, manly, with spur on heel and +sword at side. The outline of the old synagogue melted into the +murky air and changed its shape, and stood out again in other and +ever-changing forms. Now they were passing before the walls of a noble +palace, now beneath long, low galleries of arches, now again across the +open space of the Great Ring in the midst of the city--then all at once +they were standing before the richly carved doorway of the Teyn Kirche, +the very doorway out of which the Wanderer had followed the fleeting +shadow of Beatrice’s figure but a month ago. And then they paused, and +looked again to the right and left, and searched the dark corners with +piercing glances. + +“Thy life is in thine hand,” said the woman, speaking close to the boy’s +ear. “It is yet time. Turn with me and let us go back.” + +The mysterious radiance lit up the youth’s beautiful face in the dark +street and showed the fearless yet gentle smile that was on his lips. + +“What is there to fear?” he asked. + +“Death,” answered the woman in a trembling tone. “They will kill thee, +and it shall be upon my head.” + +“And what is Death?” he asked again, and the smile was still upon his +face as he led the way up the steps. + +The woman bowed her head and drew her veil more closely about her and +followed him. Then they were within the church, darker, more ghostly, +less rich in those days than now. The boy stood beside the hewn stone +basin wherein was the blessed water, and he touched the frozen surface +with his fingers, and held them out to his companion. + +“Is it thus?” he asked. And the heavenly smile grew more radiant as he +made the sign of the Cross. + +Again the woman inclined her head. + +“Be it not upon me!” she exclaimed earnestly. “Though I would it might +be for ever so with thee.” + +“It is for ever,” the boy answered. + +He went forward and prostrated himself before the high altar, and the +soft light hovered above him. The woman knelt at a little distance from +him, with clasped hands and upturned eyes. The church was very dark and +silent. + +An old man in a monk’s robe came forward out of the shadow of the choir +and stood behind the marble rails and looked down at the boy’s prostrate +figure, wonderingly. Then the low gateway was opened and he descended +the three steps and bent down to the young head. + +“What wouldest thou?” he asked. + +Simon Abeles rose until he knelt, and looked up into the old man’s face. + +“I am a Jew. I would be a Christian. I would be baptized.” + +“Fearest thou not thy people?” the monk asked. + +“I fear not death,” answered the boy simply. + +“Come with me.” + +Trembling, the woman followed them both, and all were lost in the gloom +of the church. They were not to be seen, and all was still for a space. +Suddenly a clear voice broke the silence. + +“_Ego baptizo te in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti._” + +Then the woman and the boy were standing again without the entrance in +the chilly air, and the ancient monk was upon the threshold under the +carved arch; his thin hands, white in the darkness, were lifted high, +and he blessed them, and they went their way. + +In the moving vision the radiance was brighter still and illuminated the +streets as they moved on. Then a cloud descended over all, and certain +days and weeks passed, and again the boy was walking swiftly toward +the church. But the woman was not with him, and he believed that he was +alone, though the messengers of evil were upon him. Two dark figures +moved in the shadow, silent, noiseless in their walk, muffled in long +garments. He went on, no longer deigning to look back, beyond fear as he +had ever been, and beyond even the expectation of a danger. He went into +the church, and the two men made gestures, and spoke in low tones, and +hid themselves in the shade of the buttresses outside. + +The vision grew darker and a terrible stillness was over everything, for +the church was not opened to the sight this time. There was a horror of +long waiting with the certainty of what was to come. The narrow street +was empty to the eye, and yet there was the knowledge of evil presence, +of two strong men waiting in the dark to take their victim to the place +of expiation. And the horror grew in the silence and the emptiness, +until it was unbearable. + +The door opened and the boy was with the monk under the black arch. +The old man embraced him and blessed him and stood still for a moment +watching him as he went down. Then he, also, turned and went back, and +the door was closed. + +Swiftly the two men glided from their hiding-place and sped along the +uneven pavement. The boy paused and faced them, for he felt that he was +taken. They grasped him by the arms on each side, Lazarus his father, +and Levi, surnamed the Short-handed, the strongest and the cruellest and +the most relentless of the younger rabbis. Their grip was rough, and the +older man held a coarse woollen cloth in his hand with which to smother +the boy’s cries if he should call out for help. But he was very calm and +did not resist them. + +“What would you?” he asked. + +“And what doest thou in a Christian church?” asked Lazarus in low fierce +tones. + +“What Christians do, since I am one of them,” answered the youth, +unmoved. + +Lazarus said nothing, but he struck the boy on the mouth with his hard +hand so that the blood ran down. + +“Not here!” exclaimed Levi, anxiously looking about. + +And they hurried him away through dark and narrow lanes. He opposed no +resistance to Levi’s rough strength, not only suffering himself to +be dragged along but doing his best to keep pace with the man’s long +strides, nor did he murmur at the blows and thrusts dealt him from time +to time by his father from the other side. During some minutes they were +still traversing the Christian part of the city. A single loud cry for +help would have brought a rescue, a few words to the rescuers would have +roused a mob of fierce men and the two Jews would have paid with their +lives for the deeds they had not yet committed. But Simon Abeles uttered +no cry and offered no resistance. He had said that he feared not death, +and he had spoken the truth, not knowing what manner of death was to be +his. Onward they sped, and in the vision the way they traversed seemed +to sweep past them, so that they remained always in sight though always +hurrying on. The Christian quarter was passed; before them hung the +chain of one of those gates which gave access to the city of the Jews. +With a jeer and an oath the bearded sentry watched them pass--the martyr +and his torturers. One word to him, even then, and the butt of his heavy +halberd would have broken Levi’s arm and laid the boy’s father in the +dust. The word was not spoken. On through the filthy ways, on and on, +through narrow courts and tortuous passages to a dark low doorway. Then, +again, the vision showed but an empty street and there was silence for a +space, and a horror of long waiting in the falling night. + +Lights moved within the house, and then one window after another was +bolted and barred from within. Still the silence endured until the ear +was grown used to it and could hear sounds very far off, from deep down +below the house itself, but the walls did not open and the scene did not +change. A dull noise, bad to hear, resounded as from beneath a vault, +and then another and another--the sound of cruel blows upon a human +body. Then a pause. + +“Wilt thou renounce it?” asked the voice of Lazarus. + +“_Kyrie eleison, Christie eleison!_” came the answer, brave and clear. + +“Lay on, Levi, and let thy arm be strong!” + +And again the sound of blows, regular, merciless, came up from the +bowels of the earth. + +“Dost thou repent? Dost thou renounce? Dost thou deny?” + +“I repent of my sins--I renounce your ways--I believe in the Lord--” + +The sacred name was not heard. A smothered groan as of one losing +consciousness in extreme torture was all that came up from below. + +“Lay on, Levi, lay on!” + +“Nay,” answered the strong rabbi, “the boy will die. Let us leave him +here for this night. Perchance cold and hunger will be more potent than +stripes, when he shall come to himself.” + +“As though sayest,” answered the father in angry reluctance. + +Again all was silent. Soon the rays of light ceased to shine through the +crevices of the outer shutters, and sleep descended upon the quarter +of the Jews. Still the scene in the vision changed not. After a long +stillness a clear young voice was heard speaking. + +“Lord, if it be Thy will that I die, grant that I may bear all in Thy +name, grant that I, unworthy, may endure in this body the punishments +due to me in spirit for my sins. And if it be Thy will that I live, let +my life be used also for Thy glory.” + +The voice ceased and the cloud of passing time descended upon the vision +and was lifted again and again. And each time the same voice was heard +and the sound of torturing blows, but the voice of the boy was weaker +every night, though it was not less brave. + +“I believe,” it said, always. “Do what you will, you have power over the +body, but I have the Faith over which you have no power.” + +So the days and the nights passed, and though the prayer came up in +feeble tones, it was born of a mighty spirit and it rang in the ears +of the tormentors as the voice of an angel which they had no power to +silence, appealing from them to the tribunal of the Throne of God Most +High. + +Day by day, also, the rabbis and the elders began to congregate together +at evening before the house of Lazarus and to talk with him and with +each other, debating how they might break the endurance of his son and +bring him again into the synagogue as one of themselves. Chief among +them in their councils was Levi, the Short-handed, devising new tortures +for the frail body to bear and boasting how he would conquer the +stubborn boy by the might of his hands to hurt. Some of the rabbis shook +their heads. + +“He is possessed of a devil,” they said. “He will die and repent not.” + +But others nodded approvingly and wagged their filthy heads and said +that when the fool had been chastised the evil spirit would depart from +him. + +Once more the cloud of passing time descended and was lifted. Then the +walls of the house were opened and in a low arched chamber the rabbis +sat about a black table. It was night and a single smoking lamp was +lighted, a mere wick projecting out of a three-cornered vessel of copper +which was full of oil and was hung from the vault with blackened wires. +Seven rabbis sat at the board, and at the head sat Lazarus. Their +crooked hands and claw-like nails moved uneasily and there was a lurid +fire in their vulture’s eyes. They bent forward, speaking to each other +in low tones, and from beneath their greasy caps their anointed +side curls dangled and swung as they moved their heads. But Levi the +Short-handed was not among them. Their muffled talk was interrupted from +time to time by the sound of sharp, loud blows, as of a hammer striking +upon nails, and as though a carpenter were at work not far from the room +in which they sat. + +“He has not repented,” said Lazarus, from his place. “Neither +many stripes, nor cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, have moved him to +righteousness. It is written that he shall be cut off from his people.” + +“He shall be cut off,” answered the rabbis with one voice. + +“It is right and just that he should die,” continued the father. “Shall +we give him over to the Christians that he may dwell among them and +become one of them, and be shown before the world to our shame?” + +“We will not let him go,” said the dark man, and an evil smile flickered +from one face to another as a firefly flutters from tree to tree in the +night--as though the spirit of evil had touched each one in turn. + +“We will not let him go,” said each again. + +Lazarus also smiled as though in assent, and bowed his head a little +before he spoke. + +“I am obedient to your judgment. It is yours to command and mine to +obey. If you say that he must die, let him die. He is my son. Take him. +Did not our father Abraham lay Isaac upon the altar and offer him as a +burnt sacrifice before the Lord?” + +“Let him die,” said the rabbis. + +“Then let him die,” answered Lazarus. “I am your servant. It is mine to +obey.” + +“His blood be on our heads,” they said. And again, the evil smile went +round. + +“It is then expedient that we determine of what manner his death shall +be,” continued the father, inclining his body to signify his submission. + +“It is not lawful to shed his blood,” said the rabbis. “And we cannot +stone him, lest we be brought to judgment of the Christians. Determine +thou the manner of his death.” + +“My masters, if you will it, let him be brought once more before us. Let +us all hear with our ears his denial, and if he repent at the last, +it is well, let him live. But if he harden his heart against our +entreaties, let him die. Levi hath brought certain pieces of wood hither +to my house, and is even now at work. If the youth is still stubborn in +his unbelief, let him die even as the Unbeliever died--by the righteous +judgment of the Romans.” + +“Let it be so. Let him be crucified!” said the rabbis with one voice. + +Then Lazarus rose and went out, and, in the vision, the rabbis remained +seated, motionless in their places awaiting his return. The noise of +Levi’s hammer echoed through the low vaulted chamber, and at each blow +the smoking lamp quivered a little, casting strange shadows upon the +evil faces beneath its light. At last footsteps, slow and uncertain, +were heard without, the low door opened, and Lazarus entered, holding up +the body of his son before him. + +“I have brought him before you for the last time,” he said. “Question +him and hear his condemnation out of his own mouth. He repents +not, though I have done my utmost to bring him back to the paths of +righteousness. Question him, my masters, and let us see what he will +say.” + +White and exhausted with long hunger and thirst, his body broken by +torture, scarcely any longer sensible to bodily pain, Simon Abeles would +have fallen to the ground had his father not held him under the arms. +His head hung forward and the pale and noble face was inclined towards +the breast, but the deep, dark eyes were open and gazed calmly upon +those who sat in judgment at the table. A rough piece of linen cloth was +wrapped about the boy’s shoulders and body, but his thin arms were bare. + +“Hearest thou, Simon, son of Lazarus?” asked the rabbis. “Knowest thou +in whose presence thou standest?” + +“I hear you and I know you all.” There was no fear in the voice though +it trembled from weakness. + +“Renounce then thy errors, and having suffered the chastisement of thy +folly, return to the ways of thy father and of thy father’s house and of +all thy people.” + +“I renounce my sins, and whatsoever is yet left for me to suffer, +I will, by God’s help, so bear it as to be not unworthy of Christ’s +mercy.” + +The rabbis gazed at the brave young face, and smiled and wagged their +beards, talking one with another in low tones. + +“It is as we feared,” they said. “He is unrepentant and he is worthy of +death. It is not expedient that the young adder should live. There +is poison under his tongue, and he speaks things not lawful for an +Israelite to hear. Let him die, that we may see him no more, and that +our children be not corrupted by his false teachings.” + +“Hearest thou? Thou shalt die.” It was Lazarus who spoke, while holding +up the boy before the table and hissing the words into his ear. + +“I hear. I am ready. Lead me forth.” + +“There is yet time to repent. If thou wilt but deny what thou hast said +these many days, and return to us, thou shalt be forgiven and thy days +shall be long among us, and thy children’s days after thee, and the Lord +shall perchance have mercy and increase thy goods among thy fellows.” + +“Let him alone,” said the rabbis. “He is unrepentant.” + +“Lead me forth,” said Simon Abeles. + +“Lead him forth,” repeated the rabbis. “Perchance, when he sees the +manner of his death before his eyes, he will repent at the last.” + +The boy’s fearless eyes looked from one to the other. + +“Whatsoever it be,” he said, “I have but one life. Take it as you +will. I die in the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ, and into His hands I +commend my spirit--which you cannot take.” + +“Lead him forth! Let him be crucified!” cried the rabbis together. “We +will hear him no longer.” + +Then Lazarus led his son away from them, and left them talking together +and shaking their heads and wagging their filthy beards. And in the +vision the scene changed. The chamber with its flickering lamp and its +black table and all the men who were in it grew dim and faded away, and +in its place there was a dim inner court between high houses, upon which +only the windows of the house of Lazarus opened. There, upon the ground, +stood a lantern of horn, and the soft yellow light of it fell upon two +pieces of wood, nailed one upon the other to form a small cross--small, +indeed, but yet tall enough and broad enough and strong enough to bear +the slight burden of the boy’s frail body. And beside it stood Lazarus +and Levi, the Short-handed, the strong rabbi, holding Simon Abeles +between them. On the ground lay pieces of cord, ready, wherewith to bind +him to the cross, for they held it unlawful to shed his blood. + +It was soon done. The two men took up the cross and set it, with the +body hanging thereon, against the wall of the narrow court, over against +the house of Lazarus. + +“Thou mayest still repent--during this night,” said the father, holding +up the horn lantern and looking into his son’s tortured face. + +“Ay--there is yet time,” said Levi, brutally. “He will not die so soon.” + +“Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,” said the weak voice once +more. + +Then Lazarus raised his hand and struck him once more on the mouth, as +he had done on that first night when he had seized him near the church. +But Levi, the Short-handed, as though in wrath at seeing all his +torments fail, dealt him one heavy blow just where the ear joins the +neck, and it was over at last. A radiant smile of peace flickered over +the pale face, the eyelids quivered and closed, the head fell forward +upon the breast and the martyrdom of Simon Abeles was consummated. + +Into the dark court came the rabbis one by one from the inner chamber, +and each as he came took up the horn lantern and held it to the dead +face and smiled and spoke a few low words in the Hebrew tongue and then +went out into the street, until only Lazarus and Levi were left alone +with the dead body. Then they debated what they should do, and for a +time they went into the house and refreshed themselves with food and +wine, and comforted each other, well knowing that they had done an evil +deed. And they came back when it was late and wrapped the body in the +coarse cloth and carried it out stealthily and buried it in the Jewish +cemetery, and departed again to their own houses. + +“And there he lay,” said Unorna, “the boy of your race who was faithful +to death. Have you suffered? Have you for one short hour known the +meaning of such great words as you dared to speak to me? Do you know now +what it means to be a martyr, to suffer for standing on the very spot +where he lay, you have felt in some small degree a part of what he must +have felt. You live. Be warned. If again you anger me, your life shall +not be spared you.” + +The visions had all vanished. Again the wilderness of gravestones and +lean, crooked trees appeared, wild and desolate as before. The Wanderer +roused himself and saw Unorna standing before Israel Kafka’s prostrate +body. As though suddenly released from a spell he sprang forward and +knelt down, trying to revive the unconscious man by rubbing his hands +and chafing his temples. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +The Wanderer glanced at Unorna’s face and saw the expression of +relentless hatred which had settled upon her features. He neither +understood it nor attempted to account for it. So far as he knew, Israel +Kafka was mad, a man to be pitied, to be cared for, to be controlled +perhaps, but assuredly not to be maltreated. Though the memories of the +last half hour were confused and distorted, the Wanderer began to be +aware that the young Hebrew had been made to suffer almost beyond the +bounds of human endurance. So far as it was possible to judge, Israel +Kafka’s fault consisted in loving a woman who did not return his love, +and his worst misdeed had been his sudden intrusion upon an interview +in which the Wanderer could recall nothing which might not have been +repeated to the whole world with impunity. + +During the last month he had lived a life of bodily and mental +indolence, in which all his keenest perceptions and strongest instincts +had been lulled into a semi-dormant state. Unknown to himself, the +mainspring of all thought and action had been taken out of his existence +together with the very memory of it. For years he had lived and moved +and wandered over the earth in obedience to one dominant idea. By +a magic of which he knew nothing that idea had been annihilated, +temporarily, if not for ever, and the immediate consequence had been the +cessation of all interest and of all desire for individual action. +The suspension of all anxiety, restlessness and mental suffering had +benefited the physical man though it had reduced the intelligence to a +state bordering upon total apathy. + +But organisations, mental or physical, of great natural strength, are +never reduced to weakness by a period of inactivity. It is those minds +and bodies which have been artificially developed by a long course of +training to a degree of power they were never intended to possess, which +lose that force almost immediately in idleness. The really very strong +man has no need of constant gymnastic exercise; he will be stronger than +other men whatever he does. The strong character needs not be constantly +struggling against terrible odds in the most difficult situations in +order to be sure of its own solidity, nor must the deep intellect be +ever plodding through the mazes of intricate theories and problems that +it may feel itself superior to minds of less compass. There is much +natural inborn strength of body and mind in the world, and on the whole +those who possess either accomplish more than those in whom either is +the result of long and well-regulated training. + +The belief in a great cruelty and a greater injustice roused the man who +throughout so many days had lived in calm indifference to every aspect +of the humanity around him. Seeing that Israel Kafka could not be +immediately restored to consciousness, he rose to his feet again and +stood between the prostrate victim and Unorna. + +“You are killing this man instead of saving him,” he said. “His crime, +you say, is that he loves you. Is that a reason for using all your +powers to destroy him in body and mind?” + +“Perhaps,” answered Unorna calmly, though there was still a dangerous +light in her eyes. + +“No. It is no reason,” answered the Wanderer with a decision to which +Unorna was not accustomed. “Keyork tells me that the man is mad. He may +be. But he loves you and deserves mercy of you.” + +“Mercy!” exclaimed Unorna with a cruel laugh. “You heard what he +said--you were for silencing him yourself. You could not have done it. I +have--and most effectually.” + +“Whatever your art really may be, you use it badly and cruelly. A moment +ago I was blinded myself. If I had understood clearly while you were +speaking that you were making this poor fellow suffer in himself the +hideous agony you described I would have stopped you. You blinded me, as +you dominated him. But I am not blind now. You shall not torment him any +longer. + +“And how would you have stopped me? How can you hinder me now?” asked +Unorna. + +The Wanderer gazed at her in silence for some moments. There was an +expression in his face which she had never seen there. Towering above +her he looked down. The massive brows were drawn together, the eyes were +cold and impenetrable, every feature expressed strength. + +“By force, if need be,” he answered very quietly. + +The woman before him was not of those who fear or yield. She met his +glance boldly. Scarcely half an hour earlier she had been able to steal +away his senses and make him subject to her. She was ready to renew the +contest, though she realised that a change had taken place in him. + +“You talk of force to a woman!” she exclaimed, contemptuously. “You are +indeed brave!” + +“You are not a woman. You are the incarnation of cruelty. I have seen +it.” + +His eyes were cold and his voice was stern. Unorna felt a very sharp +pain and shivered as though she were cold. Whatever else was bad and +cruel and untrue in her wild nature, her love for him was true and +passionate and enduring. And she loved him the more for the strength he +was beginning to show, and for his determined opposition. The words he +had spoken had hurt her as he little guessed they could, not knowing +that he alone of men had power to wound her. + +“You do not know,” she answered. “How should you?” Her glance fell and +her voice trembled. + +“I know enough,” he said. He turned coldly from her and knelt again +beside Israel Kafka. + +He raised the pale head and supported it upon his knee, and gazed +anxiously into the face, raising the lids with his finger as though to +convince himself that the man was not dead. Indeed there seemed to be +but little life left in him as he lay there with outstretched arms and +twisted fingers, scarcely breathing. In such a place, without so much as +the commonest restorative to aid him, the Wanderer saw that he had but +little chance of success. + +Unorna stood aside, not looking at the two men. It was nothing to her +whether Kafka lived or died. She was suffering herself, more than she +had ever suffered in her life. He had said that she was not a woman--she +whose whole woman’s nature worshiped him. He had said that she was the +incarnation of cruelty--and it was true, though it was her love for him +that made her cruel to the other. Could he know what she had felt, when +she had understood that Israel Kafka had heard her passionate words and +seen her eager face, and had laughed her to scorn? Could any woman at +such a time be less than cruel? Was not her hate for the man who loved +her as great as her love for the man who loved her not? Even if she +possessed instruments of torture for the soul more terrible than those +invented in darker ages to rack the human body, was she not justified +in using them all? Was not Israel Kafka guilty of the greatest of all +crimes, of loving when he was not loved, and of witnessing her shame and +discomfiture? She could not bear to look at him, lest she should lose +herself and try to thrust the Wanderer aside and kill the man with her +hands. + +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. Then she +ran forward to overtake him, but he, hearing her approach, quickened his +stride, seeming but little hampered in his pace by the burden he bore. +But Unorna, too, was fleet of foot and strong. + +“Stop!” she cried, laying her hand upon his arm. “Stop! Hear me! Do not +leave me so!” + +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. + +“Stop!” she cried again. “I will save him--I will obey you--I will be +kind to him--he will die in your arms if you do not let me help you--oh! +for the love of Heaven, wait one moment! Only one moment!” + +She so thrust herself in the Wanderer’s path, hanging upon him and +trying to tear Kafka from his arms, that he was forced to stand still +and face her. + +“Let me pass!” he exclaimed, making another effort to advance. But she +clung to him and he could not move. + +“No,--I will not let you go,” she murmured. “You can do nothing without +me, you will only kill him, as I would have done a moment ago--” + +“And as you will do now,” he said sternly, “if I let you have your way.” + +“By all that is Holy in Heaven, I will save him--he shall not even +remember--” + +“Do not swear. I shall not believe you.” + +“You will believe when you see--you will forgive me--you will +understand.” + +Without answering he exerted his strength and clasping the insensible +man more firmly in his arms he made one or two steps forward. Unorna’s +foot slipped on the frozen ground and she would have fallen to the +earth, but she clung to him with desperate energy. Seeing that she was +in danger of some bodily hurt if he used greater force, the Wanderer +stopped again, uncertain how to act; Unorna stood before him, panting a +little from the struggle, her face as white as death. + +“Unless you kill me,” she said, “you shall not take him away so. Hold +him in your arms, if you will, but let me speak to him.” + +“And how shall I know that you will not hurt him, you who hate him as +you do?” + +“Am I not at your mercy?” asked Unorna. “If I deceive you, can you not +do what you will with me, even if I try to resist you, which I will not? +Hold me, if you choose, lest I should escape you, and if Israel Kafka +does not recover his strength and his consciousness, then take me with +you and deliver me up to justice as a witch--as a murderess, if you +will.” + +The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what she +said was true. She was in his power. + +“Restore him if you can,” he said. + +Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka’s forehead and bending down whispered +into his ear words which were inaudible even to the man who held +him. The mysterious change from sleep to consciousness was almost +instantaneous. He opened his eyes and looked first at Unorna and then at +the Wanderer. There was neither pain nor passion in his face, but only +wonder. A moment more and his limbs regained their strength, he stood +upright and passed his hand over his eyes as though trying to remember +what had happened. + +“How came I here?” he asked in surprise. “What has happened to me?” + +“You fainted,” said Unorna quietly. “You remember that you were very +tired after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will take +you home.” + +“Yes--yes--I must have fainted. Forgive me--it comes over me sometimes.” + +He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the present +moment, when he glanced curiously from the one to the other of his two +companions, as they all three began to walk towards the gate. Unorna +avoided his eyes, and seemed to be looking at the irregular slabs they +passed on their way. + +The Wanderer had intended to free himself from her as soon as Kafka +regained his senses, but he had not been prepared for such a sudden +change. He saw, now, that he could not exchange a word with her without +exciting the man’s suspicion, and he was by no means sure that the first +emotion might not produce a sudden and dangerous effect. He did not even +know how great the change might be, which Unorna’s words had brought +about. That Kafka had forgotten at once his own conduct and the fearful +vision which Unorna had imposed upon him was clear, but it did not +follow that he had ceased to love her. Indeed, to one only partially +acquainted with the laws which govern hypnotics, such a transition +seemed very far removed from possibility. He who in one moment had +himself been made to forget utterly the dominant passion and love of his +life, was so completely ignorant of the fact that he could not believe +such a thing possible in any case whatsoever. + +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. He supposed, +too, that Unorna realized this as well as he did, and he tried to be +prepared for all events by revolving all the possibilities in his mind. + +But Unorna was absorbed by very different thoughts. From time to time +she stole a glance at his face, and she saw that it was stern and +cold as ever. She had kept her word, but he did not relent. A terrible +anxiety overwhelmed her. It was possible, even probable, that he would +henceforth avoid her. She had gone too far. She had not reckoned upon +such a nature as his, capable of being roused to implacable anger by +mere sympathy for the suffering of another. Then, understanding it at +last, she had thought it would be enough that those sufferings should +be forgotten by him upon whom they had been inflicted. She could not +comprehend the horror he felt for herself and for her hideous cruelty. +She had entered the cemetery in the consciousness of her strong will +and of her mysterious powers certain of victory, sure that having once +sacrificed her pride and stooped so low as to command what should have +come of itself, she should see his face change and hear the ring of +passion in that passionless voice. 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. + +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. + +Unorna started slightly and turned as though about to make a sharp +answer. But she checked herself, for the Wanderer was looking at her. +She spoke to him instead of answering Kafka. + +“It is the best arrangement--do you not think so?” she asked. + +“Quite the best.” + +“I shall be gratified if you will bring me word of him,” she said, +glancing at Kafka. + +The Wanderer was silent as though he had not heard. + +“Have you been in pain? Do you feel as though you had been suffering?” + she asked of the younger man, in a tone of sympathy and solicitude. + +“No. Why do you ask?” + +Unorna smiled and looked at the Wanderer, with intention. He did not +heed her. At that moment two carriages appeared and drew up at the end +of the narrow alley which leads from the street to the entrance of the +cemetery. All three walked forward together. Kafka went forward and +opened the door of one of the conveyances for Unorna to get in. The +Wanderer, still anxious for the man’s safety, would have taken his +place, but Kafka turned upon him almost defiantly. + +“Permit me,” he said. “I was before you here.” + +The Wanderer stood civilly aside and lifted his hat. Unorna held out her +hand, and he took it coldly, not being able to do otherwise. + +“You will let me know, will you not?” she said. “I am anxious about +him.” + +He raised his eyebrows a little and dropped her hand. + +“You shall be informed,” he said. + +Kafka helped her to get into the carriage. She drew him by the hand so +that his head was inside the door and the other man could not hear her +words. + +“I am anxious about you,” she said very kindly. “Make him come himself +to me and tell me how you are.” + +“Surely--if you have asked him--” + +“He hates me,” whispered Unorna quickly. “Unless you make him come he +will send no message.” + +“Then let me come myself--I am perfectly well--” + +“Hush--no!” she answered hurriedly. “Do as I say--it will be best for +you--and for me. Good-bye.” + +“Your word is my law,” said Kafka, drawing back. His eyes were bright +and his thin cheek was flushed. It was long since she had spoken so +kindly to him. A ray of hope entered his life. + +The Wanderer saw the look and interpreted it rightly. He understood +that in that brief moment Unorna had found time to do some mischief. Her +carriage drove on, and left the two men free to enter the one intended +for them. Kafka gave the driver the address of his lodgings. Then +he sank back into the corner, exhausted and conscious of his extreme +weakness. A short silence followed. + +“You are in need of rest,” said the Wanderer, watching him curiously. + +“Indeed, I am very tired, if not actually ill.” + +“You have suffered enough to tire the strongest.” + +“In what way?” asked Kafka. “I have forgotten what happened. I know that +I followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house, and I saw +you afterwards together. I had not spoken to her since I came back from +my long journey this morning. Tell me what occurred. Did she make me +sleep? I feel as I have felt before when I have fancied that she has +hypnotised me.” + +The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. The question was asked as +naturally as though it referred to an everyday occurrence of little or +no weight. + +“Yes,” he answered. “She made you sleep.” + +“Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have forgotten +it.” + +The Wanderer hesitated a moment. + +“I cannot answer your question,” he said, at length. + +“Ah--she told me that you hated her,” said Kafka, turning his dark eyes +to his companion. “But, yet,” he added, “that is hardly a reason why you +should not tell me what happened.” + +“I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I have no +right to say to a stranger--which I could not easily say to a friend.” + +“You need not spare me--” + +“It might save you.” + +“Then say it--though I do not know from what danger I am to be saved. +But I can guess, perhaps. You would advise me to give up the attempt to +win her.” + +“Precisely. I need say no more.” + +“On the contrary,” said Kafka with sudden energy, “when a man gives such +advice as that to a stranger he is bound to give also his reasons.” + +The Wanderer looked at him calmly as he answered. + +“One man need hardly give a reason for saving another man’s life. Yours +is in danger.” + +“I see that you hate her, as she said you did.” + +“You and she are both mistaken in that. I am not in love with her and +I have ceased to be her friend. As for my interest in you, it does not +even pretend to be friendly--it is that which any man may feel for a +fellow-being, and what any man would feel who had seen what I have seen +this afternoon.” + +The calm bearing and speech of the experienced man of the world carried +weight with it in the eyes of the young Moravian, whose hot blood knew +little of restraint and less of caution; with the keen instinct of +his race in the reading of character he suddenly understood that his +companion was at once generous and disinterested. A burst of confidence +followed close upon the conviction. + +“If I am to lose her love, I would rather lose my life also, and by her +hand,” he said hotly. “You are warning me against her. I feel that you +are honest and I see that you are in earnest. I thank you. If I am in +danger, do not try to save me. I saw her face a few moments ago, and she +spoke to me. I cannot believe that she is plotting my destruction.” + +The Wanderer was silent. He wondered whether it was his duty to do +or say more. Unorna was a changeable woman. She might love the man +to-morrow. But Israel Kafka was too young to let the conversation drop. +Boy-like he expected confidence for confidence, and was surprised at his +companion’s taciturnity. + +“What did she say to me when I was asleep?” he asked, after a short +pause. + +“Did you ever hear the story of Simon Abeles?” the Wanderer inquired by +way of answer. + +Kafka frowned and looked round sharply. + +“Simon Abeles? He was a renegade Hebrew boy. His father killed him. +He is buried in the Teyn Kirche. What of him? What has he to do with +Unorna, or with me? I am myself a Jew. The time has gone by when we Jews +hid our heads. I am proud of what I am, and I will never be a Christian. +What can Simon Abeles have to do with me?” + +“Little enough, now that you are awake.” + +“And when I was asleep, what then? She made me see him, perhaps?” + +“She made you live his life. She made you suffer all that he suffered--” + +“What?” cried Israel Kafka in a loud and angry tone. + +“What I say,” returned the other quietly. + +“And you did not interfere? You did not stop her? No, of course, I +forgot that you are a Christian.” + +The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. It had not struck him that +Israel Kafka might be a man of the deepest religious convictions, a +Hebrew of the Hebrews, and that what he would resent most would be the +fact that in his sleep Unorna had made him play the part and suffer +the martyrdom of a convert to Christianity. This was exactly what took +place. He would have suffered anything at Unorna’s hands, and without +complaint, even to bodily death, but his wrath rose furiously at the +thought that she had been playing with what he held most sacred, that +she had forced from his lips the denial of the faith of his people and +the confession of the Christian belief, perhaps the very words of the +hated Creed. The modern Hebrew of Western Europe might be indifferent in +such a case, as though he had spoken in the delirium of a fever, but the +Jew of the less civilised East is a different being, and in some ways +a stronger. Israel Kafka represented the best type of his race, and his +blood boiled at the insult that had been put upon him. The Wanderer saw, +and understood, and at once began to respect him, as men who believe +firmly in opposite creeds have been known to respect each other even in +a life and death struggle. + +“I would have stopped her if I could,” he said. + +“Were you sleeping, too?” asked Kafka hotly. + +“I cannot tell. I was powerless though I was conscious. I saw only Simon +Abeles in it all, though I seemed to be aware that you and he were one +person. I did interfere--so soon as I was free to move. I think I saved +your life. I was carrying you away in my arms when she waked you.” + +“I thank you--I suppose it is as you tell me. You could not move--but +you saw it all, you say. You saw me play the part of the apostate, you +heard me confess the Christian’s faith?” + +“Yes--I saw you die in agony, confessing it still.” + +Israel Kafka ground his teeth and turned his face away. The Wanderer was +silent. A few moments later the carriage stopped at the door of Kafka’s +lodging. The latter turned to his companion, who was startled by the +change in the young face. The mouth was now closely set, the features +seemed bolder, the eyes harder and more manly, a look of greater dignity +and strength was in the whole. + +“You do not love her?” he asked. “Do you give me your word that you do +not love her?” + +“If you need so much to assure you of it, I give you my word. I do not +love her.” + +“Will you come with me for a few moments? I live here.” + +The Wanderer made a gesture of assent. In a few moments they found +themselves in a large room furnished almost in Eastern fashion, with few +objects, but those of great value. Israel Kafka was alone in the world +and was rich. There were two or three divans, a few low, octagonal, +inlaid tables, a dozen or more splendid weapons hung upon the wall, +and the polished wooden floor was partly covered with extremely rich +carpets. + +“Do you know what she said to me, when I helped her into the carriage?” + asked Kafka. + +“No, I did not attempt to hear.” + +“She did not mean that you should hear her. She made me promise to send +you to her with news of myself. She said that you hated her and would +not go to her unless I begged you to do so. Is that true?” + +“I have told you that I do not hate her. I hate her cruelty. I will +certainly not go to her of my own choice.” + +“She said that I had fainted. That was a lie. She invented it as an +excuse to attract you, on the ground of her interest in my condition.” + +“Evidently.” + +“She hates me with an extreme hatred. Her real interest lay in showing +you how terrible that hatred could be. It is not possible to conceive of +anything more diabolically bad than what she did to me. She made me her +sport--yours, too, perhaps, or she would at least have wished it. On +that holy ground where my people lie in peace she made me deny my faith, +she made me, in your eyes and her own, personate a renegade of my race, +she made me confess in the Christian creed, she made me seem to die for +a belief I abhor. Can you conceive of anything more devilish? A moment +later she smiles upon me and presses my hand, and is anxious to know of +my good health. And but for you, I should never have known what she had +done to me. I owe you gratitude, though it be for the worst pain I have +ever suffered. But do you think I will forgive her?” + +“You would be very forgiving if you could,” said the Wanderer, his own +anger rising again at the remembrance of what he had seen. + +“And do you think that I can love still?” + +“No.” + +Israel Kafka walked the length of the room and then came back and stood +before the Wanderer and looked into his eyes. His face was very calm and +resolute, the flush had vanished from his thin cheeks, and the features +were set in an expression of irrevocable determination. Then he spoke, +slowly and distinctly. + +“You are mistaken. I love her with all my heart. I will therefore kill +her.” + +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. But his next words explained even that. + +“She made me promise to send you to her if you would go,” he said. “Will +you go to her now?” + +“What shall I tell her? I warn you that since--” + +“You need not warn me. I know what you would say. But I will be no +common murderer. I will not kill her as she would have killed me. Warn +her, not me. Go to her and say, ‘Israel Kafka has promised before God +that he will take your blood in expiation, and there is no escape from +the man who is himself ready to die.’ Tell her to fly for her life, and +that quickly.” + +“And what will you gain by doing this murder?” asked the Wanderer, +calmly. He was revolving schemes for Unorna’s safety, and half amazed to +find himself forced in common humanity to take her part. + +“I shall free myself of my shame in loving her, at the price of her +blood and mine. Will you go?” + +“And what is to prevent me from delivering you over to safe keeping +before you do this deed?” + +“You have no witness,” answered Kafka with a smile. “You are a stranger +in the city and in this country, and I am rich. I shall easily prove +that you love Unorna, and that you wish to get rid of me out of +jealousy.” + +“That is true,” said the Wanderer, thoughtfully. “I will go.” + +“Go quickly, then,” said Israel Kafka, “for I shall follow soon.” + +As the Wanderer left the room he saw the Moravian turn toward the place +where the keen, splendid Eastern weapons hung upon the wall. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +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. The Wanderer had no time and but little +inclination to blame himself for the part he had played in disclosing to +the principal actor the nature of the scene which had taken place in +the cemetery, and the immediate consequences of that disclosure, though +wholly unexpected, did not seem utterly illogical. Israel Kafka’s nature +was eastern, violently passionate and, at the same time, long-suffering +in certain directions as only the fatalist can be. He could have loved +for a lifetime faithfully, without requital; he would have suffered in +patience Unorna’s anger, scorn, pity or caprice; he had long before now +resigned his free will into the keeping of a passion which was degrading +as it enslaved all his thoughts and actions, but which had +something noble in it, inasmuch as it fitted him for the most heroic +self-sacrifice. + +Unorna’s act had brought the several seemingly contradictory elements of +his character to bear upon one point. He had realised in the same moment +that it was impossible for her to love him; that her changing treatment +of him was not the result of caprice but of a fixed plan of her own, in +the execution of which she would spare him neither falsehood nor insult; +that to love such a woman was the lowest degradation; that he could +nevertheless not destroy that love; and, finally, that the only escape +from his shame lay in her destruction, and that this must in all +probability involve his own death also. At the same time he felt that +there was something solemn in the expiation he was about to exact, +something that accorded well with the fierce traditions of ancient +Israel, and the deed should not be done stealthily or in the dark. +Unorna must know that she was to die by his hand, and why. He had +no object in concealment, for his own life was already ended by the +certainty that his love was hopeless, and on the other hand, fatalist as +he was, he believed that Unorna could not escape him and that no warning +could save her. + +The Wanderer understood most of these things as he hastened towards her +house through the darkening streets. Not a carriage was to be seen, and +he was obliged to traverse the distance on foot, as often happens at +supreme moments, when everything might be gained by the saving of a few +minutes in conveying a warning. + +He saw himself in a very strange position. Half an hour had not elapsed +since he had watched Unorna driving away from the cemetery and had +inwardly determined that he would never, if possible, set eyes on her +again. Scarcely two hours earlier, he had been speaking to her of the +sincere friendship which he felt was growing up for her in his heart. +Since then he had learned, almost beyond the possibility of a doubt, +that she loved him, and he had learned, too, to despise her, he had left +her meaning that the parting should be final, and now he was hurrying +to her house to give her the warning which alone could save her from +destruction. And yet, he found it impossible to detect any inconsistency +in his own conduct. As he had been conscious of doing his utmost to save +Israel Kafka from her, so now he knew that he was doing all he could to +save Unorna from the Moravian, and he recognised the fact that no man +with the commonest feelings of humanity could have done less in either +case. But he was conscious, also, of a change in himself which he did +not attempt to analyse. His indolent, self-satisfied apathy was gone, +the strong interests of human life and death stirred him, mind and body +together acquired their activity and he was at all points once more +a man. He was ignorant, indeed, of what had been taken from him. The +memory of Beatrice was gone, and he fancied himself one who had never +loved woman. He looked back with horror and amazement upon the emptiness +of his past life, wondering how such an existence as he had led, or +fancied he had led, could have been possible. + +But there was scant time for reflection upon the problem of his own +mission in the world as he hastened towards Unorna’s house. His present +mission was clear enough and simple enough, though by no means easy of +accomplishment. 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. A stranger in the land would have small hope of +success against a man whose antecedents were known, whose fortune was +reputed great, and who had at his back the whole gigantic strength of +the Jewish interest in Prague, if he chose to invoke the assistance of +his people. The matter would end in a few days in the Wanderer being +driven from the country, while Israel Kafka would be left behind to work +his will as might seem best in his own eyes. + +There was Keyork Arabian. So far as it was possible to believe in the +sincerity of any of the strange persons among whom the Wanderer found +himself, it seemed certain that the sage was attached to Unorna by some +bond of mutual interests which he would be loth to break. Keyork had +many acquaintances and seemed to posses everywhere a certain amount of +respect, whether because he was perhaps a member of some widespread, +mysterious society of which the Wanderer knew nothing, or whether this +importance of his was due to his personal superiority of mind and wide +experience of travel, no one could say. But it seemed certain that if +Unorna could be placed for the time being in a safe refuge, it would be +best to apply to Keyork to insure her further protection. Meanwhile that +refuge must be found and Unorna must be conveyed to it without delay. + +The Wanderer was admitted without question. He found Unorna in her +accustomed place. She had thrown aside her furs and was sitting in an +attitude of deep thought. Her dress was black, and in the soft light of +the shaded lamps she was like a dark, marble statue set in the midst of +thick shrubbery in a garden. Her elbow rested on her knee, her chin upon +her beautiful, heavy hand; only in her hair there was bright colour. + +She knew the Wanderer’s footstep, but she neither moved her body nor +turned her head. She felt that she grew paler than before, and she could +hear her heart beating strongly. + +“I come from Israel Kafka,” said the Wanderer, standing still before +her. + +She knew from his tone how hard his face must be, and she would not look +up. + +“What of him?” she asked in a voice without expression. “Is he well?” + +“He bids me say to you that he has promised before Heaven to take your +life, and that there is no escape from a man who is ready to lay down +his own.” + +Unorna turned her head slowly towards him, and a very soft look stole +over her strange face. + +“And you have brought me his message--this warning--to save me?” she +said. + +“As I tried to save him from you an hour ago. But there is little time. +The man is desperate, whether mad or sane, I cannot tell. Make haste. +Determine where to go for safety, and I will take you there.” + +But Unorna did not move. She only looked at him, with an expression he +could no longer misunderstand. He was cold and impassive. + +“I fancy it will not be safe to hesitate long,” he said. “He is in +earnest.” + +“I do not fear Israel Kafka, and I fear death less,” answered Unorna +deliberately. “Why does he mean to kill me?” + +“I think that in his place most every human men would feel as he does, +though religion, or prudence, or fear, or all three together, might +prevent them from doing what they would wish to do.” + +“You too? And which of the three would prevent you from murdering me?” + +“None, perhaps--though pity might.” + +“I want no pity, least of all from you. What I have done, I have done +for you, and for you only.” + +The Wanderer’s face showed only a cold disgust. He said nothing. + +“You do not seem surprised,” said Unorna. “You know that I love you?” + +“I know it.” + +A silence followed, during which Unorna returned to her former attitude, +turning her eyes away and resting her chin upon her hand. The Wanderer +began to grow impatient. + +“I must repeat that, in my opinion, you have not much time to spare,” + he said. “If you are not in a place of safety in half an hour, I cannot +answer for the consequences.” + +“No time? There is all eternity. What is eternity, or time, or life to +me? I will wait for him here. Why did you tell him what I did, if you +wished me to live?” + +“Why--since there are to be questions--why did you exercise your cruelty +upon an innocent man who loves you?” + +“Why? There are reasons enough!” Unorna’s voice trembled slightly. “You +do not know what happened. How should you? You were asleep. You may as +well know, since I may be beyond telling you an hour from now. You may +as well know how I love you, and to what depths I have gone down to win +your love.” + +“I would rather not receive your confidence,” the Wanderer answered +haughtily. “I came here to save your life, not to hear your +confessions.” + +“And when you have heard, you will no longer wish to save me. If you +choose to leave me here, I will wait for Israel Kafka alone. He may kill +me if he pleases. I do not care. But if you stay you shall hear what I +have to say.” + +She glanced at his face. He folded his arms and stood still. Whatever +she had done, he would not leave her alone at the mercy of the desperate +man whom he expected every moment to enter the room. If she would not +save herself, he might nevertheless disarm Kafka and prevent the deed. +As his long sleeping energy revived in him the thought of a struggle was +not disagreeable. + +“I loved you from the moment when I first saw you,” said Unorna, trying +to speak calmly. “But you loved another woman. Do you remember her? Her +name was Beatrice, and she was very dark, as I am fair. You had lost her +and you had sought her for years. You entered my house, thinking that +she had gone in before you. Do you remember that morning? It was a month +ago to-day. You told me the story.” + +“You have dreamed it,” said the Wanderer in cold surprise. “I never +loved any woman yet.” + +Unorna laughed bitterly. + +“How perfect it all was at first!” she exclaimed. “How smooth it +seemed! How easy! You slept before me, out there by the river that very +afternoon. And in your sleep I bade you forget. And you forgot wholly, +your love, the woman, her very name, even as Israel Kafka forgot to-day +what he had suffered in the person of the martyr. You told him the +story, and he believes you, because he knows me, and knows what I can +do. You can believe me or not; as you will. I did it.” + +“You are dreaming,” the Wanderer repeated, wondering whether she were +not out of her mind. + +“I did it. I said to myself that if I could destroy your old love, root +it out from your heart and from your memory and make you as one who had +never loved at all, then you would love me as you had once loved her, +with your whole free soul. I said that I was beautiful--it is true, is +it not? And young I am, and I loved as no woman ever loved. And I said +that it was enough, and that soon you would love me, too. A month has +passed away since then. You are of ice--of stone--I do not know of what +you are. This morning you hurt me. I thought it was the last hurt +and that I should die then--instead of to-night. Do you remember? You +thought I was ill, and you went away. When you were gone I fought with +myself. My dreams--yes, I had dreamed of all that can make earth Heaven, +and you had waked me. You said that you would be a brother to me--you +talked of friendship. The sting of it! It is no wonder that I grew faint +with pain. Had you struck me in the face, I would have kissed your hand. +But your friendship! Rather be dead than, loving, be held a friend! And +I had dreamed of being dear to you for my own sake, of being dearest, +and first, and alone beloved, since that other was gone and I had burned +her memory. That pride I had still, until that moment. I fancied that it +was in my power, if I would stoop so low, to make you sleep again as +you had slept before, and to make you at my bidding feel all I felt. I +fought with myself. I would not go down to that depth. And then I said +that even that were better than your friendship, even a false semblance +of love inspired by my will, preserved by my suggestion. And so I fell. +You came back to me and I led you to that lonely place, and made you +sleep, and then I told you what was in my heart and poured out the +fire of my soul into your ears. A look came into your face--I shall not +forget it. My folly was upon me, and I thought it was for me. I know the +truth now. Sleeping, the old memory revived in you of her whom waking +you will never remember again. But the look was there, and I bade you +awake. My soul rose in my eyes. I hung upon your lips. The loving word +I longed for seemed already to tremble in the air. Then came the +truth. You awoke, and your face was stone, calm, smiling, indifferent, +unloving. And all this Israel Kafka had seen, hiding like a thief almost +beside us. He saw it all, he heard it all, my words of love, my agony of +waiting, my utter humiliation, my burning shame. Was I cruel to him? He +had made me suffer, and he suffered in his turn. All this you did not +know. You know it now. There is nothing more to tell. Will you wait here +until he comes? Will you look on, and be glad to see me die? Will you +remember in the years to come with satisfaction that you saw the witch +killed for her many misdeeds, and for the chief of them all--for loving +you?” + +The Wanderer had listened to her words, but the tale they told was +beyond the power of his belief. He stood still in his place, with folded +arms, debating what he should do to save her. One thing alone was clear. +She loved him to distraction. Possibly, he thought, her story was but an +invention to excuse her cruelty and to win his commiseration. It failed +to do either at first, but yet he would not leave her to her fate. + +“You shall not die if I can help it,” he said simply. + +“And if you save me, do you think that I will leave you?” she asked with +sudden agitation, turning and half rising from her seat. “Think what you +will be doing, if you save me. Think well. You say that Israel Kafka is +desperate. I am worse than desperate, worse than mad with my love.” + +She sank back again and hid her face for a moment. He, on his part, +began to see the terrible reality and strength of her passion, and +silently wondered what the end would be. He, too, was human, and pity +for her began at last to touch his heart. + +“You shall not die, if I can save you,” he said again. + +She sprang to her feet very suddenly and stood before him. + +“You pity me!” she cried. “What lie is that which says that there is +a kinship between pity and love? Think well--beware--be warned. I have +told you much, but you do not know me yet. If you save me, you save +me but to love you more than I do already. Look at me. For me there is +neither God, nor hell, nor pride, nor shame. There is nothing that I +will not do, nothing I shall be ashamed or afraid of doing. If you save +me, you save me that I may follow you as long as I live. I will never +leave you. You shall never escape my presence, your whole life shall be +full of me--you do not love me, and I can threaten you with nothing more +intolerable than myself. Your eyes will weary of the sight of me and +your ears at the sound of my voice. Do you think I have no hope? A +moment ago I had none. 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. How can you think that I have no hope! I have hope--and certainty, +for I shall be near you always to the end--always, always, always! I +will cling to you--as I do now--and say, I love you, I love you--yes, +and you will cast me off, but I will not go--I will clasp your feet, +and say again, I love you, and you may spurn me--man, god, wanderer, +devil,--whatever you are--beloved always! Tread upon me, trample on me, +crush me--you cannot save yourself, you cannot kill my love!” + +She had tried to take his hand and he had withdrawn his, she had fallen +upon her knees, and as he tried to free himself had fallen almost to +her length upon the marble floor, clinging to his very feet, so that he +could make no step without doing her some hurt. He looked down, amazed +and silent, and as he looked she cast one glance upward to his stern +face, the bright tears streaming like falling gems from her unlike eyes, +her face pale and quivering, her rich hair all loosened and falling +about her. + +And then, neither body, nor heart, nor soul, could bear the enormous +strain that was laid upon them. A low cry broke from her lips, a stormy +sob, another and another, like quick short waves breaking over the bar +when the tide is low and the wind is rising suddenly. + +The Wanderer was in sore straits, for the minutes were passing quickly +and he remembered the last look on Kafka’s face, and how he had left the +Moravian standing before the weapons on the wall. And nothing had been +done yet, not so much as an order given not to admit him if he came to +the house. At any moment he might be upon them. And the storm showed no +signs of being spent. Her wild, convulsive sobbing was painful to hear. +If he tried to move, she dragged herself frantically at his feet so that +he feared lest he should tread upon her hands. He pitied her now most +truly, though he guessed rightly that to show his pity would be but to +add fuel to the blazing flame. + +Then, in the interval of a second, as she drew breath to weep afresh, he +fancied that he heard sounds below as of the great door being opened +and closed again. With a quick, strong movement, stooping low he put his +arms about her and raised her from the floor. At his touch, her sobbing +ceased for a moment, as though she had wanted only that to soothe her. +In spite of him she let her head rest upon his shoulder, letting him +still feel that if he did not support her weight with his arm she would +fall again. In the midst of the most passionate and real outburst of +despairing love there was no artifice which she would not use to be +nearer to him, to extort even the semblance of a caress. + +“I heard some one come in below,” he said, hurriedly. “It must be he. +Decide quickly what to do. Either stay or fly--you have not ten seconds +for your choice.” + +She turned her imploring eyes to his. + +“Let me stay here and end it all--” + +“That you shall not!” he exclaimed, dragging her towards the end of the +hall opposite to the usual entrance, and where he knew that there must +be a door behind the screen of plants. His hold tightened upon her +yielding waist. Her head fell back and her full lips parted in an +ecstasy of delight as she felt herself hurried along in his arms, +scarcely touching the floor with her feet. + +“Ah--now--now! Let it come now!” she sighed. + +“It must be now--or never,” he said almost roughly. “If you will leave +this house with me now, very well. But leave this room you shall. If I +am to meet that man and stop him, I will meet him alone.” + +“Leave you alone? Ah no--not that----” + +They had reached the exit now. At the same instant both heard some one +enter at the other end and rapid footsteps on the marble pavement. + +“Which is it to be?” asked the Wanderer, pale and calm. He had pushed +her through before him and seemed ready to go back alone. + +With violent strength she drew him to her, closed the door and slipped +the strong steel bolt across below the lock. There was a dim light in +the passage. + +“Together, then,” she said. “I shall at least be with you--a little +longer.” + +“Is there another way out of the house?” asked the Wanderer anxiously. + +“More than one. Come with me.” + +As they disappeared in the corridor, they heard behind them the noise of +the door-lock as some one tried to force it open. Then a heavy sound as +though a man’s shoulder struck against the solid panel. Unorna led the +way through a narrow, winding passage, illuminated here and there by +small lamps with shades of soft colours, blown in Bohemian glass. + +Pushing aside a curtain they came out into a small room. The Wanderer +uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise as he recognised the +vestibule and saw before him the door of the great conservatory, open +as Israel Kafka had left it. That the latter was still trying to pursue +them through the opposite exit was clear enough, for the blows he was +striking on the panel echoed loudly out into the hall. Swiftly and +silently Unorna closed the entrance and locked it securely. + +“He is safe for a little while,” she said. “Keyork will find him there +when he comes, an hour hence, and Keyork will perhaps bring him to his +senses.” + +She had regained control of herself, to all appearances, and she spoke +with perfect calm and self-possession. The Wanderer looked at her in +surprise and with some suspicion. Her hair was all falling about her +shoulders, but saving this sign, there was no trace of the recent storm, +nor the least indication of passion. If she had been acting a part +throughout before an audience, she would have seemed less indifferent +when the curtain fell. The Wanderer, having little cause to trust her, +found it hard to believe that she had not been counterfeiting. It seemed +impossible that she should be the same woman who but a moment earlier +had been dragging herself at his feet, in wild tears and wilder +protestations of her love. + +“If you are sufficiently rested,” he said with a touch of sarcasm which +he could not restrain, “I would suggest that we do not wait any longer +here.” + +She turned and faced him, and he saw now how very white she was. + +“So you think that even now I have been deceiving you? That is what you +think. I see it in your face.” + +Before he could prevent her she had opened the door wide again and was +advancing calmly into the conservatory. + +“Israel Kafka!” she cried in loud clear tones. “I am here--I am +waiting--come!” + +The Wanderer ran forward. He caught sight in the distance of a pair of +fiery eyes and of something long and thin and sharp-gleaming under the +soft lamps. He knew then that all was deadly earnest. Swift as thought +he caught Unorna and bore her from the hall, locking the door again and +setting his broad shoulders against it, as he put her down. The daring +act she had done appealed to him, in spite of himself. + +“I beg your pardon,” he said almost deferentially. “I misjudged you.” + +“It is that,” she answered. “Either I will be with you or I will die, +by his hand, by yours, by my own--it will matter little when it is done. +You need not lean against the door. It is very strong. Your furs are +hanging there, and here are mine. Let us be going.” + +Quietly, as though nothing unusual had happened, they descended the +stairs together. The porter came forward with all due ceremony, to open +the shut door. Unorna told him that if Keyork Arabian came while she was +out, he was to be shown directly into the conservatory. A moment later +she and her companion were standing together in the small irregular +square before the Clementinum. + +“Where will you go?” asked the Wanderer. + +“With you,” she answered, laying her hand upon his arm and looking +into his face as though waiting to see what direction he would choose. +“Unless you send me back to him,” she added, glancing quickly at the +house and making as though she would withdraw her hand once more. “If it +is to be that, I will go alone.” + +There seemed to be no way out of the terrible dilemma, and the Wanderer +stood still in deep thought. He knew that if he could but free himself +from her for half an hour, he could get help from the right quarter and +take Israel Kafka red-handed and armed as he was. For the man was caught +as in a trap and must stay there until he was released, and there would +be little doubt from his manner, when taken, that he was either mad or +consciously attempting some crime. There was no longer any necessity, +he thought, for Unorna to take refuge anywhere for more than an hour. In +that time Israel Kafka would be in safe custody, and she could re-enter +her house with nothing to fear. But he counted without Unorna’s +unyielding obstinacy. She threatened if he left her for a moment to +go back to Israel Kafka. A few minutes earlier she had carried out her +threat and the consequence had been almost fatal. + +“If you are in your right mind,” he said at last, beginning to walk +towards the corner, “you will see that what you wish to do is utterly +against reason. I will not allow you to run the risk of meeting Israel +Kafka to-night, but I cannot take you with me. No--I will hold you, +if you try to escape me, and I will bring you to a place of safety by +force, if need be.” + +“And you will leave me there, and I shall never see you again. I will +not go, and you will find it hard to take me anywhere in the crowded +city by force. You are not Israel Kafka, with the whole Jews’ quarter at +your command in which to hide me.” + +The Wanderer was perplexed. He saw, however, that if he would yield the +point and give his word to return to her, she might be induced to follow +his advice. + +“If I promise to come back to you, will you do what I ask?” he inquired. + +“Will you promise truly?” + +“I have never broken a promise yet.” + +“Did you promise that other woman that you would never love again, I +wonder? If so, you are faithful indeed. But you have forgotten that. +Will you come back to me if I let you take me where I shall be safe +to-night?” + +“I will come back whenever you send for me.” + +“If you fail, my blood is on your head.” + +“Yes--on my head be it.” + +“Very well. I will go to that house where I first stayed when I came +here. Take me there quickly--no--not quickly either--let it be very +long! I shall not see you until to-morrow.” + +A carriage was passing at a foot pace. The Wanderer stopped it, and +helped Unorna to get in. The place was very near, and neither spoke, +though he could feel her hand upon his arm. He made no attempt to shake +her off. At the gate they both got out, and he rang a bell that echoed +through vaulted passages far away in the interior. + +“To-morrow,” said Unorna, touching his hand. + +He could see even in the dark the look of love she turned upon him. + +“Good-night,” he said, and in the next moment she had disappeared +within. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Having made the necessary explanations to account for her sudden +appearance, Unorna found herself installed in two rooms of modest +dimensions, and very simply though comfortably furnished. It was quite a +common thing for ladies to seek retreat and quiet in the convent during +two or three weeks of the year, and there was plenty of available space +at the disposal of those who wished to do so. Such visits were indeed +most commonly made during the lenten season, and on the day when Unorna +sought refuge among the nuns it chanced that there was but one other +stranger within the walls. She was glad to find that this was the case. +Her peculiar position would have made it hard for her to bear with +equanimity the quiet observation of a number of woman, most of whom +would probably have been to some extent acquainted with the story of her +life, and some of whom would certainly have wished out of curiosity to +enter into nearer acquaintance with her while within the convent, while +not intending to prolong their intercourse with her any further. It +could not be expected, indeed, that in a city like Prague such a woman +as Unorna could escape notice, and the fact that little or nothing +was known of her true history had left a very wide field for the +imaginations of those who chose to invent one for her. The common story, +and the one which on the whole was nearest to the truth, told that she +was the daughter of a noble of eastern Bohemia who had died soon after +her birth, the last of his family, having converted his ancestral +possessions into money for Unorna’s benefit, in order to destroy all +trace of her relationship to him. The secret must, of course, have +been confided to some one, but it had been kept faithfully, and Unorna +herself was no wiser than those who mused themselves with fruitless +speculations regarding her origin. If from the first, from the moment +when, as a young girl, she left the convent to enter into possession of +her fortune she had chosen to assert some right to a footing in the +most exclusive aristocracy in the world, it is not impossible that the +protection of the Abbess might have helped her to obtain it. The secret +of her birth would, however, have rendered a marriage with a man of that +class all but impossible, and would have entirely excluded her from +the only other position considered dignified for a well-born woman +of fortune, unmarried and wholly without living relations or +connections--that of a lady-canoness on the Crown foundation. Moreover, +her wild bringing-up, and the singular natural gifts she possessed, and +which she could not resist the impulse to exercise, had in a few months +placed her in a position from which no escape was possible so long as +she continued to live in Prague; and against those few--chiefly men--who +for her beauty’s sake, or out of curiosity, would gladly have made her +acquaintance, she raised an impassable barrier of pride and reserve. +Nor was her reputation altogether an evil one. She lived in a strange +fashion, it is true, but the very fact of her extreme seclusion had kept +her name free from stain. If people spoke of her as the Witch, it +was more from habit and half in jest than in earnest. In strong +contradiction to the cruelty which she could exercise ruthlessly when +roused to anger, was her well-known kindness to the poor, and her +charities to institutions founded for their benefit were in reality +considerable, and were said to be boundless. These explanations seem +necessary in order to account for the readiness with which she turned +to the convent when she was in danger, and for the facilities which were +then at once offered her for a stay long or short, as she should please +to make it. Some of the more suspicious nuns looked grave when they +heard that she was under their roof; others, again, had been attached +to her during the time she had formerly spent among them; and there were +not lacking those who, disapproving of her presence, held their peace, +in the anticipation that the rich and eccentric lady would on departing +present a gift of value to their order. + +The rooms which were kept at the disposal of ladies desiring to make a +religious retreat for a short time were situated on the first floor of +one wing of the convent overlooking a garden which was not within the +cloistered precincts, but which was cultivated for the convenience of +the nuns, who themselves never entered it. The windows on this side were +not latticed, and the ladies who occupied the apartments were at liberty +to look out upon the small square of land, their view of the street +beyond being cut off however by a wall in which there was one iron gate +for the convenience of the gardeners, who were thus not obliged to pass +through the main entrance of the convent in order to reach their work. +Within the rooms all opened out upon a broad vaulted corridor, lighted +in the day-time by a huge arched window looking upon an inner court, and +at night by a single lamp suspended in the middle of the passage by a +strong iron chain. The pavement of this passage was of broad stones, +once smooth and even but now worn and made irregular by long use. The +rooms for the guests were carpeted with sober colours and warmed by high +stoves built up of glazed white tiles. The furniture, as has been said, +was simple, but afforded all that was strictly necessary for ordinary +comfort, each apartment consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room, small +in lateral dimensions but relatively very high. The walls were thick +and not easily penetrated by any sounds from without, and, as in many +religious houses, the entrances from the corridor were all closed by +double doors, the outer one of strong oak with a lock and a solid bolt, +the inner one of lighter material, but thickly padded to exclude sound +as well as currents of cold air. Each sitting-room contained a table, +a sofa, three or four chairs, a small book-shelf, and a praying-stool +provided with a hard and well-worn cushion for the knees. Over this a +brown wooden crucifix was hung upon the gray wall. + +In the majority of convents it is not usual, nor even permissible, for +ladies in retreat to descend to the nuns’ refectory. When there are many +guests they are usually served by lay sisters in a hall set apart for +the purpose; when there are few, their simple meals are brought to them +in their rooms. Moreover they of course put on no religious robe, though +they dress themselves in black. In the church, or chapel, as the case +may be, they do not take places within the latticed choir with the +sisters, but either sit in the body of the building, or occupy a side +chapel reserved for their use, or else perform their devotions kneeling +at high windows above the choir, which communicate within with rooms +accessible from the convent. It is usual for them to attend Mass, +Vespers, the Benediction and Complines, but when there are midnight +services they are not expected to be present. + +Unorna was familiar with convent life and was aware that the Benediction +was over, and that the hour for the evening meal was approaching. A fire +had been lighted in her sitting-room, but the air was still very cold +and she sat wrapped in her furs as when she had arrived, leaning back +in a corner of the sofa, her head inclined forward, and one white hand +resting on the green baize cloth which covered the table. + +She was very tired, and the absolute stillness was refreshing and +restoring after the long-drawn-out emotions of the stormy day. Never, in +her short and passionate life, had so many events been crowded into the +space of a few hours. Since the morning she had felt almost everything +that her wild, high-strung nature was capable of feeling--love, triumph, +failure, humiliation--anger, hate, despair, and danger of sudden death. +She was amazed when, looking back, she remembered that at noon on that +day her life and all its interests had been stationary at the point +familiar to her during a whole month, the point that still lay within +the boundaries of hope’s kingdom, the point at which the man she loved +had wounded her by speaking of brotherly affection and sisterly regard. +She could almost believe, when she thought of it all, that some one had +done to her as she had done to others, that she had been cast into a +state of sleep, and had been forced against her will to live through the +storms of years in the lethargy of an hour. And yet, despite all, her +memory was distinct, her faculties were awake, her intellect had lost +none of its clearness, even in the last and worst hour of all. She could +recall each look on the Wanderer’s face, each tone of his cold speech, +each intonation of her own passionate outpourings. Her strong memory had +retained all, and there was not the slightest break in the continuity of +her recollections. But there was little comfort to be derived from the +certainty that she had not been dreaming, and that everything had really +taken place precisely as she remembered it. She would have given all she +possessed, which was much, to return to the hour of noon on that same +day. + +In so far as a very unruly nature can understand itself, Unorna +understood the springs of the actions, she regretted and confessed that +in all likelihood she would do again as she had done at each successive +stage. Indeed, since the last great outbreak of her heart, she realised +more than ever the great proportions which her love had of late +assumed; and she saw that she was indeed ready, as she had said, to dare +everything and risk everything for the sake of obtaining the very least +show of passion in return. It was quite clear to her, since she had +failed so totally, that she should have had patience, that she ought +to have accepted gratefully the man’s offer of brotherly devotion, and +trusted in time to bring about a further and less platonic development. +But she was equally sure that she could never have found the patience, +and that if she had restrained herself to-day she would have given way +to-morrow. She possessed all the blind indifference to consequences +which is a chief characteristic of the Slav nature when dominated by +passion. She had shone it in her rash readiness to face Israel Kafka +at the moment of leaving her own home. If she could not have what she +longed for, she cared as little what became of her as she cared for +Kafka’s own fate. She had but one object, one passion, one desire, and +to all else her indifference was supreme. Life and death, in this world +or the next, were less weighty than feathers in a scale that measures +hundreds of tons. The very idea of balance was for the moment beyond +her imagination. For a while indeed the pride of a woman at once +young, beautiful, and accustomed to authority, had kept her firm in the +determination to be loved for herself, as she believed that she deserved +to be loved; and just so long as that remained, she had held her head +high, confidently expecting that the mask of indifference would soon be +shivered, that the eyes she adored would soften with warm light, that +the hand she worshipped would tremble suddenly, as though waking to +life within her own. But that pride was gone, and from its disappearance +there had been but one step to the most utter degradation of soul to +which a woman can descend, and from that again but one step more to a +resolution almost stupid in its hardened obstinacy. But as though to +show how completely she was dominated by the man whom she could not win +even her last determination had yielded under the slightest pressure +from his will. She had left her house beside him with the mad resolve +never again to be parted from him, cost what it might, reputation, +fortune, life itself. And yet ten minutes had not elapsed before she +found herself alone, trusting to a mere word of his for the hope of +ever seeing him again. She seemed to have no individuality left. He +had spoken and she had obeyed. He had commanded and she had done his +bidding. She was even more ashamed of this than of having wept, and +sobbed, and dragged herself at his feet. In the first moment she had +submitted, deluding herself with the idea she had expressed, that he +was consigning her to a prison and that her freedom was dependent on his +will. The foolish delusion vanished. She saw that she was free, when she +chose, to descend the steps she had just mounted, to go out through the +gate she had lately entered, and to go whithersoever she would, at the +mere risk of meeting Israel Kafka. And that risk she heartily despised, +being thoroughly brave by nature, and utterly indifferent to death by +force of circumstance. + +She comforted herself with the thought that the Wanderer would come to +her, once at least, when she was pleased to send for him. She had that +loyal belief inseparable from true love until violently overthrown by +irrefutable evidence, and which sometimes has such power as to return +even then, overthrowing the evidence of the senses themselves. Are there +not men who trust women, and women who trust men, in spite of the vilest +betrayals? Love is indeed often the inspirer of subjective visions, +creating in the beloved object the qualities it admires and the virtues +it adores, powerless to accept what it is not willing to see, dwelling +in a fortress guarded by intangible, and therefore indestructible, +fiction and proof against the artillery of facts. Unorna’s confidence +was, however, not misplaced. The man whose promise she had received had +told the truth when he had said that he had never broken any promise +whatsoever. + +In this, at least, there was therefore comfort. On the morrow she would +see him again. The moment of complete despair had passed when she had +received that assurance from his lips, and as she thought of it, sitting +in the absolute stillness of her room, the proportions of the storm +grew less, and possible dimensions of a future hope greater--just as the +seafarer when his ship lies in a flat calm of the oily harbour thinks +half incredulously of the danger past, despises himself for the anxiety +he felt, and vows that on the morrow he will face the waves again, +though the winds blow ever so fiercely. In Unorna the master passion was +as strong as ever. In a dim vision the wreck of her pride floated still +in the stormy distance, but she turned her eyes away, for it was no +longer a part of her. The spectre of her humiliation rose up and tried +to taunt her with her shame--she almost smiled at the thought that she +could still remember it. He lived, she lived, and he should yet be hers. +As her physical weariness began to disappear in the absolute quiet and +rest, her determination revived. Her power was not all gone yet. On the +morrow she would see him again. She might still fix her eyes on his, and +in an unguarded moment cast him into a deep sleep. She remembered that +look on his face in the old cemetery. She had guessed rightly; it had +been for the faint memory of Beatrice. But she would bring it back +again, and it should be for her, for he should never wake again. Had she +not done as much with the ancient scholar who for long years had lain in +her home in that mysterious state, who obeyed when she commanded him to +rise, and walk, to eat, to speak? Why not the Wanderer, then? To outward +eyes he would be alive and awake, calm, natural, happy. And yet he would +be sleeping. In that condition, at least, she could command his actions, +his thoughts, and his words. How long could it be made to last? She did +not know. Nature might rebel in the end and throw off the yoke of the +heavily-imposed will. An interval might follow, full again of storm and +passion and despair; but it would pass, and he would again fall under +her influence. She had read, and Keyork Arabian had told her, of the +marvels done every day by physicians of common power in the great +hospitals and universities of the Empire, and elsewhere throughout +Europe. None of them appeared to be men of extraordinary natural gifts. +Their powers were but weakness compared with hers. Even with miserable, +hysteric women they often had to try again and again before they could +produce the hypnotic sleep for the first time. When they had got as far +as that, indeed, they could bring their learning, their science, and +their experience to bear--and they could make foolish experiments, +familiar to Unorna from her childhood as the sights and sounds of +her daily life. Few, if any of them, had even the power necessary to +hypnotise an ordinarily strong man in health. She, on the contrary, +had never failed in that, and at the first trial, except with Keyork +Arabian, a man of whom she said in her heart, half in jest and half +superstitiously, that he was not a man at all, but a devil or a monster +over whom earthly influences had no control. + +All her energy returned. The colour came back to her face, her eyes +sparkled, her strong white hands contracted and opened, and closed +again, as though she would grasp something. The room, too, had become +warmer and she had forgotten to lay aside her furs. She longed for more +air and, rising, walked across the room. It occurred to her that the +great corridor would be deserted and as quiet as her own apartment, and +she went out and began to pace the stone flags, her head high, looking +straight before her. + +She wished that she had him there now, and she was angry at the thought +that she had not seen earlier how easily it could all be done. However +strong he might be, having twice been under her influence before he +could not escape it again. In those moments when they had stood together +before the great dark buildings of the Clementinum, it might all have +been accomplished; and now, she must wait until the morning. But her +mind was determined. It mattered not how, it mattered not in what state, +he should be hers. No one would know what she had done. It was nothing +to her that he would be wholly unconscious of his past life--had she not +already made him forget the most important part of it? He would still be +himself, and yet he would love her, and speak lovingly to her, and act +as she would have him act. Everything could be done, and she would risk +nothing, for she would marry him and make him her lawful husband, and +they would spend their lives together, in peace, in the house wherein +she had so abased herself before him, foolishly believing that, as a +mere woman, she could win him. + +She paced the corridor, passing and repassing beneath the light of the +single lamp that hung in the middle, walking quickly, with a sensation +of pleasure in the movement and in the cold draught that fanned her +cheek. + +Then she heard footsteps distinct from the echo of her own and she stood +still. Two women were coming towards her through the gloom. She waited +near her own door, supposing that they would pass her. As they came +near, she saw that the one was a nun, habited in the plain gray robe and +black and white head-dress of the order. The other was a lady dressed, +like herself, in black. The light burned so badly that as the two +stopped and stood for a moment conversing together, Unorna could not +clearly distinguish their faces. Then the lady entered one of the rooms, +the third or the fourth from Unorna’s, and the nun remained standing +outside, apparently hesitating whether to turn to the right or to the +left, or asking herself in which direction her occupations called +her. Unorna made a movement, and at the sound of her foot the nun came +towards her. + +“Sister Paul!” Unorna exclaimed, recognising her as her face came under +the glare of the lamp, and holding out her hands. + +“Unorna!” cried the nun, with an intonation of surprise and pleasure. “I +did not know that you were here. What brings you back to us?” + +“A caprice, Sister Paul--nothing but a caprice. I shall perhaps be gone +to-morrow.” + +“I am sorry,” answered the sister. “One night is but a short retreat +from the world.” She shook her head rather sadly. + +“Much may happen in a night,” replied Unorna with a smile. “You used to +tell me that the soul knew nothing of time. Have you changed your mind? +Come into my room and let us talk. I have not forgotten your hours. You +can have nothing to do for the moment, unless it is supper-time.” + +“We have just finished,” said Sister Paul, entering readily enough. +“The other lady who is staying here insisted upon supping in the guests’ +refectory--out of curiosity perhaps, poor thing--and I met her on the +stairs as she was coming up.” + +“Are she and I the only ones here?” Unorna asked carelessly. + +“Yes. There is no one else, and she only came this morning. You see it +is still the carnival season in the world. It is in Lent that the great +ladies come to us, and then we have often not a room free.” + +The nun smiled sadly, shaking her head again, in a way that seemed +habitual with her. + +“After all,” she added, as Unorna said nothing, “it is better that they +should come then, rather than not at all, though I often think it would +be better still if they spent carnival in the convent and Lent in the +world.” + +“The world you speak of would be a gloomy place if you had the ordering +of it, Sister Paul!” observed Unorna with a little laugh. + +“Ah, well! I daresay it would seem so to you. I know little enough of +the world as you understand it, save for what our guests tell me--and, +indeed, I am glad that I do not know more.” + +“You know almost as much as I do.” + +The sister looked long and earnestly into Unorna’s face as though +searching for something. She was a thin, pale woman over forty years +of age. Not a wrinkle marked her waxen skin, and her hair was entirely +concealed under the smooth head-dress, but her age was in her eyes. + +“What is your life, Unorna?” she asked suddenly. “We hear strange tales +of it sometimes, though we know also that you do great works of charity. +But we hear strange tales and strange words.” + +“Do you?” Unorna suppressed a smile of scorn. “What do people say of me? +I never asked.” + +“Strange things, strange things,” repeated the nun with a shake of the +head. + +“What are they? Tell me one of them, as an instance.” + +“I should fear to offend you--indeed I am sure I should, though we were +good friends once.” + +“And are still. The more reason why you should tell me what is said. Of +course I am alone in the world, and people will always tell vile tales +of women who have no one to protect them.” + +“No, no,” Sister Paul hastened to assure her. “As a woman, no word has +reached us that touches your fair name. On the contrary, I have heard +worldly women say much more that is good of you in that respect than +they will say of each other. But there are other things, Unorna--other +things which fill me with fear for you. They call you by a name that +makes me shudder when I hear it.” + +“A name?” repeated Unorna in surprise and with considerable curiosity. + +“A name--a word--what you will--no, I cannot tell you, and besides, it +must be untrue.” + +Unorna was silent for a moment and then understood. She laughed aloud +with perfect unconcern. + +“I know!” she cried. “How foolish of me! They call me the Witch--of +course.” + +Sister Paul’s face grew very grave, and she immediately crossed herself +devoutly, looking askance at Unorna as she did so. But Unorna only +laughed again. + +“Perhaps it is very foolish,” said the nun, “but I cannot bear to hear +such a thing said of you.” + +“It is not said in earnest. Do you know why they call me the Witch? It +is very simple. It is because I can make people sleep--people who are +suffering or mad or in great sorrow, and then they rest. That is all my +magic.” + +“You can put people to sleep? Anybody?” Sister Paul opened her faded +eyes very wide. “But that is not natural,” she added in a perplexed +tone. “And what is not natural cannot be right.” + +“And is all right that is natural?” asked Unorna thoughtfully. + +“It is not natural,” repeated the other. “How do you do it? Do you use +strange words and herbs and incantations?” + +Unorna laughed again, but the nun seemed shocked by her levity and she +forced herself to be grave. + +“No, indeed!” she answered. “I look into their eyes and tell them to +sleep--and they do. Poor Sister Paul! You are behind the age in the dear +old convent here. The thing is done in half of the great hospitals of +Europe every day, and men and women are cured in that way of diseases +that paralyse them in body as well as in mind. Men study to learn how it +is done; it is as common to-day, as a means of healing, as the medicines +you know by name and taste. It is called hypnotism.” + +Again the sister crossed herself. + +“I have heard the word, I think,” she said, as though she thought there +might be something diabolical in it. “And do you heal the sick in this +way by means of this--thing?” + +“Sometimes,” Unorna answered. “There is an old man, for instance, whom +I have kept alive for many years by making him sleep--a great deal.” + Unorna smiled a little. + +“But you have no words with it? Nothing?” + +“Nothing. It is my will. That is all.” + +“But if it is of good, and not of the Evil One, there should be a prayer +with it. Could you not say a prayer with it, Unorna?” + +“I daresay I could,” replied the other, trying not to laugh. “But that +would be doing two things at once; my will would be weakened.” + +“It cannot be of good,” said the nun. “It is not natural, and it is not +true that the prayer can distract the will from the performance of a +good deed.” She shook her head more energetically than usual. “And it +is not good either that you should be called a witch, you who have lived +here amongst us.” + +“It is not my fault!” exclaimed Unorna, somewhat annoyed by her +persistence. “And besides, Sister Paul, even if the devil is in it, it +would be right all the same.” + +The nun held up her hands in holy horror, and her jaw dropped. + +“My child! My child! How can you say such things to me!” + +“It is very true,” Unorna answered, quietly smiling at her amazement. +“If people who are ill are made well, is it not a real good, even if the +Evil One does it? Is it not good to make him do good, if one can, even +against his will?” + +“No, no!” cried Sister Paul, in great distress. “Do not talk like +that--let us not talk of it at all! Whatever it is, it is bad, and I do +not understand it, and I am sure that none of us here could, no matter +how well you explained it. But if you will do it, Unorna, my dear child, +then say a prayer each time, against temptation and the devil’s works.” + +With that the good nun crossed herself a third time, and unconsciously, +from force of habit, began to tell her beads with one hand, mechanically +smoothing her broad, starched collar with the other. Unorna was silent +for a few minutes, plucking at the sable lining of the cloak which lay +beside her upon the sofa where she had dropped it. + +“Let us talk of other things,” she said at last. “Talk of the other lady +who is here. Who is she? What brings her into retreat at this time of +year?” + +“Poor thing--yes, she is very unhappy,” answered Sister Paul. “It is a +sad story, so far as I have heard it. Her father is just dead, and she +is alone in the world. The Abbess received a letter yesterday from the +Cardinal Archbishop, requesting that we would receive her, and this +morning she came. His eminence knew her father, it appears. She is only +to be here for a short time, I believe, until her relations come to take +her home to her own country. Her father was taken ill in a country place +near the city, which he had hired for the shooting season, and the poor +girl was left all alone out there. The Cardinal thought she would be +safer and perhaps less unhappy with us while she is waiting.” + +“Of course,” said Unorna, with a faint interest. “How old is she, poor +child?” + +“She is not a child, she must be five and twenty years old, though +perhaps her sorrow makes her look older than she is.” + +“And what is her name?” + +“Beatrice. I cannot remember the name of the family.” + +Unorna started. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +“What is it?” asked the nun, noticing Unorna’s sudden movement. + +“Nothing; the name of Beatrice is familiar to me, that is all. It +suggested something.” + +Though Sister Paul was as unworldly as five and twenty years of +cloistered life can make a woman who is naturally simple in mind and +devout in thought, she possessed that faculty of quick observation which +is learned as readily, and exercised perhaps as constantly, in the midst +of a small community, where each member is in some measure dependent +upon all the rest for the daily pittance of ideas, as in wider spheres +of life. + +“You may have seen this lady, or you may have heard of her,” she said. + +“I would like to see her,” Unorna answered thoughtfully. + +She was thinking of all the possibilities in the case. She remembered +the clearness and precision of the Wanderer’s first impression, when +he first told her how he had seen Beatrice in the Teyn Kirche, and she +reflected that the name was a very uncommon one. The Beatrice of his +story too had a father and no other relation, and was supposed to be +travelling with him. By the uncertain light in the corridor Unorna had +not been able to distinguish the lady’s features, but the impression she +had received had been that she was dark, as Beatrice was. There was no +reason in the nature of things why this should not be the woman whom +the Wanderer loved. It was natural enough that, being left alone in +a strange city at such a moment, she should have sought refuge in a +convent, and this being admitted it followed that she would naturally +have been advised to retire to the one in which Unorna found herself, it +being the one in which ladies were most frequently received as guests. +Unorna could hardly trust herself to speak. She was conscious that +Sister Paul was watching her, and she turned her face from the lamp. + +“There can be no difficulty about your seeing her, or talking with +her, if you wish it,” said the nun. “She told me that she would be at +Compline at nine o’clock. If you will be there yourself you can see her +come in, and watch her when she goes out. Do you think you have ever +seen her?” + +“No,” answered Unorna in an odd tone. “I am sure that I have not.” + +Sister Paul concluded from Unorna’s manner that she must have reason to +believe that the guest was identical with some one of whom she had heard +very often. Her manner was abstracted and she seemed ill at ease. But +that might be the result of fatigue. + +“Are you not hungry?” asked the nun. “You have had nothing since you +came, I am sure.” + +“No--yes--it is true,” answered Unorna. “I had forgotten. It would be +very kind of you to send me something.” + +Sister Paul rose with alacrity, to Unorna’s great relief. + +“I will see to it,” she said, holding out her hand. “We shall meet in +the morning. Good-night.” + +“Good-night, dear Sister Paul. Will you say a prayer for me?” She added +the question suddenly, by an impulse of which she was hardly conscious. + +“Indeed I will--with all my heart, my dear child,” answered the nun +looking earnestly into her face. “You are not happy in your life,” she +added, with a slow, sad movement of her head. + +“No--I am not happy. But I will be.” + +“I fear not,” said Sister Paul, almost under her breath, as she went out +softly. + +Unorna was left alone. She could not sit still in her extreme anxiety. +It was agonising to think that the woman she longed to see was so near +her, but that she could not, upon any reasonable pretext, go and knock +at her door and see her and speak to her. She felt also a terrible doubt +as to whether she would recognise her, at first sight, as the same +woman whose shadow had passed between herself and the Wanderer on that +eventful day a month ago. The shadow had been veiled, but she had a +prescient consciousness of the features beneath the veil. Nevertheless, +she might be mistaken. It would be necessary to seek her acquaintance +by some excuse and endeavour to draw from her some portion of her story, +enough to confirm Unorna’s suspicions, or to prove conclusively that +they were unfounded. To do this, Unorna herself needed all her strength +and coolness, and she was glad when a lay sister entered the room +bringing her evening meal. + +There were moments when Unorna, in favourable circumstances, was able +to sink into the so-called state of second sight, by an act of volition, +and she wished now that she could close her eyes and see the face of the +woman who was only separated from her by two or three walls. But that +was not possible in this case. To be successful she would have needed +some sort of guiding thread, or she must have already known the person +she wished to see. She could not command that inexplicable condition as +she could dispose of her other powers, at all times and in almost all +moods. She felt that if she were at present capable of falling into the +trance state at all, her mind would wander uncontrolled in some other +direction. There was nothing to be done but to have patience. + +The lay sister went out. Unorna ate mechanically what had been set +before her and waited. She felt that a crisis perhaps more terrible than +that through which she had lately passed was at hand, if the stranger +should prove to be indeed the Beatrice whom the Wanderer loved. Her +brain was in a whirl when she thought of being brought face to face with +the woman who had been before her, and every cruel and ruthless instinct +of her nature rose and took shape in plans for her rival’s destruction. + +She opened her door, careless of the draught of frozen air that rushed +in from the corridor. She wished to hear the lady’s footstep when +she left her room to go to the church, and she sat down and remained +motionless, fearing lest her own footfall should prevent the sound from +reaching her. The heavy-toned bells began to ring, far off in the night. + +At last it came, the opening of a door, the slight noise made by a light +tread upon the pavement. She rose quietly and went out, following in the +same direction. She could see nothing but a dark shadow moving before +her towards the opposite end of the passage, farther and farther +from the hanging lamp. Unorna could hear her own heart beating as she +followed, first to the right, then to the left. There was another light +at this point. The lady had noticed that some one was coming behind her +and turned her head to look back. The delicate, dark profile stood +out clearly. Unorna held her breath, walking swiftly forward. But in a +moment the lady went on, and entered the chapel-like room from which a +great balconied window looked down into the church above the choir. 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. + +Unorna sank upon her knees, compressing her lips to restrain the +incoherent exclamation that almost broke from them in spite of her, +clasping her hands desperately, so that the faint blue veins stood out +upon the marble surface. + +Below, hundreds of candles blazed upon the altar in the choir and sent +their full yellow radiance up to the faces of the two women, as they +knelt there almost side by side, both young, both beautiful, but utterly +unlike. In a single glance Unorna had understood that it was true. An +arm’s length separated her from the rival whose very existence made her +own happiness an utter impossibility. With unchanging, unwilling gaze +she examined every detail of that beauty which the Wanderer had so +loved, that even when forgotten there was no sight in his eyes for other +women. + +It was indeed such a face as a man would find it hard to forget. Unorna, +seeing the reflection of it in the Wanderer’s mind, had fancied it +otherwise, though she could not but recognise the reality from the +impression she had received. She had imagined it more ethereal, more +faint, more sexless, more angelic, as she had seen it in her thoughts. +Divine it was, but womanly beyond Unorna’s own. Dark, delicately +aquiline, tall and noble, the purity it expressed was of earth and not +of heaven. It was not transparent, for there was life in every feature; +it was sad indeed almost beyond human sadness, but it was sad with the +mortal sorrows of this world, not with the unfathomable melancholy of +the suffering saint. The lips were human, womanly, pure and tender, but +not formed for speech of prayer alone. The drooping lids, not drawn, +but darkened with faint, uneven shadows by the flow of many tears, were +slowly lifted now and again, disclosing a vision of black eyes not meant +for endless weeping, nor made so deep and warm only to strain their +sight towards heaven above, forgetting earth below. Unorna knew that +those same eyes could gleam, and flash, and blaze, with love and hate +and anger, that under the rich, pale skin, the blood could rise and ebb +with the changing tide of the heart, that the warm lips could part +with passion and, moving, form words of love. She saw pride in the wide +sensitive nostrils, strength in the even brow, and queenly dignity in +the perfect poise of the head upon the slender throat. And the clasped +hands were womanly, too, neither full and white and heavy like those +of a marble statue, as Unorna’s were, nor thin and over-sensitive like +those of holy women in old pictures, but real and living, delicate in +outline, but not without nervous strength, hands that might linger in +another’s, not wholly passive, but all responsive to the thrill of a +loving touch. + +It was very hard to bear. A better woman than Unorna might have felt +something evil and cruel and hating in her heart, at the sight of so +much beauty in one who held her place, in the queen of the kingdom where +she longed to reign. Unorna’s cheek grew very pale, and her unlike eyes +were fierce and dangerous. It was well for her that she could not speak +to Beatrice then, for she wore no mask, and the dark beauty would have +seen the danger of death in the face of the fair, and would have turned +and defended herself in time. + +But the sweet singing of the nuns came softly up from below, echoing +to the groined roof, rising and falling, high and low; and the full +radiance of the many waxen tapers shone steadily from the great altar, +gilding and warming statue and cornice and ancient moulding, and casting +deep shadows into all the places that it could not reach. And still the +two women knelt in their high balcony, the one rapt in fervent prayer, +the other wondering that the presence of such hatred as hers should have +no power to kill, and all the time making a supreme effort to compose +her own features into the expression of friendly sympathy and interest +which she knew she would need so soon as the singing ceased and it was +time to leave the church again. + +The psalms were finished. There was a pause, and then the words of the +ancient hymn floated up to Unorna’s ears, familiar in years gone by. +Almost unconsciously she herself, by force of old habit, joined in the +first verse. Then, suddenly, she stopped, not realising, indeed, the +horrible gulf that lay between the words that passed her lips, and the +thoughts that were at work in her heart, but silenced by the near sound +of a voice less rich and full, but far more exquisite and tender than +her own. Beatrice was singing, too, with joined hands, and parted lips, +and upturned face. + +“Let dreams be far, and phantasms of the night--bind Thou our Foe,” sang +Beatrice in long, sweet notes. + +Unorna heard no more. The light dazzled her, and the blood beat in +her heart. It seemed as though no prayer that was ever prayed could be +offered up more directly against herself, and the voice that sang +it, though not loud, had the rare power of carrying every syllable +distinctly in its magic tones, even to a great distance. As she knelt, +it was as if Beatrice had been even nearer, and had breathed the words +into her very ear. Afraid to look round, lest her face should betray her +emotion, Unorna glanced down at the kneeling nuns. She started. Sister +Paul, alone of them all, was looking up, her faded eyes fixed on +Unorna’s with a look that implored and yet despaired, her clasped hands +a little raised from the low desk before her, most evidently offering +up the words with the whole fervent intention of her pure soul, as an +intercession for Unorna’s sins. + +For one moment the strong, cruel heart almost wavered, not through fear, +but under the nameless impression that sometimes takes hold of men and +women. The divine voice beside her seemed to dominate the hundred voices +below; the nun’s despairing look chilled for one instant all her love +and all her hatred, so that she longed to be alone, away from it all, +and for ever. But the hymn ended, the voice was silent, and Sister +Paul’s glance turned again towards the altar. The moment was passed and +Unorna was again what she had been before. + +Then followed the canticle, the voice of the prioress in the versicles +after that, and the voices of the nuns, no longer singing, as they made +the responses; the Creed, a few more versicles and responses, the short, +final prayers, and all was over. From the church below came up the soft +sound that many women make when they move silently together. The nuns +were passing out in their appointed order. + +Beatrice remained kneeling a few moments longer, crossed herself and +then rose. At the same moment Unorna was on her feet. The necessity +for immediate action at all costs restored the calm to her face and the +tactful skill to her actions. She reached the door first, and then, half +turning her head, stood aside, as though to give Beatrice precedence in +passing. Beatrice glanced at her face for the first time, and then by +a courteous movement of the head signified that Unorna should go out +first. Unorna appeared to hesitate, Beatrice to protest. Both women +smiled a little, and Unorna, with a gesture of submission, passed +through the doorway. She had managed it so well that it was almost +impossible to avoid speaking as they threaded the long corridors +together. Unorna allowed a moment to pass, as though to let her +companion understand the slight awkwardness of the situation, and then +addressed her in a tone of quiet and natural civility. + +“We seem to be the only ladies in retreat,” she said. + +“Yes,” Beatrice answered. Even in that one syllable something of the +quality of her thrilling voice vibrated for an instant. They walked a +few steps farther in silence. + +“I am not exactly in retreat,” she said presently, either because she +felt that it would be almost rude to say nothing, or because she wished +her position to be clearly understood. “I am waiting here for some one +who is to come for me.” + +“It is a very quiet place to rest in,” said Unorna. “I am fond of it.” + +“You often come here, perhaps.” + +“Not now,” answered Unorna. “But I was here for a long time when I was +very young.” + +By a common instinct, as they fell into conversation, they began to walk +more slowly, side by side. + +“Indeed,” said Beatrice, with a slight increase of interest. “Then you +were brought up here by the nuns?” + +“Not exactly. It was a sort of refuge for me when I was almost a child. +I was left here alone, until I was thought old enough to take care of +myself.” + +There was a little bitterness in her tone, intentional, but masterly in +its truth to nature. + +“Left by your parents?” Beatrice asked. The question seemed almost +inevitable. + +“I had none. I never knew a father or a mother.” Unorna’s voice grew sad +with each syllable. + +They had entered the great corridor in which their apartments were +situated, and were approaching Beatrice’s door. They walked more and +more slowly, in silence during the last few moments, after Unorna had +spoken. Unorna sighed. The passing breath traveling on the air of the +lonely place seemed both to invite and to offer sympathy. + +“My father died last week,” Beatrice said in a very low tone, that was +not quite steady. “I am quite alone--here and in the world.” + +She laid her hand upon the latch and her deep black eyes rested upon +Unorna’s, as though almost, but not quite, conveying an invitation, +hungry for human comfort, yet too proud to ask it. + +“I am very lonely, too,” said Unorna. “May I sit with you for a while?” + +She had but just time to make the bold stroke that was necessary. In +another moment she knew that Beatrice would have disappeared within. Her +heart beat violently until the answer came. She had been successful. + +“Will you, indeed?” Beatrice exclaimed. “I am poor company, but I shall +be very glad if you will come in.” + +She opened her door, and Unorna entered. The apartment was almost +exactly like her own in size and shape and furniture, but it already +had the air of being inhabited. There were books upon the table, and a +square jewel-case, and an old silver frame containing a large photograph +of a stern, dark man in middle age--Beatrice’s father, as Unorna at once +understood. Cloaks and furs lay in some confusion upon the chairs, a +large box stood with the lid raised, against the wall, displaying a +quantity of lace, among which lay silks and ribbons of soft colours. + +“I only came this morning,” Beatrice said, as though to apologise for +the disorder. + +Unorna sank down in a corner of the sofa, shading her eyes from the +bright lamp with her hand. She could not help looking at Beatrice, but +she felt that she must not let her scrutiny be too apparent, nor +her conversation too eager. Beatrice was proud and strong, and could +doubtless be very cold and forbidding when she chose. + +“And do you expect to be here long?” Unorna asked, as Beatrice +established herself at the other end of the sofa. + +“I cannot tell,” was the answer. “I may be here but a few days, or I may +have to stay a month. + +“I lived here for years,” said Unorna thoughtfully. “I suppose it would +be impossible now--I should die of apathy and inanition.” She laughed +in a subdued way, as though respecting Beatrice’s mourning. “But I was +young then,” she added, suddenly withdrawing her hand from her eyes, so +that the full light of the lamp fell upon her. + +She chose to show that she, too, was beautiful, and she knew that +Beatrice had as yet hardly seen her face as they passed through the +gloomy corridors. It was an instinct of vanity, and yet, for her +purpose, it was the right one. The effect was sudden and unexpected, and +Beatrice looked at her almost fixedly, in undisguised admiration. + +“Young then!” she exclaimed. “You are young now!” + +“Less young than I was then,” Unorna answered with a little sigh, +followed instantly by a smile. + +“I am five and twenty,” said Beatrice, woman enough to try and force a +confession from her new acquaintance. + +“Are you? I would not have thought it--we are nearly of an age--quite, +perhaps, for I am not yet twenty-six. But then, it is not the years--” + She stopped suddenly. + +Beatrice wondered whether Unorna were married or not. Considering the +age she admitted and her extreme beauty it seemed probable that she must +be. It occurred to her that the acquaintance had been made without any +presentation, and that neither knew the other’s name. + +“Since I am a little the younger,” she said, “I should tell you who I +am.” + +Unorna made a slight movement. She was on the point of saying that she +knew already--and too well. + +“I am Beatrice Varanger.” + +“I am Unorna.” She could not help a sort of cold defiance that sounded +in her tone as she pronounced the only name she could call hers. + +“Unorna?” Beatrice repeated, courteously enough, but with an air of +surprise. + +“Yes--that is all. It seems strange to you? They called me so because I +was born in February, in the month we call Unor. Indeed it is strange, +and so is my story--though it would have little interest for you.” + +“Forgive me, you are wrong, It would interest me immensely--if you would +tell me a little of it; but I am such a stranger to you----” + +“I do not feel as though you are that,” Unorna answered with a very +gentle smile. + +“You are very kind to say so,” said Beatrice quietly. + +Unorna was perfectly well aware that it must seem strange, to say the +least of it, that she should tell Beatrice the wild story of her life, +when they had as yet exchanged barely a hundred words. But she cared +little what Beatrice thought, provided that she could interest her. She +had a distinct intention in making the time slip by unnoticed, until it +should be late. + +She related her history, so far as it was known to herself, simply and +graphically, substantially as it has been already set forth, but with an +abundance of anecdote and comment which enhanced the interest and at the +same time extended its limits, interspersing her monologues with remarks +which called for an answer and which served as tests of her companion’s +attention. She hinted but lightly at her possession of unusual power +over animals, and spoke not at all of the influence she could exert upon +people. Beatrice listened eagerly. She could have told, on her part, +that for years her own life had been dull and empty, and that it was +long since she had talked with any one who had so roused her interest. + +At last Unorna was silent. She had reached the period of her life which +had begun a month before that time, and at that point her story ended. + +“Then you are not married?” Beatrice’s tone expressed an interrogation +and a certain surprise. + +“No,” said Unorna, “I am not married. And you, if I may ask?” + +Beatrice started visibly. It had not occurred to her that the question +might seem a natural one for Unorna to ask, although she had said that +she was alone in the world. Unorna might have supposed her to have lost +her husband. But Unorna could see that it was not surprise alone that +had startled her. The question, as she knew it must, had roused a deep +and painful train of thought. + +“No,” said Beatrice, in an altered voice. “I am not married. I shall +never marry.” + +A short silence followed, during which she turned her face away. + +“I have pained you,” said Unorna with profound sympathy and regret. +“Forgive me! How could I be so tactless!” + +“How could you know?” Beatrice asked simply, not attempting to deny the +suggestion. + +But Unorna was suffering too. She had allowed herself to imagine that in +the long years which had passed Beatrice might perhaps have forgotten. +It had even crossed her mind that she might indeed be married. But in +the few words, and in the tremor that accompanied them, as well as in +the increased pallor of Beatrice’s face, she detected a love not less +deep and constant and unforgotten than the Wanderer’s own. + +“Forgive me,” Unorna repeated. “I might have guessed. I have loved too.” + +She knew that here, at least, she could not feign and she could not +control her voice, but with supreme judgment of the effect she allowed +herself to be carried beyond all reserve. In the one short sentence her +whole passion expressed itself, genuine, deep, strong, ruthless. She +let the words come as they would, and Beatrice was startled by the +passionate cry that burst from the heart, so wholly unrestrained. + +For a long time neither spoke again, and neither looked at the other. +To all appearances Beatrice was the first to regain her self-possession. +And then, all at once the words came to her lips which could be +restrained no longer. For years she had kept silence, for there had been +no one to whom she could speak. For years she had sought him, as best +she could, as he had sought her, fruitlessly and at last hopelessly. And +she had known that her father was seeking him also, everywhere, that +he might drag her to the ends of the earth at the mere suspicion of the +Wanderer’s presence in the same country. It had amounted to a madness +with him of the kind not seldom seen. Beatrice might marry whom she +pleased, but not the one man she loved. Day by day and year by year +their two strong wills had been silently opposed, and neither the one +nor the other had ever been unconscious of the struggle, nor had either +yielded a hair’s-breadth. But Beatrice had been at her father’s mercy, +for he could take her whither he would, and in that she could not resist +him. Never in that time had she lost faith in the devotion of the man +she sought, and at last it was only in the belief that he was dead that +she could discover an explanation of his failure to find her. Still she +would not change, and still, through the years, she loved more and more +truly, and passionately, and unchangingly. + +The feeling that she was in the presence of a passion as great, as +unhappy, and as masterful as her own, unloosed her tongue. Such things +happen in this strange world. Men and women of deep and strong feedings, +outwardly cold, reserved, taciturn and proud, have been known, once in +their lives, to pour out the secrets of their hearts to a stranger or a +mere acquaintance, as they could never have done to a friend. + +Beatrice seemed scarcely conscious of what she was saying, or of +Unorna’s presence. The words, long kept back and sternly restrained, +fell with a strange strength from her lips, and there was not one of +them from first to last that did not sheathe itself like a sharp knife +in Unorna’s heart. The enormous jealousy of Beatrice which had been +growing within her beside her love during the last month was reaching +the climax of its overwhelming magnitude. She hardly knew when Beatrice +ceased speaking, for the words were still all ringing in her ears, and +clashing madly in her own breast, and prompting her fierce nature to do +some violent deed. But Beatrice looked for no sympathy and did not see +Unorna’s face. She had forgotten Unorna herself at the last, as she sat +staring at the opposite wall. + +Then she rose quickly, and taking something from the jewel-box, thrust +it into Unorna’s hands. + +“I cannot tell why I have told you--but I have. You shall see him too. +What does it matter? We have both loved, we are both unhappy--we shall +never meet again.” + +“What is it?” Unorna tried to ask, holding the closed case in her +hands. She knew what was within it well enough, and her self-command was +forsaking her. It was almost more than she could bear. It was as though +Beatrice were wreaking vengeance on her, instead of her destroying her +rival as she had meant to do, sooner or later. + +Beatrice took the thing from her, opened it, gazed at it a moment, and +put it again into Unorna’s hands. “It was like him,” she said, watching +her companion as though to see what effect the portrait would produce. +Then she shrank back. + +Unorna was looking at her. Her face was livid and unnaturally drawn, and +the extraordinary contrast in the colour of her two eyes was horribly +apparent. The one seemed to freeze, the other to be on fire. The +strongest and worst passions that can play upon the human soul were all +expressed with awful force in the distorted mask, and not a trace of the +magnificent beauty so lately there was visible. Beatrice shrank back in +horror. + +“You know him!” she cried, half guessing at the truth. + +“I know him--and I love him,” said Unorna slowly and fiercely, her eyes +fixed on her enemy, and gradually leaning towards her so as to bring her +face nearer and nearer to Beatrice. + +The dark woman tried to rise, and could not. There was worse than anger, +or hatred, or the intent to kill, in those dreadful eyes. There was +a fascination from which no living thing could escape. She tried to +scream, to shut out the vision, to raise her hand as a screen before it. +Nearer and nearer it came, and she could feel the warm breath of it upon +her cheek. Then her brain reeled, her limbs relaxed, and her head fell +back against the wall. + +“I know him, and I love him,” were the last words Beatrice heard. + + + +CHAPTER XX[*] + + [*] The deeds here recounted are not imaginary. Not very + long ago the sacrilege which Unorna attempted was actually + committed at night in a Catholic church in London, under + circumstances that clearly proved the intention of some + person or persons to defile the consecrated wafers. A case + of hypnotic suggestion to the committal of a crime in a + convent occurred in Hungary not many years since, with a + different object, namely, a daring robbery, but precisely as + here described. A complete account of the case will be + found, with authority and evidence, in a pamphlet entitled + _Eine experimentale Studie auf dem Gebiete des Hypnotismus_, + by Dr. R. von Krafft-Ebing, Professor of Psychiatry and for + nervous diseases, in the University of Gratz. Second + Edition, Stuttgart, Ferdinand Enke, 1889. It is not + possible, in a work of fiction, to quote learned authorities + at every chapter, but it may be said here, and once for all, + that all the most important situations have been taken from + cases which have come under medical observation within the + last few years. + +Unorna was hardly conscious of what she had done. She had not had the +intention of making Beatrice sleep, for she had no distinct intention +whatever at that moment. Her words and her look had been but the natural +results of overstrained passion, and she repeated what she had said +again and again, and gazed long and fiercely into Beatrice’s face before +she realised that she had unintentionally thrown her rival and enemy +into the intermediate state. It is rarely that the first stage of +hypnotism produces the same consequences in two different individuals. +In Beatrice it took the form of total unconsciousness, as though she had +merely fainted away. + +Unorna gradually regained her self-possession. After all, Beatrice had +told her nothing which she did not either wholly know or partly guess, +and her anger was not the result of the revelation but of the way in +which the story had been told. Word after word, phrase after phrase had +cut her and stabbed her to the quick, and when Beatrice had thrust the +miniature into her hands her wrath had risen in spite of herself. +But now that she had returned to a state in which she could think +connectedly, and now that she saw Beatrice asleep before her, she did +not regret what she had unwittingly done. From the first moment when, +in the balcony over the church, she had realised that she was in the +presence of the woman she hated, she had determined to destroy her. To +accomplish this she would in any case have used her especial weapons, +and though she had intended to steal by degrees upon her enemy, lulling +her to sleep by a more gentle fascination, at an hour when the whole +convent should be quiet, yet since the first step had been made +unexpectedly and without her will, she did not regret it. + +She leaned back and looked at Beatrice during several minutes, smiling +to herself from time to time, scornfully and cruelly. Then she rose and +locked the outer door and closed the inner one carefully. She knew from +long ago that no sound could then find its way to the corridor without. +She came back and sat down again, and again looked at the sleeping face, +and she admitted for the hundredth time that evening, that Beatrice was +very beautiful. + +“If he could see us now!” she exclaimed aloud. + +The thought suggested something to her. She would like to see herself +beside this other woman and compare the beauty he loved with the beauty +that could not touch him. It was very easy. She found a small mirror, +and set it up upon the back of the sofa, on a level with Beatrice’s +head. Then she changed the position of the lamp and looked at herself, +and touched her hair, and smoothed her brow, and loosened the black lace +about her white throat. And she looked from herself to Beatrice, and +back to herself again, many times. + +“It is strange that black should suit us both so well--she so dark and I +so fair!” she said. “She will look well when she is dead.” + +She gazed again for many seconds at the sleeping woman. + +“But he will not see her, then,” she added, rising to her feet and +laying the mirror on the table. + +She began to walk up and down the room as was her habit when in deep +thought, turning over in her mind the deed to be done and the surest and +best way of doing it. It never occurred to her that Beatrice could +be allowed to live beyond that night. If the woman had been but an +unconscious obstacle in her path Unorna would have spared her life, but +as matters stood, she had no inclination to be merciful. + +There was nothing to prevent the possibility of a meeting between +Beatrice and the Wanderer, if Beatrice remained alive. They were in +the same city together, and their paths might cross at any moment. +The Wanderer had forgotten, but it was not sure that the artificial +forgetfulness would be proof against an actual sight of the woman once +so dearly loved. The same consideration was true of Beatrice. She, too, +might be made to forget, though it was always an experiment of uncertain +issue and of more than uncertain result, even when successful, so far as +duration was concerned. Unorna reasoned coldly with herself, recalling +all that Keyork Arabian had told her and all that she had read. She +tried to admit that Beatrice might be disposed of in some other way, +but the difficulties seemed to be insurmountable. To effect such a +disappearance Unorna must find some safe place in which the wretched +woman might drag out her existence undiscovered. But Beatrice was +not like the old beggar who in his hundredth year had leaned against +Unorna’s door, unnoticed and uncared for, and had been taken in and had +never been seen again. The case was different. The aged scholar, too, +had been cared for as he could not have been cared for elsewhere, and, +in the event of an inquiry being made, he could be produced at any +moment, and would even afford a brilliant example of Unorna’s charitable +doings. But Beatrice was a stranger and a person of some importance +in the world. The Cardinal Archbishop himself had directed the nuns to +receive her, and they were responsible for her safety. To spirit her +away in the night would be a dangerous thing. Wherever she was to be +taken, Unorna would have to lead her there alone. Unorna would herself +be missed. Sister Paul already suspected that the name of Witch was more +than a mere appellation. There would be a search made, and suspicion +might easily fall upon Unorna, who would have been obliged, of course, +to conceal her enemy in her own house for lack of any other convenient +place. + +There was no escape from the deed. Beatrice must die. Unorna could +produce death in a form which could leave no trace, and it would be +attributed to a weakness of the heart. Does any one account otherwise +for those sudden deaths which are no longer unfrequent in the world? +A man, a woman, is to all appearances in perfect health. He or she was +last seen by a friend, who describes the conversation accurately, and +expresses astonishment at the catastrophe which followed so closely upon +the visit. He, or she, is found alone by a servant, or a third person, +in a profound lethargy from which neither restoratives nor violent +shocks upon the nerves can produce any awakening. In one hour, or a +few hours, it is over. There is an examination, and the authorities +pronounce an ambiguous verdict--death from a syncope of the heart. Such +things happen, they say, with a shake of the head. And, indeed, they +know that such things really do happen, and they suspect that they do +not happen naturally; but there is no evidence, not even so much as +may be detected in a clever case of vegetable poisoning. The heart has +stopped beating, and death has followed. There are wise men by the score +to-day who do not ask “What made it stop?” but “Who made it stop?” But +they have no evidence to bring, and the new jurisprudence, which in some +countries covers the cases of thefts and frauds committed under hypnotic +suggestion, cannot as yet lay down the law for cases where a man has +been told to die, and dies--from “weakness of the heart.” And yet it is +known, and well known, that by hypnotic suggestion the pulse can be made +to fall to the lowest number of beatings consistent with life, and that +the temperature of the body can be commanded beforehand to stand at a +certain degree and fraction of a degree at a certain hour, high or low, +as may be desired. Let those who do not believe read the accounts of +what is done from day to day in the great European seats of learning, +accounts of which every one bears the name of some man speaking with +authority and responsible to the world of science for every word he +speaks, and doubly so for every word he writes. A few believe in the +antiquated doctrine of electric animal currents, the vast majority are +firm in the belief that the influence is a moral one--all admit that +whatever force, or influence, lies at the root of hypnotism, the +effects it can produce are practically unlimited, terrible in their +comprehensiveness, and almost entirely unprovided for in the scheme of +modern criminal law. + +Unorna was sure of herself, and of her strength to perform what she +contemplated. There lay the dark beauty in the corner of the sofa, where +she had sat and talked so long, and told her last story, the story of +her life which was now to end. A few determined words spoken in her ear, +a pressure of the hand upon the brow and the heart, and she would never +wake again. She would lie there still, until they found her, hour after +hour, the pulse growing weaker and weaker, the delicate hands colder, +the face more set. At the last, there would be a convulsive shiver of +the queenly form, and that would be the end. The physicians and the +authorities would come and would speak of a weakness of the heart, and +there would be masses sung for her soul, and she would rest in peace. + +Her soul? In peace? Unorna stood still. Was that to be all her vengeance +upon the woman who stood between her and happiness? Was there to be +nothing but that, nothing but the painless passing of the pure young +spirit from earth to heaven? Was no one to suffer for all Unorna’s pain? +It was not enough. There must be more than that. And yet, what more? +That was the question. What imaginable wealth of agony would be a just +retribution for her existence? Unorna could lead her, as she had led +Israel Kafka, through the life and death of a martyr, through a life +of wretchedness and a death of shame, but then, the moment must come at +last, since this was to be death indeed, and her spotless soul would be +beyond Unorna’s reach forever. No, that was not enough. Since she could +not be allowed to live to be tormented, vengeance must follow her beyond +the end of life. + +Unorna stood still and an awful light of evil came into her face. A +thought of which the enormity would have terrified a common being had +entered her mind and taken possession of it. Beatrice was in her power. +Beatrice should die in mortal sin, and her soul would be lost for ever. + +For a long time she did not move, but stood looking down at the calm and +lovely face of her sleeping enemy, devising a crime to be imposed upon +her for her eternal destruction. Unorna was very superstitious, or the +hideous scheme could never have presented itself to her. To her mind +the deed was everything, whatever it was to be, and the intention or +the unconsciousness in doing it could have nothing to do with +the consequences to the soul of the doer. She made no theological +distinctions. Beatrice should commit some terrible crime and should die +in committing it. Then she would be lost, and devils would do in +hell the worst torment which Unorna could not do on earth. A crime--a +robbery, a murder--it must be done in the convent. Unorna hesitated, +bending her brows and poring in imagination over the dark catalogue of +all imaginable evil. + +A momentary and vague terror cast its shadow on her thoughts. By some +accident of connection between two ideas, her mind went back a month, +and reviewed as in a flash of light all that she had thought and done +since that day. She had greatly changed since then. She could think +calmly now of deeds which even she would not have dared then. She +thought of the evening when she had cried aloud that she would give her +soul to know the Wanderer safe, of the quick answer that had followed, +and of Keyork Arabian’s face. Was he a devil, indeed, as she sometimes +fancied, and had there been a reality and a binding meaning in that +contract? + +Keyork Arabian! He, indeed, possessed the key to all evil. What would +he have done with Beatrice? Would he make her rob the church--murder the +abbess in her sleep? Bad, but not bad enough. + +Unorna started. A deed suggested itself so hellish, so horrible in its +enormity, so far beyond all conceivable human sin, that for one moment +her brain reeled. She shuddered again and again, and groped for support +and leaned against the wall in a bodily weakness of terror. For one +moment she, who feared nothing, was shaken by fear from head to foot, +her face turned white, her knees shook, her sight failed her, her teeth +chattered, her lips moved hysterically. + +But she was strong still. The thing she had sought had come to her +suddenly. She set her teeth, and thought of it again and again, till she +could face the horror of it without quaking. Is there any limit to the +hardening of the human heart? + +The distant bells rang out the call to midnight prayer. Unorna stopped +and listened. She had not known how quickly time was passing. But it was +better so. She was glad it was so late, and she said so to herself, but +the evil smile that was sometimes in her face was not there now. She +had thought a thought that left a mark on her forehead. Was there any +reality in that jesting contract with Keyork Arabian? + +She must wait before she did the deed. The nuns would go down into the +lighted church, and kneel and pray before the altar. It would last some +time, the midnight lessons, the psalms, the prayers--and she must be +sure that all was quiet, for the deed could not be done in the room +where Beatrice was sleeping. + +She was conscious of the time now, and every minute seemed an hour, and +every second was full of that one deed, done over and over again before +her eyes, until every awful detail of the awful whole was stamped +indelibly upon her brain. She had sat down now, and leaning forwards, +was watching the innocent woman and wondering how she would look when +she was doing it. But she was calm now, as she felt that she had never +been in her life. Her breath came evenly, her heart beat naturally, she +thought connectedly of what she was about to do. But the time seemed +endless. + +The distant clocks chimed the half hour, three-quarters, past midnight. +Still she waited. At the stroke of one she rose from her seat, and +standing beside Beatrice laid her hand upon the dark brow. + +A few questions, a few answers followed. She must assure herself that +her victim was in the right state to execute minutely all her commands. +Then she opened the door upon the corridor and listened. Not a sound +broke the intense stillness, and all was dark. The hanging lamp had been +extinguished and the nuns had all returned from the midnight service to +their cells. No one would be stirring now until four o’clock, and half +an hour was all that Unorna needed. + +She took Beatrice’s hand. The dark woman rose with half-closed eyes and +set features. Unorna led her out into the dark passage. + +“It is light here,” Unorna said. “You can see your way. But I am blind. +Take my hand--so--and now lead me to the church by the nun’s staircase. +Make no noise.” + +“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. The staircase is on the right of the door, and leads into the +choir. Go!” + +Without hesitation Beatrice led her out into the impenetrable gloom, +with swift, noiseless footsteps in the direction commanded, never +wavering nor hesitating whether to turn to the right or the left, but +walking as confidently as though in broad daylight. Unorna counted the +turnings and knew that there was no mistake. Beatrice was leading her +unerringly towards the staircase. They reached it, and began to descend +the winding steps. Unorna, holding her leader by one hand, steadied +herself with the other against the smooth, curved wall, fearing at +every moment lest she should stumble and fall in the total darkness. +But Beatrice never faltered. To her the way was as bright as though the +noonday sun had shone before her. + +The stairs ended abruptly against a door. Beatrice stood still. She had +received no further commands and the impulse ceased. + +“Draw back the bolt and take me into the church,” said Unorna, who could +see nothing, but who knew that the nuns fastened the door behind them +when they returned into the convent. Beatrice obeyed without hesitation +and led her forward. + +They came out between the high carved seats of the choir, behind the +high altar. The church was not quite as dark as the staircase and +passages had been, and Unorna stood still for a moment. In some of the +chapels hanging lamps of silver were lighted, and their tiny flames +spread a faint radiance upwards and sideways, though not downwards, +sufficient to break the total obscurity to eyes accustomed for some +minutes to no light at all. The church stood, too, on a little eminence +in the city, where the air without was less murky and impenetrable with +the night mists, and though there was no moon the high upper windows +of the nave were distinctly visible in the gloomy height like great +lancet-shaped patches of gray upon a black ground. + +In the dimness, all objects took vast and mysterious proportions. A huge +giant reared his height against one of the pillars, crowned with a high, +pointed crown, stretching out one great shadowy hand into the gloom--the +tall pulpit was there, as Unorna knew, and the hand was the wooden +crucifix standing out in its extended socket. The black confessionals, +too, took shape, like monster nuns, kneeling in their heavy hoods and +veils, with heads inclined, behind the fluted pilasters, just within the +circle of the feeble chapel lights. Within the choir, the deep shadows +seemed to fill the carved stalls with the black ghosts of long dead +sisters, returned to their familiar seats out of the damp crypt below. +The great lectern in the midst of the half circle behind the high altar +became a hideous skeleton, headless, its straight arms folded on its +bony breast. The back of the high altar itself was a great throne +whereon sat in judgment a misty being of awful form, judging the dead +women all through the lonely night. The stillness was appalling. Not a +rat stirred. + +Unorna shuddered, not at what she saw, but at what she felt. She had +reached the place, and the doing of the deed was at hand. Beatrice stood +beside her erect, asleep, motionless, her dark face just outlined in the +surrounding dusk. + +Unorna took her hand and led her forwards. She could see now, and the +moment had come. She brought Beatrice before the high altar and made +her stand in front of it. Then she herself went back and groped for +something in the dark. It was the pair of small wooden steps upon +which the priest mounts in order to open the golden door of the high +tabernacle above the altar, when it is necessary to take therefrom the +Sacred Host for the Benediction, or other consecrated wafers for the +administration of the Communion. To all Christians, of all denominations +whatsoever, the bread-wafer when once consecrated is a holy thing. To +Catholics and Lutherans there is there, substantially, the Presence of +God. No imaginable act of sacrilege can be more unpardonable than the +desecration of the tabernacle and the wilful defilement and destruction +of the Sacred Host. + +This was Unorna’s determination. Beatrice should commit this crime +against Heaven, and then die with the whole weight of it upon her soul, +and thus should her soul itself be tormented for ever and ever to ages +of ages. + +Considering what she believed, it is no wonder that she should have +shuddered at the tremendous thought. And yet, in the distortion of her +reasoning, the sin would be upon Beatrice who did the act, and not upon +herself who commanded it. There was no diminution of her own faith +in the sacredness of the place and the holiness of the consecrated +object--had she been one whit less sure of that, her vengeance would +have been vain and her whole scheme meaningless. + +She came back out of the darkness and set the wooden steps in their +place before the altar at Beatrice’s feet. Then, as though to save +herself from all participation in the guilt of the sacrilege which was +to follow, she withdrew outside the Communion rail, and closed the gate +behind her. + +Beatrice, obedient to her smallest command, and powerless to move or +act without her suggestion, stood still as she had been placed, with her +back to the church and her face to the altar. Above her head the richly +wrought door of the tabernacle caught what little light there was and +reflected it from its own uneven surface. + +Unorna paused a moment, looked at the shadowy figure, and then glanced +behind her into the body of the church, not out of any ghostly fear, but +to assure herself that she was alone with her victim. She saw that all +was quite ready, and then she calmly knelt down just upon one side of +the gate and rested her folded hands upon the marble railing. A moment +of intense stillness followed. Again the thought of Keyork Arabian +flashed across her mind. Had there been any reality, she vaguely +wondered, in that compact made with him? What was she doing now? But the +crime was to be Beatrice’s, not hers. Her heart beat fast for a moment, +and then she grew very calm again. + +The clock in the church tower chimed the first quarter past one. She +was able to count the strokes and was glad to find that she had lost no +time. As soon as the long, singing echo of the bells had died away, she +spoke, not loudly, but clearly and distinctly. + +“Beatrice Varanger, go forward and mount the steps I have placed for +you.” + +The dark figure moved obediently, and Unorna heard the slight sound of +Beatrice’s foot upon the wood. The shadowy form rose higher and higher +in the gloom, and stood upon the altar itself. + +“Now do as I command you. Open wide the door of the tabernacle.” + +Unorna watched the black form intently. It seemed to stretch out its +hand as though searching for something, and then the arm fell again to +the side. + +“Do as I command you,” Unorna repeated with the angry and dominant +intonation that always came into her voice when she was not obeyed. + +Again the hand was raised for a moment, groped in the darkness and sank +down into the shadow. + +“Beatrice Varanger, you must do my will. I order you to open the door +of the tabernacle, to take out what is within and to throw it to the +ground!” Her voice rang clearly through the church. “And may the crime +be on your soul for ever and ever,” she added in a low voice. + +A third time the figure moved. A strange flash of light played for a +moment upon the tabernacle, the effect, Unorna thought, of the golden +door being suddenly opened. + +But she was wrong. The figure moved, indeed, and stretched out a hand +and moved again. A sudden crash of something very heavy, falling upon +stone, broke the great stillness--the dark form tottered, reeled and +fell to its length upon the great altar. Unorna saw that the golden door +was still closed, and that Beatrice had fallen. Unable to move or act by +her own free judgment, and compelled by Unorna’s determined command, she +had made a desperate effort to obey. Unorna had forgotten that there was +a raised step upon the altar itself, and that there were other obstacles +in the way, including heavy candlesticks and the framed Canon of the +Mass, all of which are usually set aside before the tabernacle is opened +by the priest. In attempting to do as she was told, the sleeping woman +had stumbled, had overbalanced herself, had clutched one of the great +silver candlesticks so that it fell heavily beside her, and then, having +no further support, she had fallen herself. + +Unorna sprang to her feet and hastily opened the gate of the railing. In +a moment she was standing by the altar at Beatrice’s head. She could see +that the dark eyes were open now. The great shock had recalled her to +consciousness. + +“Where am I?” she asked in great distress, seeing nothing in the +darkness now, and groping with her hands. + +“Sleep--be silent and sleep!” said Unorna in low, firm tones, pressing +her palm upon the forehead. + +“No--no!” cried the startled woman in a voice of horror. “No--I will not +sleep--no, do not touch me! Oh, where am I--help! Help!” + +She was not hurt. With one strong, lithe movement, she sprang to the +ground and stood with her back to the altar, her hands stretched out to +defend herself from Unorna. But Unorna knew what extreme danger she was +in if Beatrice left the church awake and conscious of what had happened. +She seized the moving arms and tried to hold them down, pressing her +face forward so as to look into the dark eyes she could but faintly +distinguish. It was no easy matter, however, for Beatrice was young and +strong and active. Then all at once she began to see Unorna’s eyes, as +Unorna could see hers, and she felt the terrible influence stealing over +her again. + +“No--no--no!” she cried, struggling desperately. “You shall not make me +sleep. I will not--I will not!” + +There was a flash of light again in the church, this time from behind +the high altar, and the noise of quick footsteps. But neither Unorna nor +Beatrice noticed the light or the sound. Then the full glow of a strong +lamp fell upon the faces of both and dazzled them, and Unorna felt a +cool thin hand upon her own. Sister Paul was beside them, her face very +white and her faded eyes turning from the one to the other. + +It was very simple. Soon after Compline was over the nun had gone to +Unorna’s room, had knocked and had entered. To her surprise Unorna +was not there, but Sister Paul imagined that she had lingered over her +prayers and would soon return. The good nun had sat down to wait for +her, and telling her beads had fallen asleep. The unaccustomed warmth +and comfort of the guest’s room had been too much for the weariness +that constantly oppressed a constitution broken with ascetic practices. +Accustomed by long habit to awake at midnight to attend the service, her +eyes opened of themselves, indeed, but a full hour later than usual. +She heard the clock strike one, and for a moment could not believe her +senses. Then she understood that she had been asleep, and was amazed +to find that Unorna had not come back. She went out hastily into the +corridor. The lay sister had long ago extinguished the hanging lamp, but +Sister Paul saw the light streaming from Beatrice’s open door. She went +in and called aloud. The bed had not been touched. Beatrice was not +there. Sister Paul began to think that both the ladies must have gone to +the midnight service. The corridors were dark and they might have lost +their way. She took the lamp from the table and went to the balcony at +which the guests performed their devotion. It had been her light that +had flashed across the door of the tabernacle. She had looked down into +the choir, and far below her had seen a figure, unrecognisable from +that height in the dusk of the church, but clearly the figure of a woman +standing upon the altar. Visions of horror rose before her eyes of the +sacrilegious practices of witchcraft, for she had thought of nothing +else during the whole evening. Lamp in hand she descended the stairs to +the choir and reached the altar, providentially, just in time to save +Beatrice from falling a victim again to the evil fascination of the +enemy who had planned the destruction of her soul as well as of her +body. + +“What is this? What are you doing in this holy place and at this hour?” + asked Sister Paul, solemnly and sternly. + +Unorna folded her arms and was silent. No possible explanation of the +struggle presented itself even to her quick intellect. She fixed her +eyes on the nun’s face, concentrating all her will, for she knew that +unless she could control her also, she herself was lost. Beatrice +answered the question, drawing herself up proudly against the great +altar and pointing at Unorna with her outstretched hand, her dark eyes +flashing indignantly. + +“We were talking together, this woman and I. She looked at me--she was +angry--and then I fainted, or fell asleep, I cannot tell which. I awoke +in the dark to find myself lying upon the altar here. Then she took +hold of me and tried to make me sleep again. But I would not. Let her +explain, herself, what she has done, and why she brought me here!” + +Sister Paul turned to Unorna and met the full glare of the unlike eyes, +with her own calm, half heavenly look of innocence. + +“What have you done, Unorna? What have you done?” she asked very sadly. + +But Unorna did not answer. She only looked at the nun more fixedly and +savagely. She felt that she might as well have looked upon some ancient +picture of a saint in heaven, and bid it close its eyes. But she would +not give up the attempt, for her only safety lay in its success. For a +long time Sister Paul returned her gaze steadily. + +“Sleep!” said Unorna, putting up her hand. “Sleep, I command you!” + +But Sister Paul’s eyes did not waver. A sad smile played for a moment +upon her waxen features. + +“You have no power over me--for your power is not of good,” she said, +slowly and softly. + +Then she quietly turned to Beatrice, and took her hand. + +“Come with me, my daughter,” she said. “I have a light and will take +you to a place where you will be safe. She will not trouble you any more +to-night. Say a prayer, my child, and do not be afraid.” + +“I am not afraid,” said Beatrice. “But where is she?” she asked +suddenly. + +Unorna had glided away while they were speaking. Sister Paul held the +lamp high and looked in all directions. Then she heard the heavy door of +the sacristy swing upon its hinges and strike with a soft thud against +the small leathern cushion. Both women followed her, but as they opened +the door again a blast of cold air almost extinguished the lamp. The +night wind was blowing in from the street. + +“She is gone out,” said Sister Paul. “Alone and at this hour--Heaven +help her!” It was as she said, Unorna had escaped. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +After leaving Unorna at the convent, the Wanderer had not hesitated as +to the course he should pursue. It was quite clear that the only person +to whom he could apply at the present juncture was Keyork Arabian. Had +he been at liberty to act in the most natural and simple way, he would +have applied to the authorities for a sufficient force with which to +take Israel Kafka into custody as a dangerous lunatic. He was well +aware, however, that such a proceeding must lead to an inquiry of a more +or less public nature, of which the consequences might be serious, or +at least extremely annoying, to Unorna. Of the inconvenience to which he +might himself be exposed, he would have taken little account, though his +position would have been as difficult to explain as any situation could +be. The important point was to prevent the possibility of Unorna’s name +being connected with an open scandal. Every present circumstance in +the case was directly or indirectly the result of Unorna’s unreasoning +passion for himself, and it was clearly his duty, as a man of honour, to +shield her from the consequences of her own acts, as far as lay in his +power. + +He did not indeed believe literally all that she had told him in her mad +confession. Much of that, he was convinced, was but a delusion. It might +be possible, indeed, for Unorna to produce forgetfulness of such a dream +as she impressed upon Kafka’s mind in the cemetery that same afternoon, +or even, perhaps, of some real circumstance of merely relative +importance in a man’s life; but the Wanderer could not believe that +it was in her power to destroy the memory of the great passion through +which she pretended that he himself had passed. He smiled at the idea, +for he had always trusted his own senses and his own memory. Unorna’s +own mind was clearly wandering, or else she had invented the story, +supposing him credulous enough to believe it. In either case it did not +deserve a moment’s consideration except as showing to what lengths her +foolish and ill-bestowed love could lead her. + +Meanwhile she was in danger. She had aroused the violent and deadly +resentment of Israel Kafka, a man who, if not positively insane, as +Keyork Arabian had hinted, was by no means in a normal state of mind or +body, a man beside himself with love and anger, and absolutely +reckless of life for the time being, a man who, for the security of all +concerned, must be at least temporarily confined in a place of safety, +until a proper treatment and the lapse of a certain length of time +should bring him to his senses. For the present, he was wholly +untractable, being at the mercy of the most uncontrolled passions and of +one of those intermittent phases of blind fatalism to which the Semitic +races are peculiarly subject. + +There were two reasons which determined the Wanderer to turn to Keyork +Arabian for assistance, besides his wish to see the bad business end +quickly and without publicity. Keyork, so far as the Wanderer was aware, +was himself treating Israel Kafka’s case, and would therefore know what +to do, if any one knew at all. Secondly, it was clear from the message +which Unorna had left with the porter of her own house that she expected +Keyork to come at any moment. He was then in immediate danger of being +brought face to face with Israel Kafka without having received the least +warning of his present condition, and it was impossible to say what the +infuriated youth might do at such a moment. He had been shut up, caught +in his own trap, as it were, for some time, and his anger and madness +might reasonably be supposed to have been aggravated rather than cooled +by his unexpected confinement. It was as likely as not that he would use +the weapon he carried upon the first person with whom he found himself +face to face, especially if that person made any attempt to overpower +and disarm him. + +The Wanderer drove to Keyork Arabian’s house, and leaving his carriage +to wait in case of need, ascended the stairs and knocked at the door. +For some reason or other Keyork would not have a bell in his dwelling, +whether because, like Mahomet, he regarded the bell as the devil’s +instrument, or because he was really nervously sensitive to the sound +of one, nobody had ever discovered. The Wanderer knocked therefore, and +Keyork answered the knock in person. + +“My dear friend!” he exclaimed in his richest and deepest voice, as he +recognised the Wanderer. “Come in. I am delighted to see you. You will +join me at supper. This is good indeed!” + +He took his visitor by the arm and led him in. Upon one of the tables +stood a round brass platter covered, so far as it was visible, with +Arabic inscriptions, and highly polished--one of those commonly used all +over the East at the present day for the same purpose. Upon this were +placed at random several silver bowls, mere hemispheres without feet, +remaining in a convenient position by their own weight. One of these +contained snowy rice, in that perfectly dry but tender state dear to +the taste of Orientals, in another there was a savoury, steaming mess of +tender capon, chopped in pieces with spices and aromatic herbs, a third +contained a pure white curd of milk, and a fourth was heaped up +with rare fruits. A flagon of Bohemian glass, clear and bright as +rock-crystal, and covered with very beautiful traceries of black and +gold, with a drinking-vessel of the same design, stood upon the table +beside the platter. + +“My simple meal,” said Keyork, spreading out his hands, and smiling +pleasantly. “You will share it with me. There will be enough for two.” + +“So far as I am concerned, I should say so,” the Wanderer answered with +a smile. “But my business is rather urgent.” + +Suddenly he saw that there was a third person in the room, and glanced +at Keyork in surprise. + +“I want to speak a few words with you alone,” he said. “I would not +trouble you but----” + +“Not in the least, not in the least, my dear friend!” asseverated +Keyork, motioning him to a chair beside the board. + +“But we are not alone,” observed the Wanderer, still standing and +looking at the stranger. Keyork saw the glance and understood. He broke +into peals of laughter. + +“That!” he exclaimed, presently. “That is only the Individual. He will +not disturb us. Pray be seated.” + +“I assure you that my business is very private--” the Wanderer objected. + +“Quite so--of course. But there is nothing to fear. The Individual is my +servant--a most excellent creature who has been with me for many years. +He cooks for me, cleans the specimens, and takes care of me in all ways. +A most reliable man, I assure you.” + +“Of course, if you can answer for his discretion----” + +The Individual was standing at a little distance from the table +observing the two men intently but respectfully with his keen little +black eyes. The rest of his square, dark face expressed nothing. He had +perfectly straight, jet-black hair which hung evenly all around his head +and flat against his cheeks. He was dressed entirely in a black robe +of the nature of a kaftan, gathered closely round his waist by a black +girdle, and fitting tightly over his stalwart shoulders. + +“His discretion is beyond all doubt,” Keyork answered, “and for the best +of all reasons. He is totally deaf and dumb and absolutely illiterate. +I brought him years ago in Astrakhan, of a Russian friend. He is very +clever with his fingers. It is he who stole for me the Malayan lady’s +head over there, after she was executed. And now, my dear friend, let us +have supper.” + +There were neither plates nor knives nor forks upon the table, and at +a sign from Keyork the Individual retired to procure those Western +incumbrances to eating. The Wanderer, acquainted as he had long been +with his host’s eccentricities, showed little surprise, but understood +that whatever he said would not be overheard, any more than if they had +been alone. He hesitated a moment, however, for he had not determined +exactly how far it was necessary to acquaint Keyork with the +circumstances, and he was anxious to avoid all reference to Unorna’s +folly in regard to himself. The Individual returned, bringing, with +other things, a drinking-glass for the Wanderer. Keyork filled it and +then filled his own. It was clear that ascetic practices formed no part +of his scheme for the prolongation of life. As he raised his glass to +his lips, his bright eyes twinkled. + +“To Keyork’s long life and happiness,” he said calmly, and then sipped +the wine. “And now for your story,” he added, brushing the brown drops +from his white moustache with a small damask napkin which the Individual +presented to him and immediately received again, to throw it aside as +unfit for a second use. + +“I hardly think that we can afford to linger over supper,” the Wanderer +said, noticing Keyork’s coolness with some anxiety. “The case is urgent. +Israel Kafka has lost his head completely. He has sworn to kill Unorna, +and is at the present moment confined in the conservatory in her house.” + +The effect of the announcement upon Keyork was so extraordinary that +the Wanderer started, not being prepared for any manifestation of what +seemed to be the deepest emotion. The gnome sprang from the table with a +cry that would have been like the roar of a wounded wild beast if it had +not articulated a terrific blasphemy. + +“Unorna is quite safe,” the Wanderer hastened to say. + +“Safe--where?” shouted the little man, his hands already on his furs. +The Individual, too, had sprung across the room like a cat and was +helping him. In five seconds Keyork would have been out of the house. + +“In a convent. I took her there, and saw the gate close behind her.” + +Keyork dropped his furs and stood still a moment. The Individual, always +unmoved, rearranged the coat and cap neatly in their place, following +all his master’s movements, however, with his small eyes. Then the sage +broke out in a different strain. He flung his arms round the Wanderer’s +body and attempted to embrace him. + +“You have saved my life!--the curse of the three black angels on you for +not saying so first!” he cried in an agony of ecstasy. “Preserver! What +can I do for you?--Saviour of my existence, how can I repay you! You +shall live forever, as I will; you shall have all my secrets; the gold +spider shall spin her web in your dwelling; the Part of Fortune shall +shine on your path, it shall rain jewels on your roof; and your winter +shall have snows of pearls--you shall--” + +“Good Heavens! Keyork,” interrupted the Wanderer. “Are you mad? What is +the matter with you?” + +“Mad? The matter? I love you! I worship you! I adore you! You have saved +her life, and you have saved mine; you have almost killed me with fright +and joy in two moments, you have--” + +“Be sensible, Keyork. Unorna is quite safe, but we must do something +about Kafka and--” + +The rest of his speech was drowned in another shout from the gnome, +ending in a portentous peal of laughter. He had taken his glass again +and was toasting himself. + +“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. + +“Perfectly,” returned Keyork, growing quite calm again. “The locks are +very good on those doors. I saw to them myself.” + +“But some one else--” + +“There is no some one else,” interrupted the sage sharply. “Only three +persons can enter the house without question--you, I, and Kafka. You and +I are here, and Kafka is there already. When we have eaten we will go to +him, and I flatter myself that the last state of the young man will be +so immeasurably worse than the first, that he will not recognise himself +when I have done with him.” + +He had helped his friend and began eating. Somewhat reassured the +Wanderer followed his example. Under the circumstances it was as well +to take advantage of the opportunity for refreshment. No one could tell +what might happen before morning. + +“It just occurs to me,” said Keyork, fixing his keen eyes on his +companion’s face, “that you have told me absolutely nothing, except that +Kafka is mad and that Unorna is safe.” + +“Those are the most important points,” observed the Wanderer. + +“Precisely. But I am sure that you will not think me indiscreet if I +wish to know a little more. For instance, what was the immediate cause +of Kafka’s extremely theatrical and unreasonable rage? That would +interest me very much. Of course, he is mad, poor boy! But I take +delight in following out the workings of an insane intellect. Now there +are no phases of insanity more curious than those in which the patient +is possessed with a desire to destroy what he loves best. These cases +are especially worthy of study because they happen so often in our day.” + +The Wanderer saw that some explanation was necessary and he determined +to give one in as few words as possible. + +“Unorna and I had strolled into the Jewish Cemetery,” he said. “While +we were talking there, Israel Kafka suddenly came upon us and spoke and +acted very wildly. He is madly in love with her. She became very angry +and would not let me interfere. Then, by way of punishment for his +intrusion I suppose, she hypnotised him and made him believe that he was +Simon Abeles, and brought the whole of the poor boy’s life so vividly +before me, as I listened, that I actually seemed to see the scenes. I +was quite unable to stop her or to move from where I stood, though I was +quite awake. But I realised what was going on and I was disgusted at her +cruelty to the unfortunate man. He fainted at the end, but when he came +to himself he seemed to remember nothing. I took him home and Unorna +went away by herself. Then he questioned me so closely as to what had +happened that I was weak enough to tell him the truth. Of course, as +a fervent Hebrew, which he seems to be, he did not relish the idea of +having played the Christian martyr for Unorna’s amusement, and amidst +the graves of his own people. He there and then impressed me that he +intended to take Unorna’s life without delay, but insisted that I should +warn her of her danger, saying that he would not be a common murderer. +Seeing that he was mad and in earnest I went to her. There was some +delay, which proved fortunate, as it turned out, for we left the +conservatory by the small door just as he was entering from the other +end. We locked it behind us, and going round by the passages locked the +other door upon him also, so that he was caught in a trap. And there he +is, unless some one has let him out.” + +“And then you took Unorna to the convent?” Keyork had listened +attentively. + +“I took her to the convent, promising to come to her when she should +send for me. Then I saw that I must consult you before doing anything +more. It will not do to make a scandal of the matter.” + +“No,” answered Keyork thoughtfully. “It will not do.” + +The Wanderer had told his story with perfect truth and yet in a way +which entirely concealed the very important part Unorna’s passion for +him had played in the sequence of events. Seeing that Keyork asked no +further questions he felt satisfied that he had accomplished his purpose +as he had intended, and that the sage suspected nothing. He would have +been very much disconcerted had he known that the latter had long been +aware of Unorna’s love, and was quite able to guess at the cause of +Kafka’s sudden appearance and extreme excitement. Indeed, so soon as he +had finished the short narrative, his mind reverted with curiosity to +Keyork himself, and he wondered what the little man had meant by his +amazing outburst of gratitude on hearing of Unorna’s safety. Perhaps +he loved her. More impossible things than that had occurred in the +Wanderer’s experience. Or, possibly, he had an object to gain in +exaggerating his thankfulness to Unorna’s preserver. He knew that +Keyork rarely did anything without an object, and that, although he was +occasionally very odd and excitable, he was always in reality perfectly +well aware of what he was doing. He was roused from his speculations by +Keyork’s voice. + +“There will be no difficulty in securing Kafka,” he said. “The real +question is, what shall we do with him? He is very much in the way +at present, and he must be disposed of at once, or we shall have more +trouble. How infinitely more to the purpose it would have been if he had +wisely determined to cut his own throat instead of Unorna’s! But young +men are so thoughtless!” + +“I will only say one thing,” said the Wanderer, “and then I will leave +the direction to you. The poor fellow has been driven mad by Unorna’s +caprice and cruelty. I am determined that he shall not be made to suffer +gratuitously anything more.” + +“Do you think that Unorna was intentionally cruel to him?” inquired +Keyork. “I can hardly believe that. She has not a cruel nature.” + +“You would have changed your mind, if you had seen her this afternoon. +But that is not the question. I will not allow him to be ill-treated.” + +“No, no! of course not!” Keyork answered with eager assent. “But +of course you will understand that we have to deal with a dangerous +lunatic, and that it may be necessary to use whatever means are most +sure and certain.” + +“I shall not quarrel with your means,” the Wanderer said quietly, +“provided that there is no unnecessary brutality. If I see anything of +the kind I will take the matter into my own hands.” + +“Certainly, certainly!” said the other, eyeing with curiosity the +man who spoke so confidently of taking out of Keyork Arabian’s grasp +whatever had once found its way into it. + +“He shall be treated with every consideration,” the Wanderer continued. +“Of course, if he is very violent, we shall have to use force.” + +“We will take the Individual with us,” said Keyork. “He is very strong. +He has a trick of breaking silver florins with his thumbs and fingers +which is very pretty.” + +“I fancy that you and I could manage him. It is a pity that neither of +us has the faculty of hypnotising. This would be the proper time to use +it.” + +“A great pity. But there are other things that will do almost as well.” + +“What, for instance?” + +“A little ether in a sponge. He would only struggle a moment, and +then he would be much more really unconscious than if he had been +hypnotised.” + +“Is it quite painless?” + +“Quite, if you give it gradually. If you hurry the thing, the man feels +as though he were being smothered. But the real difficulty is what to do +with him, as I said before.” + +“Take him home and get a keeper from the lunatic asylum,” the Wanderer +suggested. + +“Then comes the whole question of an inquiry into his sanity,” objected +Keyork. “We come back to the starting-point. We must settle all this +before we go to him. A lunatic asylum is not a club in this country. +There is a great deal of formality connected with getting into it, and +a great deal more connected with getting out. Now, I could not get a +keeper for Kafka without going to the physician in charge and making +a statement, and demanding an examination, and all the rest of it. And +Israel Kafka is a person of importance among his own people. He comes of +great Jews in Moravia, and we should have the whole Jews’ quarter--which +means nearly the whole of Prague, in a broad sense--about our ears +in twenty-four hours. No, no, my friend. To avoid an enormous scandal +things must be done very quietly indeed.” + +“I cannot see anything to be done, then, unless we bring him here,” said +the Wanderer, falling into the trap from sheer perplexity. Everything +that Keyork had said was undeniably true. + +“He would be a nuisance in the house,” answered the sage, not wishing, +for reasons of his own, to appear to accept the proposition too eagerly. +“Not but that the Individual would make a capital keeper. He is as +gentle as he is strong, and as quick as a tiger-cat.” + +“So far as that is concerned,” said the Wanderer coolly, “I could take +charge of him myself, if you did not object to my presence.” + +“You do not trust me,” said the other, with a sharp glance. + +“My dear Keyork, we are old acquaintances, and I trust you implicitly +to do whatever you have predetermined to do for the advantage of your +studies, unless some one interferes with you. You have no more respect +for human life or sympathy for human suffering than you have belief +in the importance of anything not conducive to your researches. I am +perfectly well aware that if you thought you could learn something by +making experiments upon the body of Israel Kafka, you would not scruple +to make a living mummy of him, you would do it without the least +hesitation. I should expect to find him with his head cut off, living +by means of a glass heart and thinking through a rabbit’s brain. That is +the reason why I do not trust you. Before I could deliver him into your +hands, I would require of you a contract to give him back unhurt--and a +contract of the kind you would consider binding.” + +Keyork Arabian wondered whether Unorna, in the recklessness of her +passion, had betrayed the nature of the experiment they had been making +together, but a moment’s reflection told him that he need have no +anxiety on this score. He understood the Wanderer’s nature too well to +suspect him of wishing to convey a covert hint instead of saying openly +what was in his mind. + +“Taste one of these oranges,” he said, by way of avoiding an answer. +“they have just come from Smyrna.” The Wanderer smiled as he took the +proffered fruit. + +“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. So far from taking your distrust ill, +I regard it as a providentially fortunate bias of your mind, since it +will keep us together for a time. You will be the only loser. You see +how simply I live.” + +“There is a simplicity which is the extremest development of refined +sybarism,” the Wanderer said, smiling again. “I know your simplicity of +old. It consists of getting precisely what you want, and in producing +local earthquakes and revolutions when you cannot get it. Moreover you +want what is good--to the taste, at least.” + +“There is something in that,” answered Keyork with a merry twinkle in +his eye. “Happiness is a matter of speculation. Comfort is a matter of +fact. Most men are uncomfortable, because they do not know what they +want. If you have tastes, study them. If you have intelligence, apply it +to the question of gratifying your tastes. Consult yourself first--and +nobody second. Consider this orange--I am fond of oranges and they +suit my constitution admirably. Consider the difficulty I have had in +procuring it at this time of year--not in the wretched condition in +which they are sold in the market, plucked half green in Spain or Italy +and ripened on the voyage in the fermenting heat of the decay of those +which are already rotten--but ripe from the tree and brought to me +directly by the shortest and quickest means possible. Consider this +orange, I say. Do you vainly imagine that if I had but two or three like +it I would offer you one?” + +“I would not be so rash as to imagine anything of the kind, my dear +Keyork. I know you very well. If you offer me one it is because you have +a week’s supply at least.” + +“Exactly,” said Keyork. “And a few to spare, because they will only +keep a week as I like them, and because I would no more run the risk +of missing my orange a week hence for your sake, than I would deprive +myself of it to-day.” + +“And that is your simplicity.” + +“That is my simplicity. It is indeed a perfectly simple matter, for +there is only one idea in it, and in all things I carry that one idea +out to its ultimate expression. That one idea, as you very well put it, +is to have exactly what I want in this world.” + +“And will you be getting what you want in having me quartered upon you +as poor Israel Kafka’s keeper?” asked the Wanderer, with an expression +of amusement. But Keyork did not wince. + +“Precisely,” he answered without hesitation. “In the first place you +will relieve me of much trouble and responsibility, and the Individual +will not be so often called away from his manifold and important +household duties. In the second place I shall have a most agreeable and +intelligent companion with whom I can talk as long as I like. In the +third place I shall undoubtedly satisfy my curiosity.” + +“In what respect, if you please?” + +“I shall discover the secret of your wonderful interest in Israel +Kafka’s welfare. I always like to follow the workings of a brain +essentially different from my own, philanthropic, of course. How could +it be anything else? Philanthropy deals with a class of ideas wholly +unfamiliar to me. I shall learn much in your society.” + +“And possibly I shall learn something from you,” the Wanderer answered. +“There is certainly much to be learnt. I wonder whether your ideas upon +all subjects are as simple as those you hold about oranges.” + +“Absolutely. I make no secret of my principles. Everything I do is for +my own advantage.” + +“Then,” observed the Wanderer, “the advantage of Unorna’s life must be +an enormous one to you, to judge by your satisfaction at her safety.” + +Keyork stared at him a moment and then laughed, but less heartily and +loudly than usual his companion fancied. + +“Very good!” he exclaimed. “Excellent! I fell into the trap like a rat +into a basin of water. You are indeed an interesting companion, my dear +friend--so interesting that I hope we shall never part again.” There was +a rather savage intonation in the last words. + +They looked at each other intently, neither wincing nor lowering his +gaze. The Wanderer saw that he had touched upon Keyork’s greatest and +most important secret, and Keyork fancied that his companion knew more +than he actually did. But nothing further was said, for Keyork was far +too wise to enter into explanation, and the Wanderer knew well enough +that if he was to learn anything it must be by observation and not by +questioning. Keyork filled both glasses in silence and both men drank +before speaking again. + +“And now that we have refreshed ourselves,” he said, returning naturally +to his former manner, “we will go and find Israel Kafka. It is as well +that we should have given him a little time to himself. He may have +returned to his senses without any trouble on our part. Shall we take +the Individual?” + +“As you please,” the Wanderer answered indifferently as he rose from his +place. + +“It is very well for you not to care,” observed Keyork. “You are big +and strong and young, whereas I am a little man and very old at that. +I shall take him for my own protection. I confess that I value my life +very highly. It is a part of that simplicity which you despise. That +devil of a Jew is armed, you say?” + +“I saw something like a knife in his hand, as we shut him in,” said the +Wanderer with the same indifference as before. + +“Then I will take the Individual,” Keyork answered promptly. “A man’s +bare hands must be strong and clever to take a man’s life in a scuffle, +and few men can use a pistol to any purpose. But a knife is a weapon of +precision. I will take the Individual, decidedly.” + +He made a few rapid signs, and the Individual disappeared, coming back a +moment later attired in a long coat not unlike his master’s except that +the fur of the great collar was of common fox instead of being of sable. +Keyork drew his peaked cape comfortably down over the tips of his ears. + +“The ether!” he exclaimed. “How forgetful I am growing! Your charming +conversation had almost made me forget the object of our visit!” + +He went back and took the various things he needed. Then the three men +went out together. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +More than an hour had elapsed since the Wanderer and Unorna had finally +turned the key upon Israel Kafka, leaving him to his own reflections. +During the first moments he made desperate efforts to get out of the +conservatory, throwing himself with all his weight and strength against +the doors and thrusting the point of his long knife into the small +apertures of the locks. Then, seeing that every attempt was fruitless, +he desisted and sat down, in a state of complete exhaustion. A reaction +began to set in after the furious excitement of the afternoon, and he +felt all at once that it would be impossible for him to make another +step or raise his arm to strike. A man less sound originally in bodily +constitution would have broken down sooner, and it was a proof of Israel +Kafka’s extraordinary vigour and energy that he did not lose his senses +in a delirious fever at the moment when he felt that his strength could +bear no further strain. + +But his thoughts, such as they were, did not lack clearness. He saw that +his opportunity was gone, and he began to think of the future, wondering +what would take place next. Assuredly when he had come to Unorna’s house +with the fixed determination to take her life, the last thing that +he had expected had been to be taken prisoner and left to his own +meditations. It was clear that the Wanderer’s warning had been conveyed +without loss of time and had saved Unorna from her immediate fate. +Nevertheless, he did not regret having given her the opportunity of +defending herself. He had not meant that there should be any secret +about the deed, for he was ready to sacrifice his own life in executing +it. + +Yet he was not altogether brave. He had neither Unorna’s innate +indifference to physical danger, nor the Wanderer’s calm superiority to +fear. He would not have made a good soldier, and he could not have faced +another man’s pistol at fifteen paces without experiencing a mental and +bodily commotion not unlike terror, which he might or might not have +concealed from others, but which would in any case have been painfully +apparent to himself. + +It is a noticeable fact in human nature that a man of even ordinary +courage will at any time, when under excitement, risk his life rather +than his happiness. Moreover, an immense number of individuals, +naturally far from brave, destroy their own lives yearly in the moment +when all chances of happiness are temporarily eclipsed. 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. The fact of having been +made to play a part which to him seemed at once blasphemous and ignoble +had indeed turned the scale, but was not the motive. In all things, +the final touch which destroys the balance is commonly mistaken for the +force which has originally produced a state of unstable equilibrium, +whereas there is very often no connection between the one and the other. +The Moravian himself believed that the sacrifice of Unorna, and of +himself afterwards, was to be an expiation of the outrage Unorna had put +upon his faith in his own person. He had merely seized upon the first +excuse which presented itself for ending all, because he was in reality +past hope. + +We have, as yet, no absolute test of sanity, as we have of fever in the +body and of many other unnatural conditions of the human organism. +The only approximately accurate judgments in the patient’s favour +are obtained from examinations into the relative consecutiveness and +consistency of thought in the individual examined, when the whole +tendency of that thought is towards an end conceivably approvable by a +majority of men. A great many philosophers and thinkers have accordingly +been pronounced insane at one period of history and have been held up +as models of sanity at another. The most immediately destructive +consequences of individual reasoning on a limited scale, murder and +suicide, have been successively regarded as heroic acts, as criminal +deeds, and as the deplorable but explicable actions of irresponsible +beings in consecutive ages of violence, strict law and humanitarianism. +It seems to be believed that the combination of murder and suicide is +more commonly observed under the last of the three reigns than it was +under the first; it was undoubtedly least common under the second. In +other words it appears probable that the practice of considering certain +crimes as the result of insanity has a tendency to make those crimes +increase in number, as they undoubtedly increase in barbarity, from year +to year. Meanwhile, however, no definite conclusion has been reached as +to the state of mind of a man who murders the woman he loves and then +ends his own life. + +Israel Kafka may therefore be regarded as mad or sane. In favour of the +theory of his madness the total uselessness of the deed he contemplated +may be adduced; on the other hand the extremely consecutive and +consistent nature of his thoughts and actions gives evidence of his +sanity. + +When he found himself a prisoner in Unorna’s conservatory, his intention +underwent no change though his body was broken with fatigue and his +nerves with the long continued strain of a terrible excitement. His +determination was as cool and as fixed as ever. + +These somewhat dry reflections seem necessary to the understanding of +what followed. + +The key turned in the lock and the bolt was slipped back. Instantly +Israel Kafka’s energy returned. He rose quickly and hid himself in the +shrubbery, in a position from which he could observe the door. He had +seen Unorna enter before and had of course heard her cry before the +Wanderer had carried her away, and he had believed that she had wished +to face him, either with the intention of throwing herself upon his +mercy or in the hope of dominating him with her eyes as she had so often +done before. Of course, he had no means of knowing that she had already +left the house. He imagined that the Wanderer had gone and that Unorna, +being freed from his restraint, was about to enter the place again. The +door opened and the three men came in. Kafka’s first idea, on seeing +himself disappointed, was that they had come to take him into custody, +and his first impulse was to elude them. + +The Wanderer entered first, tall, stately, indifferent, the quick glance +of his deep eyes alone betraying that he was looking for some one. Next +came Keyork Arabian, muffled still in his furs, turning his head sharply +from side to side in the midst of the sable collar that half buried +it, and evidently nervous. Last of all the Individual, who had divested +himself of his outer coat and whose powerful proportions did not escape +Israel Kafka’s observation. It was clear that if there were a struggle +it could have but one issue. Kafka would be overpowered. His knowledge +of the disposition of the plants and trees offered him a hope of escape. +The three men had entered the conservatory, and if he could reach the +door before they noticed him, he could lock it upon them, as it had +been locked upon himself. He could hear their footsteps on the marble +pavement very near him, and he caught glimpses of their moving figures +through the thick leaves. + +With cat-like tread he glided along in the shadows of the foliage until +he could see the door. From the entrance an open way was left in a +straight line towards the middle of the hall, down which his pursuers +were still slowly walking. He must cross an open space in the line of +their vision in order to get out, and he calculated the distance to be +traversed, while listening to their movements, until he felt sure that +they were so far from the door as not to be able to reach him. Then he +made his attempt, darting across the smooth pavement with his knife in +his hand. There was no one in the way. + +Then came a violent shock and he was held as in a vice, so tightly that +he could not believe himself in the arms of a human being. His +captors had anticipated that he would try to escape and has posted the +Individual in the shadow of a tree near the doorway. The deaf and dumb +man had received his instructions by means of a couple of quick signs, +and not a whisper had betrayed the measures taken. Kafka struggled +desperately, for he was within three feet of the door and still believed +an escape possible. He tried to strike behind him with his sharp blade +of which a single touch would have severed muscle and sinew like silk +threads, but the bear-like embrace seemed to confine his whole body, +his arms and even his wrists. Then he felt himself turned round and the +Individual pushed him towards the middle of the hall. The Wanderer was +advancing quickly, and Keyork Arabian, who had again fallen behind, +peered at Kafka from behind his tall companion with a grotesque +expression in which bodily fear and a desire to laugh at the captive +were strongly intermingled. + +“It is of no use to resist,” said the Wanderer quietly. “We are too +strong for you.” + +Kafka said nothing, but his bloodshot eyes glared up angrily at the tall +man’s face. + +“He looks dangerous, and he still has that thing in his hand,” said +Keyork Arabian. “I think I will give him ether at once while the +Individual holds him. Perhaps you could do it.” + +“You will do nothing of the kind,” the Wanderer answered. “What a coward +you are, Keyork!” he added contemptuously. + +Going to Kafka’s side he took him by the wrist of the hand which held +the knife. But Kafka still clutched it firmly. + +“You had better give it up,” he said. + +Kafka shook his head angrily and set his teeth, but the Wanderer +unclasped the fingers by quiet force and took the weapon away. He handed +it to Keyork, who breathed a sigh of relief as he looked at it, smiling +at last, and holding his head on one side. + +“To think,” he soliloquised, “that an inch of such pretty stuff as +Damascus steel, in the right place, can draw the sharp red line between +time and eternity!” + +He put the knife tenderly away in the bosom of his fur coat. His whole +manner changed and he came forward with his usual, almost jaunty step. + +“And now that you are quite harmless, my dear friend,” he said, +addressing Israel Kafka, “I hope to make you see the folly of your ways. +I suppose you know that you are quite mad and that the proper place for +you is a lunatic asylum.” + +The Wanderer laid his hand heavily upon Keyork’s shoulder. + +“Remember what I told you,” he said sternly. “He will be reasonable now. +Make your fellow understand that he is to let him go.” + +“Better shut the door first,” said Keyork, suiting the action to the +word and then coming back. + +“Make haste!” said the Wanderer with impatience. “The man is ill, +whether he is mad or not.” + +Released at last from the Individual’s iron grip, Israel Kafka staggered +a little. The Wanderer took him kindly by the arm, supporting his steps +and leading him to a seat. Kafka glanced suspiciously at him and at the +other two, but seemed unable to make any further effort and sank back +with a low groan. His face grew pale and his eyelids drooped. + +“Get some wine--something to restore him,” the Wanderer said. + +Keyork looked at the Moravian critically for a moment. + +“Yes,” he assented, “he is more exhausted than I thought. He is not +very dangerous now.” Then he went in search of what was needed. The +Individual retired to a distance and stood looking on with folded arms. + +“Do you hear me?” asked the Wanderer, speaking gently. “Do you +understand what I say?” + +Israel Kafka nodded, but said nothing. + +“You are very ill. This foolish idea that has possessed you this evening +comes from your illness. Will you go away quietly with me, and make no +resistance, so that I may take care of you?” + +This time there was not even a movement of the head. + +“This is merely a passing thing,” the Wanderer continued in a tone of +quiet encouragement. “You have been feverish and excited, and I daresay +you have been too much alone of late. If you will come with me, I will +take care of you, and see that all is well.” + +“I told you that I would kill her--and I will,” said Israel Kafka, +faintly but distinctly. + +“You will not kill her,” answered his companion. “I will prevent +you from attempting it, and as soon as you are well you will see the +absurdity of the idea.” + +Israel Kafka made an impatient gesture, feeble but sufficiently +expressive. Then all at once his limbs relaxed, and his head fell +forward upon his breast. The Wanderer started to his feet and moved him +into a more comfortable position. There were one or two quickly drawn +breaths and the breathing ceased altogether. At that moment Keyork +returned carrying a bottle of wine and a glass. + +“It is too late,” said the Wanderer gravely. “Israel Kafka is dead.” + +“Dead!” exclaimed Keyork, setting down what he had in his hands, +and hastening to examine the unfortunate man’s face and eyes. “The +Individual squeezed him a little too hard, I suppose,” he added, +applying his ear to the region of the heart, and moving his head about a +little as he did so. + +“I hate men who make statements about things they do not understand,” + he said viciously, looking up as he spoke, but without any expression +of satisfaction. “He is no more dead than you are--the greater pity! +It would have been so convenient. It is nothing but a slight +syncope--probably the result of poorness of blood and an over-excited +state of the nervous system. Help me to lay him on his back. You ought +to have known that was the only thing to do. Put a cushion under his +head. There--he will come to himself presently, but he will not be so +dangerous as he was.” + +The Wanderer drew a long breath of relief as he helped Keyork to make +the necessary arrangements. + +“How long will it last?” he inquired. + +“How can I tell?” returned Keyork sharply. “Have you never heard of a +syncope? Do you know nothing about anything?” + +He had produced a bottle containing some very strong salt and was +applying it to the unconscious man’s nostrils. The Wanderer paid no +attention to his irritable temper and stood looking on. A long time +passed and yet the Moravian gave no further signs of consciousness. + +“It is clear that he cannot stay here if he is to be seriously ill,” the +Wanderer said. + +“And it is equally clear that he cannot be taken away,” retorted Keyork. + +“You seem to be in a very combative frame of mind,” the other answered, +sitting down and looking at his watch. “If you cannot revive him, he +ought to be brought to more comfortable quarters for the night.” + +“In his present condition--of course,” said Keyork with a sneer. + +“Do you think he would be in danger on the way?” + +“I never think--I know,” snarled the sage. + +The Wanderer showed a slight surprise at the roughness of the answer, +but said nothing, contenting himself with watching the proceedings +keenly. He was by no means past suspecting that Keyork might apply +some medicine the very reverse of reviving, if left to himself. For +the present there seemed to be no danger. The pungent smell of salts +of ammonia pervaded the place; but the Wanderer knew that Keyork had a +bottle of ether in the pocket of his coat, and he rightly judged that a +very little of that would put an end to the life that was hanging in +the balance. Nearly half an hour passed before either spoke again. Then +Keyork looked up. This time his voice was smooth and persuasive. His +irritability had all disappeared. + +“You must be tired,” he said. “Why do you not go home? Or else go to my +house and wait for us. The Individual and I can take care of him very +well.” + +“Thanks,” replied the Wanderer with a slight smile. “I am not in the +least tired, and I prefer to stay where I am. I am not hindering you, I +believe.” + +Now Keyork Arabian had no interest in allowing Israel Kafka to die, +though the Wanderer half believed that he had, though he could not +imagine what that interest might be. The little man was in reality on +the track of an experiment, and he knew very well that so long as he was +so narrowly watched it would be quite impossible to try it. In spite of +his sneers at his companion’s ignorance, he was aware that the latter +knew enough to make every effort conducive to reviving the patient if +left to himself, and he submitted with a bad grace to doing what he +would rather have left undone. + +He would have wished to let the flame of life sink yet lower before +making it brighten again, for he had with him a preparation which he +had been carrying in his pocket for months in the hope of accidentally +happening upon just such a case as the present, and he longed for an +opportunity of trying it. But to give it a fair trial he wished to apply +it at the precise point when, according to all previous experience, the +moment of death was past--the moment when the physician usually puts +his watch in his pocket and looks about for his hat. Possibly if +Kafka, being left without any assistance, had shown no further signs of +sinking, Keyork would have helped him to sink a little lower. To produce +this much-desired result, he had nothing with him but the ether, of +which the Wanderer of course knew the smell and understood the effects. +He saw the chances of making the experiment upon an excellent subject +slipping away before his eyes and he grew more angry in proportion as +they seemed farther removed. + +“He is a little better,” he said discontentedly, after another long +interval of silence. + +The Wanderer bent down and saw that the eyelids were quivering and that +the face was less deathly livid than before. Then the eyes opened and +stared dreamily at the glass roof. + +“And I will,” said the faint, weak voice, as though completing a +sentence. + +“I think not,” observed Keyork, as though answering. “The people who do +what they mean to do are not always talking about will.” But Kafka had +closed his eyes again. + +This time, however, his breathing was apparent and he was evidently +returning to a conscious state. The Wanderer arranged the pillow more +comfortably under his head and covered him with his own furs. Keyork, +relinquishing all hopes of trying the experiment at present, poured a +little wine down his throat. + +“Do you think we can take him home to-night?” inquired the Wanderer. + +He was prepared for an ill-tempered answer, but not for what Keyork +actually said. The little man got upon his feet and coolly buttoned his +coat. + +“I think not,” he replied. “There is nothing to be done but to keep him +quiet. Good-night. I am tired of all this nonsense, and I do not mean +to lose my night’s rest for all the Israels in Jewry--or all the Jews in +Israel. You can stay with him if you please.” + +Thereupon he turned on his heel, making a sign to the Individual, who +had not moved from his place since Kafka had lost consciousness, and who +immediately followed his master. + +“I will come and see to him in the morning,” said Keyork carelessly, as +he disappeared from sight among the plants. + +The Wanderer’s long-suffering temper was roused and his eyes gleamed +angrily as he looked after the departing sage. + +“Hound!” he exclaimed in a very audible voice. + +He hardly knew why he was so angry with the man who called himself his +friend. Keyork had behaved no worse than an ordinary doctor, for he had +stayed until the danger was over and had promised to come again in the +morning. It was his cool way of disclaiming all further responsibility +and of avoiding all further trouble which elicited the Wanderer’s +resentment, as well as the unpleasant position in which the latter found +himself. + +He had certainly not anticipated being left in charge of a sick man--and +that sick man Israel Kafka--in Unorna’s house for the whole night, and +he did not enjoy the prospect. The mere detail of having to give some +explanation to the servants, who would doubtless come before long to +extinguish the lights, was far from pleasant. Moreover, though Keyork +had declared the patient out of danger, there seemed no absolute +certainty that a relapse would not take place before morning, and Kafka +might actually lay in the certainty--delusive enough--that Unorna could +not return until the following day. + +He did not dare to take upon himself the responsibility of calling some +one to help him and of removing the Moravian in his present condition. +The man was still very weak and either altogether unconscious, or +sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. The weather, too, was bitterly cold, +and the exposure to the night air might bring on immediate and fatal +consequences. He examined Kafka closely and came to the conclusion that +he was really asleep. To wake him would be absolutely cruel as well as +dangerous. He looked kindly at the weary face and then began to walk +up and down between the plants, coming back at the end of every turn to +look again and assure himself that no change had taken place. + +After some time he began to wonder at the total silence in the house, +or, rather, the silence which was carefully provided for in the +conservatory impressed itself upon him for the first time. It was +strange, he thought, that no one came to put out the lamps. He thought +of looking out into the vestibule beyond, to see whether the lights were +still burning there. To his great surprise he found the door securely +fastened. Keyork Arabian had undoubtedly locked him in, and to all +intents and purposes he was a prisoner. He suspected some treachery, +but in this he was mistaken. Keyork’s sole intention had been to insure +himself from being disturbed in the course of the night by a second +visit from the Wanderer, accompanied perhaps by Kafka. It immediately +occurred to the Wanderer that he could ring the bell. But disliking the +idea of entering into an explanation, he reserved that for an emergency. +Had he attempted it he would have been still further surprised to find +that it would have produced no result. In going through the vestibule +Keyork had used Kafka’s sharp knife to cut one of the slender +silk-covered copper wires which passed out of the conservatory on +that side, communicating with the servants’ quarters. He was perfectly +acquainted with all such details of the household arrangement. + +Keyork’s precautions were in reality useless and they merely illustrate +the ruthlessly selfish character of the man. The Wanderer would in all +probability neither have attempted to leave the house with Kafka that +night, nor to communicate with the servants, even if he had been left +free to do either, and if no one had disturbed him in his watch. He was +disturbed, however, and very unexpectedly, between half-past one and a +quarter to two in the morning. + +More than once he had remained seated for a long time, but his eyes +were growing heavy and he roused himself and walked again until he +was thoroughly awake. It was certainly true that of all the persons +concerned in the events of the day, except Keyork, he had undergone the +least bodily fatigue and mental excitement. But even to the strongest, +the hours of the night spent in watching by a sick person seem endless +when there is no really strong personal anxiety felt. 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. His position towards Israel Kafka was +altogether unexpected, and what he felt was no more than pity for his +sufferings and indignation against those who had caused them. + +When the door was suddenly opened, he stood still in his walk and faced +it. He hardly recognised Unorna in the pale, dishevelled woman with +circled eyes who came towards him under the bright light. She, too, +stood still when she saw him, starting suddenly. She seemed to be very +cold, for she shivered visibly and her teeth were chattering. Without +the least protection against the bitter night air she had fled +bareheaded and cloakless through the open streets from the church to her +home. + +“You here!” she exclaimed, in an unsteady voice. + +“Yes, I am still here,” answered the Wanderer. “But I hardly expected +you to come back to-night,” he added. + +At the sound of his voice a strange smile came into her wan face and +lingered there. She had not thought to hear him speak again, kindly +or unkindly, for she had come with the fixed determination to meet her +death at Israel Kafka’s hands and to let that be the end. 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. “Tell me what has +happened.” + +It was like a dream to her. The tremendous excitement of what had +happened in the convent had cut her off from the realisation of what +had gone before. Strange as it seemed even to herself, she scarcely +comprehended the intimate connection between the two series of events, +nor the bearing of the one upon the other. Israel Kafka sank into such +insignificance that she had began to pity his condition, and it was hard +to remember that the Wanderer was the man whom Beatrice had loved, and +of whom she had spoken so long and so passionately. She found, too, +an unreasoned joy in being once more by his side, no matter under +what conditions. In that happiness, one-sided and unshared, she forgot +everything else. Beatrice had been a dream, a vision, an unreal shadow. +Kafka was nothing to her, and yet everything, as she suddenly saw, since +he constituted a bond between her and the man she loved, which would at +least outlast the night. In a flash she saw that the Wanderer would +not leave her alone with the Moravian, and that the latter could not +be moved for the present without danger to his life. They must watch +together by his side through the long hours. Who could tell what the +night would bring forth? + +As the new development of the situation presented itself, the colour +rose again to her cheeks. The warmth of the conservatory, too, dispelled +the chill that had penetrated her, and the familiar odours of the +flowers contributed to restore the lost equilibrium of mind and body. + +“Tell me what has happened,” she said again. + +In the fewest possible words the Wanderer told her all that had occurred +up to the moment of her coming, not omitting the detail of the locked +door. + +“And for what reason do you suppose that Keyork shut you in?” she asked. + +“I do not know,” the Wanderer answered. “I do not trust him, though I +have known him so long.” + +“It was mere selfishness,” said Unorna scornfully. “I know him better +than you do. He was afraid you would disturb him again in the night.” + +The Wanderer said nothing, wondering how any man could be so elaborately +thoughtful of his own comfort. + +“There is no help for it,” Unorna said, “we must watch together.” + +“I see no other way,” the Wanderer answered indifferently. + +He placed a chair for her to sit in, within sight of the sick man, and +took one himself, wondering at the strange situation, and yet not caring +to ask Unorna what had brought her back, so breathless and so pale, at +such an hour. He believed, not unnaturally, that her motive had been +either anxiety for himself, or the irresistible longing to see him +again, coupled with a distrust of his promise to return when she should +send for him. It seemed best to accept her appearance without question, +lest an inquiry should lead to a fresh outburst, more unbearable now +than before, since there seemed to be no way of leaving the house +without exposing her to danger. A nervous man like Israel Kafka might +spring up at any moment and do something dangerous. + +After they had taken their places the silence lasted some moments. + +“You did not believe all I told you this evening?” said Unorna softly, +with an interrogation in her voice. + +“No,” the Wanderer answered quietly, “I did not.” + +“I am glad of that--I was mad when I spoke.” + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +The Wanderer was not inclined to deny the statement which accorded well +enough with his total disbelief of the story Unorna had told him. But he +did not answer her immediately, for he found himself in a very difficult +position. He would neither do anything in the least discourteous beyond +admitting frankly that he had not believed her, when she taxed him +with incredulity; nor would say anything which might serve her as a +stepping-stone for returning to the original situation. He was, perhaps, +inclined to blame her somewhat less than at first, and her changed +manner in speaking of Kafka somewhat encouraged his leniency. A man +will forgive, or at least condone, much harshness to others when he is +thoroughly aware that it has been exhibited out of love for himself; +and a man of the Wanderer’s character cannot help feeling a sort of +chivalrous respect and delicate forbearance for a woman who loves him +sincerely, though against his will, while he will avoid with an almost +exaggerated prudence the least word which could be interpreted as an +expression of reciprocal tenderness. He runs the risk, at the same time, +of being thrust into the ridiculous position of the man who, though +young, assumes the manner and speech of age and delivers himself of +grave, paternal advice to one who looks upon him, not as an elder, but +as her chosen mate. + +After Unorna had spoken, the Wanderer, therefore, held his peace. He +inclined his head a little, as though to admit that her plea of madness +might not be wholly imaginary; but he said nothing. He sat looking at +Israel Kafka’s sleeping face and outstretched form, inwardly wondering +whether the hours would seem very long before Keyork Arabian returned in +the morning and put an end to the situation. Unorna waited in vain for +some response, and at last spoke again. + +“Yes,” she said, “I was mad. You cannot understand it. I daresay you +cannot even understand how I can speak of it now, and yet I cannot help +speaking.” + +Her manner was more natural and quiet than it had been since the moment +of Kafka’s appearance in the cemetery. The Wanderer noticed the tone. +There was an element of real sadness in it, with a leaven of bitter +disappointment and a savour of heartfelt contrition. She was in earnest +now, as she had been before, but in a different way. He could hardly +refuse her a word in answer. + +“Unorna,” he said gravely, “remember that you are leaving me no choice. +I cannot leave you alone with that poor fellow, and so, whatever you +wish to say, I must hear. But it would be much better to say nothing +about what has happened this evening--better for you and for me. Neither +men nor women always mean exactly what they say. We are not angels. Is +it not best to let the matter drop?” + +Unorna listened quietly, her eyes upon his face. + +“You are not so hard with me as you were,” she said thoughtfully, after +a moment’s hesitation, and there was a touch of gratitude in her voice. +As she felt the dim possibility of a return to her former relations of +friendship with him, Beatrice and the scene in the church seemed to be +very far away. Again the Wanderer found it difficult to answer. + +“It is not for me to be hard, as you call it,” he said quietly. There +was a scarcely perceptible smile on his face, brought there not by any +feeling of satisfaction, but by his sense of his own almost laughable +perplexity. He saw that he was very near being driven to the ridiculous +necessity of giving her some advice of the paternal kind. “It is not +for me, either, to talk to you of what you have done to Israel Kafka +to-day,” he confessed. “Do not oblige me to say anything about it. It +will be much safer. You know it all better than I do, and you understand +your own reasons, as I never can. If you are sorry for him now, so much +the better--you will not hurt him any more if you can help it. If you +will say that much about the future I shall be very glad, I confess.” + +“Do you think that there is anything which I will not do--if you ask +it?” Unorna asked very earnestly. + +“I do not know,” the Wanderer answered, trying to seem to ignore +the meaning conveyed by her tone. “Some things are harder to do than +others----” + +“Ask me the hardest!” she exclaimed. “Ask me to tell you the whole +truth----” + +“No,” he said firmly, in the hope of checking an outburst of passionate +speech. “What you have thought and done is no concern of mine. If you +have done anything that you are sorry for, without my knowledge, I +do not wish to know of it. I have seen you do many good and kind acts +during the last month, and I would rather leave those memories untouched +as far as possible. You may have had an object in doing them which in +itself was bad. I do not care. The deeds were good. Take credit for +them and let me give you credit for them. That will do neither of us any +harm.” + +“I could tell you--if you would let me--” + +“Do not tell me,” he interrupted. “I repeat that I do not wish to know. +The one thing that I have seen is bad enough. Let that be all. Do +you not see that? Besides, I am myself the cause of it in a +measure--unwilling enough, Heaven knows!” + +“The only cause,” said Unorna bitterly. + +“Then I am in some way responsible. I am not quite without blame--we men +never are in such cases. If I reproach you, I must reproach myself as +well--” + +“Reproach yourself!--ah no! What can you say against yourself?” she +could not keep the love out of her voice, if she would; her bitterness +had been for herself. + +“I will not go into that,” he answered. “I am to blame in one way or +another. Let us say no more about it. Will you let the matter rest?” + +“And let bygones be bygones, and be friends to each other, as we were +this morning?” she asked, with a ray of hope. + +The Wanderer was silent for a few seconds. His difficulties were +increasing. A while ago he had told her, as an excuse for herself, that +men and women did not always mean exactly what they said, and even now +he did not set himself up in his own mind as an exception to the rule. +Very honourable and truthful men do not act upon any set of principles +in regard to truth and honour. Their instinctively brave actions and +naturally noble truthfulness make those principles which are held up to +the unworthy for imitation, by those whose business is the teaching of +what is good. The Wanderer’s only hesitation lay between answering the +question or not answering it. + +“Shall we be friends again?” Unorna asked a second time, in a low tone. +“Shall we go back to the beginning?” + +“I do not see how that is possible,” he answered slowly. + +Unorna was not like him, and did not understand such a nature as his as +she understood Keyork Arabian. She had believed that he would at least +hold out some hope. + +“You might have spared me that!” she said, turning her face away. There +were tears in her voice. + +A few hours earlier his answer would have brought fire to her eyes and +anger to her voice. But a real change had come over her, not lasting, +perhaps, but strong in its immediate effects. + +“Not even a little friendship left?” she said, breaking the silence that +followed. + +“I cannot change myself,” he answered, almost wishing that he could. “I +ought, perhaps,” he added, as though speaking to himself. “I have done +enough harm as it is.” + +“Harm? To whom?” She looked round suddenly and he saw the moisture in +her eyes. + +“To him,” he replied, glancing at Kafka, “and to you. You loved him +once. I have ruined his life.” + +“Loved him? No--I never loved him.” She shook her head, wondering +whether she spoke the truth. + +“You must have made him think so.” + +“I? No--he is mad.” But she shrank before his honest look, and suddenly +broke down. “No--I will not lie to you--you are too true--yes, I loved +him, or I thought I did, until you came, and I saw that there was no +one----” + +But she checked herself, as she felt the blood rising to her cheeks. She +could blush still, and still be ashamed. Even she was not all bad, now +that she was calm and that the change had come over her. + +“You see,” the Wanderer said gently, “I am to blame for it all.” + +“For it all? No--not for the thousandth part of it all. What blame have +you in being what you are? Blame God in Heaven--for making such a man. +Blame me for what you know; blame me for all that you will not let me +tell you. Blame Kafka for his mad belief in me and Keyork Arabian for +the rest--but do not blame yourself--oh, no! Not that!” + +“Do not talk like that, Unorna,” he said. “Be just first.” + +“What is justice?” she asked. Then she turned her head away again. “If +you knew what justice means for me--you would not ask me to be just. You +would be more merciful.” + +“You exaggerate----” He spoke kindly, but she interrupted him. + +“No. You do not know, that is all. And you can never guess. There is +only one man living who could imagine such things as I have done--and +tried to do. He is Keyork Arabian. But he would have been wiser than I, +perhaps.” + +She relapsed into silence. Before her rose the dim altar in the church, +the shadowy figure of Beatrice standing up in the dark, the horrible +sacrilege that was to have been done. Her face grew dark with fear of +her own soul. The Wanderer went so far as to try and distract her from +her gloomy thoughts, out of pure kindness of heart. + +“I am no theologian,” he said, “but I fancy that in the long reckoning +the intention goes for more than the act.” + +“The intention!” she cried, looking back with a start. “If that be +true----” + +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. Judge for yourself which of us two, he or +I, has anything to forgive. I am to-day what I was yesterday and may be +to-morrow. He lies there, dying of his love for you, if ever a man +died for love. And as though that were not enough, you have tortured +him--well, I will not speak of it. But that is all. I know nothing of +the deeds, or intentions, of which you accuse yourself. You are tired, +overwrought, worn out with all this--what shall I say? It is natural +enough, I suppose--” + +“You say there is no question of forgiveness,” she said, interrupting +him, but speaking more calmly. “What is it then? What is the real +question? If you have nothing to forgive why can we not be friends as we +were before?” + +“There is something besides that needed. It is not enough that of two +people neither should have injured the other. You have broken something, +destroyed something--I cannot mend it. I wish I could.” + +“You wish you could?” she repeated earnestly. + +“I wish that the thing had not been done. I wish that I had not seen +what I saw to-day. We should be where we were this morning--and he +perhaps would not be here.” + +“It must have come some day,” Unorna said. “He must have seen that I +loved--that I loved you. Is there any use in not speaking plainly now? +Then at some other time, in some other place, he would have done what he +did, and I should have been angry and cruel--for it is my nature to +be cruel when I am angry, and to be angry easily, at that. Men talk so +easily of self-control, and self-command and dignity, and self-respect! +They have not loved--that is all. I am not angry now, nor cruel. I +am sorry for what I did, and I would undo it, if deeds were knots and +wishes deeds. I am sorry, beyond all words to tell you. How poor it +sounds now that I have said it! You do not even believe me.” + +“You are wrong. I know that you are in earnest.” + +“How do you know?” she asked bitterly. “Have I never lied to you? If you +believed me, you would forgive me. If you forgave me, your friendship +would come back. I cannot even swear to you that I am telling the truth. +Heaven would not be my witness now if I told a thousand truths, each +truer than the last.” + +“I have nothing to forgive,” the Wanderer said, almost wearily. “I have +told you so, you have not injured me, but him.” + +“But if it meant a whole world to me--no, for I am nothing to you--but +if it cost you nothing, but the little breath that can carry the three +words--would you say it? Is it much to say? Is it like saying, I love +you, or, I honour you, respect you? It is so little, and would mean so +much.” + +“To me it can mean nothing, unless you ask me to forgive you deeds of +which I know nothing. And then it means still less to me.” + +“Will you say it, only say the three words once?” + +“I forgive you,” said the Wanderer quietly. It cost him nothing, and, to +him, meant less. + +Unorna bent her head and was silent. It was something to have heard him +say it though he could not guess the least of the sins which she made it +include. She herself hardly knew why she had so insisted. Perhaps it was +only the longing to hear words kind in themselves, if not in tone, nor +in his meaning of them. Possibly, too, she felt a dim presentiment of +her coming end, and would take with her that infinitesimal grain of +pardon to the state in which she hoped for no other forgiveness. + +“It was good of you to say it,” she said at last. + +A long silence followed during which the thoughts of each went their +own way. Suddenly Israel Kafka stirred in his sleep. The Wanderer went +quickly forward and knelt down beside him and arranged the silken pillow +as best he could. Unorna was on the other side almost as soon. With a +tenderness of expression and touch which nothing can describe she moved +the sleeping head into a comfortable position and smoothed the cushion, +and drew up the furs disturbed by the nervous hands. The Wanderer let +her have her way. When she had finished their eyes met. He could not +tell whether she was asking his approval and a word of encouragement, +but he withheld neither. + +“You are very gentle with him. He would thank you if he could.” + +“Did you not tell me to be kind to him?” she said. “I am keeping my +word. But he would not thank me. He would kill me if he were awake.” + +The Wanderer shook his head. + +“He was ill and mad with pain,” he answered. “He did not know what he +was doing. When he wakes, it will be different.” + +Unorna rose, and the Wanderer followed her. + +“You cannot believe that I care,” she said, as she resumed her seat. “He +is not you. My soul would not be the nearer to peace for a word of his.” + +For a long time she sat quite still, her hands lying idly in her lap, +her head bent wearily as though she bore a heavy burden. + +“Can you not rest?” the Wanderer asked at length. “I can watch alone.” + +“No. I cannot rest. I shall never rest again.” + +The words came slowly, as though spoken to herself. + +“Do you bid me go?” she asked after a time, looking up and seeing his +eyes fixed on her. + +“Bid you go? In your own house?” The tone was one of ordinary courtesy. +Unorna smiled sadly. + +“I would rather you struck me than that you spoke to me like that!” she +exclaimed. “You have no need of such civil forbearance with me. If you +bid me go, I will go. If you bid me stay, I will not move. Only speak +frankly. Say which you would prefer.” + +“Then stay,” said the Wanderer simply. + +She bowed her head slightly and was silent again. A distant clock chimed +the hour. The morning was slowly drawing near. + +“And you,” said Unorna, looking up at the sound. “Will you not rest? Why +should you not sleep?” + +“I am not tired.” + +“You do not trust me, I think,” she answered sadly. “And yet you +might--you might.” Her voice died away dreamily. + +“Trust you to watch that poor man? Indeed I do. You were not acting just +now, when you touched him so tenderly. You are in earnest. You will be +kind to him, and I thank you for it.” + +“And you yourself? Do you fear nothing from me, if you should sleep +before my eyes? Do you not fear that in your unconsciousness I might +touch you and make you more unconscious still and make you dream dreams +and see visions?” + +The Wanderer looked at her and smiled incredulously, partly out of scorn +for the imaginary danger, and partly because something told him that she +had changed and would not attempt any of her witchcraft upon him. + +“No,” he answered. “I am not afraid of that.” + +“You are right,” she said gravely. “My sins are enough already. The evil +is sufficient. Do as you will. If you can sleep, then sleep in peace. If +you will watch, watch with me.” + +Then neither spoke again. Unorna bent her head as she had done before. +The Wanderer leaned back resting comfortably against the cushion of +the high carved chair, his eyes directed towards the place where Israel +Kafka lay. The air was warm, the scent of the flowers sweet but not +heavy. The silence was intense, for even the little fountain was still. +He had watched almost all night and his eyelids drooped. He forgot +Unorna and thought only of the sick man, trying to fix his attention on +the pale head as it lay under the bright light. + +When Unorna looked up at last she saw that he was asleep. At first +she was surprised, in spite of what she had said to him half an hour +earlier, for she herself could not have closed her eyes, and felt that +she could never close them again. Then she sighed. It was but one proof +more of his supreme indifference. He had not even cared to speak to her, +and if she had not constantly spoken to him throughout the hours they +had passed together he would perhaps have been sleeping long before now. + +And yet she feared to wake him and was almost glad that he was +unconscious. In the solitude she could gaze on him to her heart’s +desire, she could let her eyes look their fill, and no one could say her +nay. He must be very tired, she thought, and she vaguely wondered why +she felt no bodily weariness, when her soul was so heavy. + +She sat still and watched him. It might be the last time, she thought, +for who could tell what would happen to-morrow? She shuddered as she +thought of it all. What would Beatrice do? What would Sister Paul say? +How much would she tell of what she had seen? How much had she really +seen which she could tell clearly? There were terrible possibilities in +the future if all were known. Such deeds, and even the attempt at such +deeds as she had tried to do, could be judged by the laws of the land, +she might be brought to trial, if she lived, as a common prisoner, and +held up to the execration of the world in all her shame and guilt. But +death would be worse than that. As she thought of that other Judgment, +she grew dizzy with horror as she had been when the idea had first +entered her brain. + +Then she was conscious that she was again looking at the Wanderer as he +lay back asleep in his tall chair. The pale and noble face expressed the +stainless soul and the manly character. She saw in it the peace she had +lost, and yet knew that through him she had lost her peace for ever. + +It was perhaps the last time. Never again, perhaps, after the morning +had broken, should she look on what she loved best on earth. She would +be gone, ruined, dead perhaps. And he? He would be still himself. He +would remember her half carelessly, half in wonder, as a woman who had +once been almost his friend. That would be all that would be left in him +of her, beyond a memory of the repulsion he had felt for her deeds. + +She fancied she could have met the worst in the future less hopelessly +if he could have remembered her a little more kindly when all was over. +Even now, it might be in her power to cast a veil upon the pictures in +his mind. But the mere thought was horrible to her, though a few hours +before she had hardly trembled at the doing of a frightful sacrilege. In +that short time the humiliation of failure, the realisation of what she +had almost done, above all the ever-rising tide of a real and passionate +love, had swept away many familiar landmarks in her thoughts, and had +turned much to lead which had once seemed brighter than gold. She hated +the very idea of using again those arts which had so directly wrought +her utter destruction. But she longed to know that in the world whither +he would doubtless go to-morrow he would bear with him one kind memory +of her, one natural friendly thought not grafted upon his mind by her +power, but growing of its own self in his inmost heart. Only a friendly +memory--nothing more than that. + +She rose noiselessly and came to his side and looked down into his +face. Very long she stood there, motionless as a statue, beautiful as a +mourning angel. + +It was so little that she asked. It was so little compared with all +she had hoped, or in comparison with all she had demanded, so little in +respect of what she had given. For she had given her soul. And in return +she asked only for one small kindly thought when all should be over. + +She bent down as she stood and touched his cool forehead with her lips. + +“Sleep on, my beloved,” she said in a voice that murmured softly and +sadly. + +She started a little at what she had done, and drew back, half afraid, +like an innocent girl. But as though he had obeyed her words, he seemed +to sleep more deeply still. He must be very tired, she thought, to sleep +like that, but she was thankful that the soft kiss, the first and last, +had not waked him. + +“Sleep on,” she said again in a whisper scarcely audible to herself. +“Forget Unorna, if you cannot think of her mercifully and kindly. Sleep +on, you have the right to rest, and I can never rest again. You have +forgiven--forget, too, then, unless you can remember better things of me +than I have deserved in your memory. Let her take her kingdom back. It +was never mine--remember what you will, forget at least the wrong I did, +and forgive the wrong you never knew--for you will know it surely some +day. Ah, love--I love you so--dream but one dream, and let me think +I take her place. She never loved you more than I, she never can. She +would not have done what I have done. Dream only that I am Beatrice for +this once. Then when you wake you will not think so cruelly of me. Oh, +that I might be she--and you your loving self--that I might be she for +one day in thought and word, in deed and voice, in face and soul! Dear +love--you would never know it, yet I should know that you had had one +loving thought for me. You would forget. It would not matter then +to you, for you would have only dreamed, and I should have the +certainty--for ever, to take with me always!” + +As though the words carried a meaning with them to his sleeping senses, +a look of supreme and almost heavenly happiness stole over his sleeping +face. But Unorna could not see it. She had turned suddenly away, burying +her face in her hands upon the back of her own chair. + +“Are there no miracles left in Heaven?” she moaned, half whispering lest +she should wake him. “Is there no miracle of deeds undone again and of +forgiveness given--for me? God! God! That we should be for ever what we +make ourselves!” + +There were no tears in her eyes now, as there had been twice that night. +In her despair, that fountain of relief, shallow always and not apt +to overflow, was dried up and scorched with pain. And, for the time at +least, worse things were gone from her, though she suffered more. As +though some portion of her passionate wish had been fulfilled, she felt +that she could never do again what she had done; she felt that she +was truthful now as he was, and that she knew evil from good even as +Beatrice knew it. The horror of her sins took new growth in her changed +vision. + +“Was I lost from the first beginning?” she asked passionately. “Was I +born to be all I am, and fore-destined to do all I have done? Was she +born an angel and I a devil from hell? What is it all? What is this +life, and what is that other beyond it?” + +Behind her, in his chair, the Wanderer still slept. Still his face wore +the radiant look of joy that had so suddenly come into it as she turned +away. He scarcely breathed, so calmly he slept. But Unorna did not raise +her head nor look at him, and on the carpet near her feet Israel Kafka +lay as still and as deeply unconscious as the Wanderer himself. By a +strange destiny she sat there, between the two men in whom her whole +life had been wrecked, and she alone was waking. + +When she at last raised her eyes the dawn was breaking. 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. Unorna turned from the one and looked upon the other. +For the first time she saw how he had changed, and wondered. + +“How peacefully he sleeps!” she thought. “He is dreaming of her.” + +The dawn came stealing on, not soft and blushing as in southern lands, +but cold, resistless and grim as ancient fate; not the maiden herald of +the sun with rose-tipped fingers and grey, liquid eyes, but hard, cruel, +sullen, and less darkness following upon a greater and going before a +dull, sunless and heavy day. + +The door opened somewhat noisily and a brisk step fell upon the marble +pavement. Unorna rose noiselessly to her feet and hastening along the +open space came face to face with Keyork Arabian. He stopped and looked +up at her from beneath his heavy brows, with surprise and suspicion. She +raised one finger to her lips. + +“You here already?” he asked, obeying her gesture and speaking in a low +voice. + +“Hush! Hush!” she whispered, not satisfied. “They are asleep. You will +wake them.” + +Keyork came forward. He could move quietly enough when he chose. He +glanced at the Wanderer. + +“He looks comfortable enough,” he whispered, half contemptuously. + +Then he bent down over Israel Kafka and carefully examined his face. To +him the ghastly pallor meant nothing. It was but the natural result of +excessive exhaustion. + +“Put him into a lethargy,” said he under his breath, but with authority +in his manner. + +Unorna shook her head. Keyork’s small eyes brightened angrily. + +“Do it,” he said. “What is this caprice? Are you mad? I want to take his +temperature without waking him.” + +Unorna folded her arms. + +“Do you want him to suffer more?” asked Keyork with a diabolical smile. +“If so I will wake him by all means; I am always at your service, you +know.” + +“Will he suffer, if he wakes naturally?” + +“Horribly--in the head.” + +Unorna knelt down and let her hand rest a few seconds on Kafka’s brow. +The features, drawn with pain, immediately relaxed. + +“You have hypnotised the one,” grumbled Keyork as he bent down again. “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. Unorna had risen to her +feet, disdaining to defend herself against the imputation expressed in +his face. Some minutes passed in silence. + +“He has no fever,” said Keyork looking at the little instrument. “I will +call the Individual and we will take him away.” + +“Where?” + +“To his lodging, of course. Where else?” He turned and went towards the +door. + +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. You will not forget all that has +happened, but you will never love me again. I forbid you ever to love me +again! Do you understand?” + +“I understand.” + +“You will only forget that I have told you this, though you will obey. +You will see me again, and if you can forgive me of your own free will, +forgive me then. That must be of your own free will. Wake in two hours +of yourself, without pain or sickness.” + +Again she touched his forehead and then sprang to her feet. Keyork was +coming back with his dumb servant. At a sign, the Individual lifted +Kafka from the floor, taking from him the Wanderer’s furs and wrapping +him in others which Keyork had brought. The strong man walked away with +his burden as though he were carrying a child. Keyork Arabian lingered a +moment. + +“What made you come back so early?” he asked. + +“I will not tell you,” she answered, drawing back. + +“No? Well, I am not curious. You have an excellent opportunity now.” + +“An opportunity?” Unorna repeated with a cold interrogative. + +“Excellent,” said the little man, standing on tiptoe to reach her ear, +for she would not bend her head. “You have only to whisper into his ear +that you are Beatrice and he will believe you for the rest of his life.” + +“Go!” said Unorna. + +Though the word was not spoken above her breath it was fierce and +commanding. Keyork Arabian smiled in an evil way, shrugged his shoulders +and left her. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Unorna was left alone with the Wanderer. His attitude did not change, +his eyes did not open, as she stood before him. Still he wore the look +which had at first attracted Keyork Arabian’s attention and which had +amazed Unorna herself. It was the expression that had come into his face +in the old cemetery when in his sleep she had spoken to him of love. + +“He is dreaming of her,” Unorna said to herself again, as she turned +sadly away. + +But since Keyork had been with her a doubt had assailed her which +painfully disturbed her thoughts, so that her brow contracted with +anxiety and from time to time she drew a quick hard breath. Keyork had +taken it for granted that the Wanderer’s sleep was not natural. + +She tried to recall what had happened shortly before dawn but it was +no wonder that her memory served her ill and refused to bring back +distinctly the words she had spoken. Her whole being was unsettled and +shaken, so that she found it hard to recognise herself. The stormy hours +through which she had lived since yesterday had left their trace; the +lack of rest, instead of producing physical exhaustion, had brought +about an excessive mental weariness, and it was not easy for her now to +find all the connecting links between her actions. Then, above all else, +there was the great revulsion that had swept over her after her last and +greatest plan of evil had failed, causing in her such a change as could +hardly have seemed natural or even possible to a calm person watching +her inmost thoughts. + +And yet such sudden changes take place daily in the world of crime and +passion. In one uncalled-for confession, of which it is hard to trace +the smallest reasonable cause, the intricate wickednesses of a lifetime +are revealed and repeated; in the mysterious impulse of a moment the +murderer turns back and delivers himself to justice; under an influence +for which there is often no accounting, the woman who has sinned +securely through long years lays bare her guilt and throws herself +upon the mercy of the man whom she has so skilfully and consistently +deceived. We know the fact. The reason we cannot know. Perhaps, to +natures not wholly bad, sin is a poison of which the moral organization +can only bear a certain fixed amount, great or small, before rejecting +it altogether and with loathing. We do not know. We speak of the +workings of conscience, not understanding what we mean. It is like that +subtle something which we call electricity; we can play with it, command +it, lead it, neutralise it and die of it, make light and heat with it, +or language and sound, kill with it and cure with it, while absolutely +ignorant of its nature. We are no nearer to a definition of it than the +Greek who rubbed a bit of amber and lifted with it a tiny straw, and +from amber, Elektron called the something electricity. Are we even as +near as that to a definition of the human conscience? + +The change that had come over Unorna, whether it was to be lasting or +not, was profound. The circumstances under which it took place are plain +enough. The reasons must be left to themselves--it remains only to tell +the consequences which thereon followed. + +The first of these was a hatred of that extraordinary power with which +nature had endowed her, which brought with it a determination never +again to make use of it for any evil purpose, and, if possible, never +even for good. + +But as though her unhappy fate were for ever fighting against her good +impulses, that power of hers had exerted itself unconsciously, since +her resolution had been formed. Keyork Arabian’s words, and his evident +though unspoken disbelief in her denial, showed that he at least was +convinced of the fact that the Wanderer was not sleeping a natural +sleep. Unorna tried to recall what she had done and said, but all was +vague and indistinct. Of one thing she was sure. She had not laid her +hand upon his forehead, and she had not intentionally done any of those +things which she had always believed necessary for producing the results +of hypnotism. She had not willed him to do anything, she thought and she +felt sure that she had pronounced no words of the nature of a command. +Step by step she tried to reconstruct for her comfort a detailed +recollection of what had passed, but every effort in that direction was +fruitless. Like many men far wiser than herself, she believed in the +mechanics of hypnotic science, in the touches, in the passes, in the +fixed look, in the will to fascinate. More than once Keyork Arabian had +scoffed at what he called her superstitions, and had maintained that +all the varying phenomena of hypnotism, all the witchcraft of the darker +ages, all the visions undoubtedly shown to wondering eyes by mediaeval +sorcerers, were traceable to moral influence, and to no other cause. +Unorna could not accept his reasoning. For her there was a deeper and +yet a more material mystery in it, as in her own life, a mystery which +she cherished as an inheritance, which impressed her with a sense of +her own strange destiny and of the gulf which separated her from other +women. She could not detach herself from the idea that the supernatural +played a part in all her doings, and she clung to the use of gestures +and passes and words in the exercise of her art, in which she fancied +a hidden and secret meaning to exist. Certain things had especially +impressed her. The not uncommon answer of hypnotics to the question +concerning their identity, “I am the image in your eyes,” is undoubtedly +elicited by the fact that their extraordinarily acute and, perhaps, +magnifying vision, perceives the image of themselves in the eyes of +the operator with abnormal distinctness, and, not impossibly, of a +size quite incompatible with the dimensions of the pupil. To Unorna the +answer meant something more. It suggested the actual presence of the +person she was influencing, in her own brain, and whenever she was +undertaking anything especially difficult, she endeavoured to obtain the +reply relating to the image as soon as possible. + +In the present case, she was sure that she had done none of the things +which she considered necessary to produce a definite result. She was +totally unconscious of having impressed upon the sleeper any suggestion +of her will. Whatever she had said, she had addressed the words to +herself without any intention that they should be heard and understood. + +These reflections comforted her as she paced the marble floor, and yet +Keyork’s remark rang in her ears and disturbed her. She knew how vast +his experience was and how much he could tell by a single glance at +a human face. He had been familiar with every phase of hypnotism long +before she had known him, and might reasonably be supposed to know +by inspection whether the sleep were natural or not. That a person +hypnotised may appear to sleep as naturally as one not under the +influence is certain, but the condition of rest is also very often +different, to a practised eye, from that of ordinary slumber. There is +a fixity in the expression of the face, and in the attitude of the +body, which cannot continue under ordinary circumstances. He had perhaps +noticed both signs in the Wanderer. + +She went back to his side and looked at him intently. She had scarcely +dared to do so before, and she felt that she might have been mistaken. +The light, too, had changed, for it was broad day, though the lamps were +still burning. Yet, even now, she could not tell. Her judgment of what +she saw was disturbed by many intertwining thoughts. + +At least, he was happy. Whatever she had done, if she had done anything, +it had not hurt him. There was no possibility of misinterpreting the +sleeping man’s expression. + +She wished that he would wake, though she knew how the smile would fade, +how the features would grow cold and indifferent, and how the grey eyes +she loved would open with a look of annoyance at seeing her before him. +It was like a vision of happiness in a house of sorrow to see him lying +there, so happy in his sleep, so loving, so peaceful. She could make +it all to last, too, if she would, and she realised that with a sudden +pang. The woman of whom he dreamed, whom he had loved so faithfully and +sought so long, was very near him. A word from Unorna and Beatrice could +come and find him as he lay asleep, and herself open the dear eyes. + +Was that sacrifice to be asked of her before she was taken away to the +expiation of her sins? Fate could not be so very cruel--and yet the mere +idea was an added suffering. The longer she looked at him the more the +possibility grew and tortured her. + +After all, it was almost certain that they would meet now, and at the +meeting she felt sure that all his memory would return. Why should she +do anything, why should she raise her hand, to bring them to each other? +It was too much to ask. Was it not enough that both were free, and both +in the same city together, and that she had vowed neither to hurt nor +hinder them? If it was their destiny to be joined together it would so +happen surely in the natural course; if not, was it her part to join +them? The punishment of her sins, whatever it should be, she could bear; +but this thing she could not do. + +She passed her hand across her eyes as though to drive it away, and +her thoughts came back to the point from which they had started. The +suspense became unbearable when she realised that she did not know in +what condition the Wanderer would wake, nor whether, if left to nature, +he would wake at all. She could not endure it any longer. She touched +his sleeve, lightly at first, and then more heavily. She moved his arm. +It was passive in her hand and lay where she placed it. Yet she would +not believe that she had made him sleep. She drew back and looked at +him. Then her anxiety overcame her. + +“Wake!” she cried, aloud. “For God’s sake, wake! I cannot bear it!” + +His eyes opened at the sound of her voice, naturally and quietly. Then +they grew wide and deep and fixed themselves in a great wonder of many +seconds. Then Unorna saw no more. + +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. She had no power of thought left in her, as she felt herself +borne along, body and soul, in the rush of a passion more masterful than +her own. + +Then she was on her feet again, but his arms were round her still, and +hers, whether she would or not, were clasped about his neck. Dreams, +truth, faith kept or broken, hell and Heaven itself were swept away, all +wrecked together in the tide of love. And through it all his voice was +in her ear. + +“Love, love, at last! From all the years, you have come back--at +last--at last!” + +Broken and almost void of sense the words came then, through the storm +of his kisses and the tempest of her tears. She could no more resist him +nor draw herself away than the frail ship, wind-driven through crashing +waves, can turn and face the blast; no more than the long dry grass +can turn and quench the roaring flame; no more than the drooping willow +bough can dam the torrent and force it backwards up the steep mountain +side. + +In those short, false moments, Unorna knew what happiness could mean. +Torn from herself, lifted high above the misery and the darkness of +her real life, it was all true to her. There was no other Beatrice but +herself, no other woman whom he had ever loved. An enchantment greater +than her own was upon her and held her in bonds she could neither bend +nor break. + +She was sitting in her own chair now and he was kneeling before her, +holding her hands and looking up to her. For him the world held nothing +else. For him her hair was black as night; for him the unlike eyes +were dark and fathomless; for him the heavy marble hand was light, +responsive, delicate; for him her face was the face of Beatrice, as +he had last seen it long ago. The years had passed, indeed, and he had +sought her through many lands, but she had come back to him the same, in +the glory of her youth, in the strength of her love, in the divinity of +her dark beauty, his always, through it all, his now--for ever. + +For a long time he did not speak. The words rose to his lips and failed +of utterance, as the first mist of early morning is drawn heavenwards to +vanish in the rising sun. The long-drawn breath could have made no sound +of sweeter meaning than the unspoken speech that rose in the deep gray +eyes. Nature’s grand organ, touched by hands divine, can yield no chord +more moving than a lover’s sigh. + +Words came at last, as after the welcome shower in summer’s heat the +song of birds rings through the woods, and out across the fields, upon +the clear, earth-scented air--words fresh from their long rest within +his heart, unused in years of loneliness but unforgotten and familiar +still--untarnished jewels from the inmost depths; rich treasures from +the storehouse of a deathless faith; diamonds of truth, rubies of +passion, pearls of devotion studding the golden links of the chain of +love. + +“At last--at last--at last! Life of my life, the day is come that is not +day without you, and now it will always be day for us two--day without +end and sun for ever! And yet, I have seen you always in my night, just +as I see you now. As I hold your dear hands, I have held them--day by +day and year by year--and I have smoothed that black hair of yours that +I love, and kissed those dark eyes of yours many and many a thousand +times. It has been so long, love, so very long! But I knew it would come +some day. I knew I should find you, for you have been always with me, +dear--always and everywhere. The world is all full of you, for I have +wandered through it all and taken you with me and made every place yours +with the thought of you, and the love of you and the worship of you. For +me, there is not an ocean nor a sea nor a river, nor rock nor island +nor broad continent of earth, that has not known Beatrice and loved +her name. Heart of my heart, soul of my soul--the nights and the +days without you, the lands and the oceans where you were not, the +endlessness of this little world that hid you somewhere, the littleness +of the whole universe without you--how can you ever know what it has +been to me? And so it is gone at last--gone as a dream of sickness in +the morning of health; gone as the blackness of storm-clouds in the +sweep of the clear west wind; gone as the shadow of evil before the face +of an angel of light! And I know it all. I see it all in your eyes. +You knew I was true, and you knew I sought you, and would find you at +last--and you have waited--and there has been no other, not the thought +of another, not the passing image of another between us. For I know +there has not been that and I should have known it anywhere in all these +years, the chill of it would have found me, the sharpness of it would +have been in my heart--no matter where, no matter how far--yet say it, +say it once--say that you have loved me, too--” + +“God knows how I have loved you--how I love you now!” Unorna said in a +low, unsteady voice. + +The light that had been in his face grew brighter still as she spoke, +while she looked at him, wondering, her head thrown back against the +high chair, her eyelids wet and drooping, her lips still parted, her +hand in his. Small wonder if he had loved her for herself, she was so +beautiful. Small wonder it would have been if she had taken Beatrice’s +place in his heart during those weeks of close and daily converse. +But that first great love had left no fertile ground in which to plant +another seed, no warmth of kindness under which the tender shoot might +grow to strength, no room beneath its heaven for other branches than its +own. Alone it had stood in majesty as a lordly tree, straight, tall, and +ever green, on a silent mountain top. Alone it had borne the burden +of grief’s heavy snows; unbent, for all its loneliness, it had stood +against the raging tempest; and green still, in all its giant strength +of stem and branch, in all its kingly robe of unwithered foliage. +Unscathed, unshaken, it yet stood. Neither storm nor lightning, wind +nor rain, sun nor snow had prevailed against it to dry it up and cast it +down that another might grow in its place. + +Yet this love was not for her to whom he spoke, and she knew it as she +answered him, though she answered truly, from the fulness of her heart. +She had cast an enchantment over him unwittingly, and she was taken in +the toils of her own magic even as she had sworn that she would never +again put forth her powers. She shuddered as she realised it all. In a +few short moments she had felt his kisses, and heard his words, and been +clasped to his heart, as she had many a time madly hoped. But in those +moments, too, she had known the truth of her woman’s instinct when it +had told her that love must be for herself and for her own sake, or not +be love at all. + +The falseness, the fathomless untruth of it, would have been bad enough +alone. But the truth that was so strong made it horrible. Had she but +inspired in him a burning love for herself, however much against his +will, it would have been very different. She would have heard her name +from his lips, she would have known that all, however false, however +artificial, was for herself, while it might last. To know that it was +real, and not for her, was intolerable. To see this love of his break +out at last--this other love which she had dreaded, against which she +had fought, which she had met with a jealousy as strong as itself, and +struggled with and buried under an imposed forgetfulness--to feel its +great waves surging around her and beating up against her heart, was +more than she could bear. Her face grew whiter and her hands were cold. +She dreaded each moment lest he should call her Beatrice again, and say +that her fair hair was black and that he loved those deep dark eyes of +hers. + +There had been one moment of happiness, in that first kiss, in the first +pressure of those strong arms. Then night descended. The hands that held +her had not been yet unclasped, the kiss was not cold upon her cheek, +the first great cry of his love had hardly died away in a softened +echo, and her punishment was upon her. His words were lashes, his +touch poison, his eyes avenging fires. As in nature’s great alchemy the +diamond and the blackened coal are one, as nature with the same elements +pours life and death from the same vial with the same hand, so now the +love which would have been life to Unorna was made worse than death +because it was not for her. + +Yet the disguise was terribly perfect. The unconscious spell had +done its work thoroughly. He took her for Beatrice, and her voice for +Beatrice’s there in the broad light, in the familiar place where he had +so often talked with her for hours and known her for Unorna. But a few +paces away was the very spot where she had fallen at his feet last night +and wept and abused herself before him. There was the carpet on which +Israel Kafka had lain throughout the long hours while they had watched +together. Upon that table at her side a book lay which they had read +together but two days ago. In her own chair she sat, Unorna still, +unchanged, unaltered save for him. She doubted her own senses as she +heard him speak, and ever and again the name of Beatrice rang in her +ears. He looked at her hands, and knew them; at her black dress, +and knew it for her own, and yet he poured out the eloquence of his +love--kneeling, then standing, then sitting at her side, drawing her +head to his shoulder and smoothing her fair hair--so black to him--with +a gentle hand. She was passive through it all, as yet. There seemed to +be no other way. He paused sometimes, then spoke again. Perhaps, in +the dream that possessed him, he heard her speak. Possibly, he was +unconscious of her silence, borne along by the torrent of his own long +pent-up speech. She could not tell, she did not care to know. Of one +thing alone she thought, of how to escape from it all and be alone. + +She feared to move, still more to rise, not knowing what he would do. As +he was now, she could not tell what effect her words would have if +she spoke. It might be but a passing state after all. What would the +awakening be? Would his forgetfulness of Beatrice and his coldness to +herself return with the subsidence of his passion? Far better that than +to see him and hear him as he was now. + +And yet there were moments now and then when he pronounced no name, when +he recalled no memory of the past, when there was only the tenderness +of love itself in his words, and then, as she listened, she could almost +think it was for her. It was bitter joy, unreal and fantastic, but it +was a relief. Had she loved him less, such a conflict between sense and +senses would have been impossible even in imagination. But she loved +him greatly and the deep desire to be loved in turn was in her still, +shaming her better thoughts, but sometimes ruling her in spite of +herself and of the pain she suffered with each word self-applied. All +the vast contradictions, all the measureless inconsistency, all the +enormous selfishness of which human hearts are capable, had met in hers +as in a battle-ground, fighting each other, rending what they found +of herself amongst them, sometimes uniting to throw their whole weight +together against the deep-rooted passion, sometimes taking side with it +to drive out every other rival. + +It was shameful, base, despicable, and she knew it. A moment ago she had +longed to tear herself away, to silence him, to stop her ears, anything +not to hear those words that cut like whips and stung like scorpions. +And now again she was listening for the next, eagerly, breathlessly, +drunk with their sound and revelling almost in the unreality of the +happiness they brought. More and more she despised herself as the +intervals between one pang of suffering and the next grew longer, and +the illusion deeper and more like reality. + +After all, it was he, and no other. It was the man she loved who was +pouring out his own love into her ears, and smoothing her hair and +pressing the hand he held. Had he not said it once, and more than once? +What matter where, what matter how, provided that he loved? She had +received the fulfilment of her wish. He loved her now. Under another +name, in a vision, with another face and another voice, yet, still, she +was herself. + +As in a storm the thunder-claps came crashing through the air, deafening +and appalling at first, then rolling swiftly into a far distance, +fainter and fainter, till all is still and only the plash of the +fast-falling rain is heard, so, as she listened, the tempest of her pain +was passing away. Easier and easier it became to hear herself called +Beatrice, easier and easier it grew to take the other’s place, to accept +the kiss, the touch, the word, the pressure of the hand that were all +another’s due, and given to herself only for the mask she wore in his +dream. + +And the tide of the great temptation rose, and fell a little, and rose +higher again each time, till it washed the fragile feet of the last +good thought that lingered, taking refuge on the highest point above the +waves. On and on it came, receding and coming back, higher and higher, +surer and surer. Had she drawn back in time it would have been so easy. +Had she turned and fled when the first moment of senseless joy was +over, when she could still feel all the shame, and blush for all the +abasement, it would have been over now, and she would have been safe. +But she had learned to look upon the advancing water, and the sound of +it had no more terror for her. It was very high now. Presently it would +climb higher and close above her head. + +There were long intervals of silence now. The first rush of his speech +had spent itself, for he had told her much and she had heard it all, +even through the mists of her changing moods. And now that he was silent +she longed to hear him speak again. She could never weary of that voice. +It had been music to her in the days when it had been full of cold +indifference--now each vibration roused high harmonies in her heart, +each note was a full chord, and all the chords made but one great +progression. She longed to hear it all again, wondering greatly how it +could never have been not good to hear. + +Then with the greater temptation came the less, enclosed within it, +suddenly revealed to her. There was but one thing she hated in it all. +That was the name. Would he not give her another--her own perhaps? She +trembled as she thought of speaking. Would she still have Beatrice’s +voice? Might not her own break down the spell and destroy all at once? +Yet she had spoken once before. She had told him that she loved him and +he had not been undeceived. + +“Beloved--” she said at last, lingering on the single word and then +hesitating. + +He looked into her face as he drew her to him, with happy eyes. She +might speak, then, for he would hear tones not hers. + +“Beloved, I am tired of my name. Will you not call me by another?” She +spoke very softly. + +“By another name?” he exclaimed, surprised, but smiling at what seemed a +strange caprice. + +“Yes. It is a sad name to me. It reminds me of many things--of a time +that is better forgotten since it is gone. Will you do it for me? It +will make it seem as though that time had never been.” + +“And yet I love your own name,” he said, thoughtfully. “It is so +much--or has been so much in all these years, when I had nothing but +your name to love.” + +“Will you not do it? It is all I ask.” + +“Indeed I will, if you would rather have it so. Do you think there is +anything that I would not do if you asked it of me?” + +They were almost the words she had spoken to him that night when they +were watching together by Israel Kafka’s side. She recognised them and a +strange thrill of triumph ran through her. What matter how? What matter +where? The old reckless questions came to her mind again. If he loved +her, and if he would but call her Unorna, what could it matter, indeed? +Was she not herself? She smiled unconsciously. + +“I see it pleases you,” he said tenderly. “Let it be as you wish. What +name will you choose for your dear self?” + +She hesitated. She could not tell how far he might remember what was +past. And yet, if he had remembered he would have seen where he was in +the long time that had passed since his awakening. + +“Did you ever--in your long travels--hear the name Unorna?” she asked +with a smile and a little hesitation. + +“Unorna? No. I cannot remember. It is a Bohemian word--it means ‘she of +February.’ It has a pretty sound--half familiar to me. I wonder where I +have heard it.” + +“Call me Unorna, then. It will remind us that you found me in February.” + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +After carefully locking and bolting the door of the sacristy Sister Paul +turned to Beatrice. She had set down her lamp upon the broad, polished +shelf which ran all round the place, forming the top of a continuous +series of cupboards, as in most sacristies, used for the vestments +of the church. At the back of these high presses rose half way to the +spring of the vault. + +The nun seemed a little nervous and her voice quavered oddly as she +spoke. If she had tried to take up her lamp her hand would have shaken. +In the moment of danger she had been brave and determined, but now that +all was over her enfeebled strength felt the reaction from the strain. +She turned to Beatrice and met her flashing black eyes. The young girl’s +delicate nostrils quivered and her lips curled fiercely. + +“You are angry, my dear child,” said Sister Paul. “So am I, and it seems +to me that our anger is just enough. ‘Be angry and sin not.’ I think we +can apply that to ourselves.” + +“Who is that woman?” Beatrice asked. She was certainly angry, as the +nun had said, but she felt by no means sure that she could resist the +temptation of sinning if it presented itself as the possibility of +tearing Unorna to pieces. + +“She was once with us,” the nun answered. “I knew her when she was a +mere girl--and I loved her then, in spite of her strange ways. But she +has changed. They call her a Witch--and indeed I think it is the only +name for her.” + +“I do not believe in witches,” said Beatrice, a little scornfully. “But +whatever she is, she is bad. I do not know what it was that she wanted +me to do in the church, upon the altar there--it was something horrible. +Thank God you came in time! What could it have been, I wonder?” + +Sister Paul shook her head sorrowfully, but said nothing. She knew +no more than Beatrice of Unorna’s intention, but she believed in the +existence of a Black Art, full of sacrilegious practices, and credited +Unorna vaguely with the worst designs which she could think of, though +in her goodness she was not able to imagine anything much worse than +the saying of a _Pater Noster_ backwards in a consecrated place. But she +preferred to say nothing, lest she should judge Unorna unjustly. After +all, she did not know. What she had seen had seemed bad enough and +strange enough, but apart from the fact that Beatrice had been found +upon the altar, where she certainly had no business to be, and that +Unorna had acted like a guilty woman, there was little to lay hold of in +the way of fact. + +“My child,” she said at last, “until we know more of the truth, and have +better advice than we can give each other, let us not speak of it to +any one of the sisters. In the morning I will tell all I have seen in +confession, and then I shall get advice. Perhaps you should do the same. +I know nothing of what happened before you left your room. Perhaps you +have something to reproach yourself with. It is not for me to ask. Think +it over.” + +“I will tell you the whole truth,” Beatrice answered, resting her elbow +upon the polished shelf and supporting her head in her hand, while she +looked earnestly into Sister Paul’s faded eyes. + +“Think well, my daughter. I have no right to any confession from you. If +there is anything----” + +“Sister Paul--you are a woman, and I must have a woman’s help. I have +learned something to-night which will change my whole life. No--do not +be afraid--I have done nothing wrong. At least, I hope not. While my +father lived, I submitted. I hoped, but I gave no sign. I did not even +write, as I once might have done. I have often wished that I had--was +that wrong?” + +“But you have told me nothing, dear child. How can I answer you?” The +nun was perplexed. + +“True. I will tell you. Sister Paul--I am five-and-twenty years old, +I am a grown woman and this is no mere girl’s love story. Seven years +ago--I was only eighteen then--I was with my father as I have been ever +since. My mother had not been dead long then--perhaps that is the reason +why I seemed to be everything to my father. But they had not been +happy together, and I had loved her best. We were travelling--no +matter where--and then I met the man I have loved. He was not of our +country--that is, of my father’s. He was of the same people as my +mother. Well--I loved him. How dearly you must guess, and try to +understand. I could not tell you that. No one could. It began gradually, +for he was often with us in those days. My father liked him for his wit, +his learning, though he was young; for his strength and manliness--for a +hundred reasons which were nothing to me. I would have loved him had +he been a cripple, poor, ignorant, despised, instead of being what he +was--the grandest, noblest man God ever made. For I did not love him +for his face, nor for his courtly ways, nor for such gifts as other men +might have, but for himself and for his heart--do you understand?” + +“For his goodness,” said Sister Paul, nodding in approval. “I +understand.” + +“No,” Beatrice answered, half impatiently. “Not for his goodness either. +Many men are good, and so was he--he must have been, of course. No +matter. I loved him. That is enough. He loved me, too. And one day we +were alone, in the broad spring sun, upon a terrace. There were lemon +trees there--I can see the place. Then we told each other that we +loved--but neither of us could find the words--they must be somewhere, +those strong beautiful words that could tell how we loved. We told each +other--” + +“Without your father’s consent?” asked the nun almost severely. + +Beatrice’s eyes flashed. “Is a woman’s heart a dog that must follow at +heel?” she asked fiercely. “We loved. That was enough. My father had +the power, but not the heart, to come between. We told him, then, for +we were not cowards. We told him boldly that it must be. He was a +thoughtful man, who spoke little. He said that we must part at once, +before we loved each other better--and that we should soon forget. We +looked at each other, the man I loved and I. We knew that we should love +better yet, parted or together, though we could not tell how that could +be. But we knew also that such love as there was between us was enough. +My father gave no reasons, but I knew that he hated the name of my +mother’s nation. Of course we met again. I remember that I could cry in +those days. My father had not learned to part us then. Perhaps he was +not quite sure himself, at all events the parting did not come so soon. +We told him that we would wait, for ever if it must be. He may have been +touched, though little touched him at the best. Then, one day, suddenly +and without warning, he took me away to another city. And what of him? +I asked. He told me that there was an evil fever in the city and that +it had seized him--the man I loved. ‘He is free to follow us if he +pleases,’ said my father. But he never came. Then followed a journey, +and another, and another, until I knew that my father was travelling +to avoid him. When I saw that I grew silent, and never spoke his name +again. Farther and farther, longer and longer, to the ends of the earth. +We saw many people, many asked for my hand. Sometimes I heard of him, +from men who had seen him lately. I waited patiently, for I knew that he +was on our track, and sometimes I felt that he was near.” + +Beatrice paused. + +“It is a strange story,” said Sister Paul, who had rarely heard a tale +of love. + +“The strange thing is this,” Beatrice answered. “That woman--what is her +name? Unorna? She loves him, and she knows where he is.” + +“Unorna?” repeated the nun in bewilderment. + +“Yes. She met me after Compline to-night. I could not but speak to her, +and then I was deceived. I cannot tell whether she knew what I am to +him, but she deceived me utterly. She told me a strange story of her own +life. I was lonely. In all those years I have never spoken of what has +filled me. I cannot tell how it was. I began to speak, and then I forgot +that she was there, and told all.” + +“She made you tell her, by her secret arts,” said Sister Paul in a low +voice. + +“No--I was lonely and I believed that she was good, and I felt that I +must speak. Then--I cannot think how I could have been so mad--but I +thought that we should never meet again, and I showed her a likeness of +him. She turned on me. I shall not forget her face. I heard her say that +she knew him and loved him too. When I awoke I was lying on the altar. +That is all I know.” + +“Her evil arts, her evil arts,” repeated the nun, shaking her head. +“Come, my dear child, let us see if all is in order there, upon the +altar. If these things are to be known they must be told in the right +quarter. The sacristan must not see that any one has been in the +church.” + +Sister Paul took up the lamp, but Beatrice laid a hand upon her arm. + +“You must help me to find him,” she said firmly. “He is not far away.” + +Her companion looked at her in astonishment. + +“Help you to find him?” she stammered. “But I cannot--I do not know--I +am afraid it is not right--an affair of love--” + +“An affair of life, Sister Paul, and of death too, perhaps. This woman +lives in Prague. She is rich and must be well known--” + +“Well known, indeed. Too well known--the Witch they call her.” + +“Then there are those who know her. Tell me the name of one person +only--it is impossible that you should not remember some one who is +acquainted with her, who has talked with you of her--perhaps one of the +ladies who have been here in retreat.” + +The nun was silent for a moment, gathering her recollections. + +“There is one, at least, who knows her,” she said at length. “A great +lady here--it is said that she, too, meddles with forbidden practices +and that Unorna has often been with her--that together they have called +up the spirits of the dead with strange rappings and writings. She +knows her, I am sure, for I have talked with her and she says it is +all natural, and that there is a learned man with them sometimes, who +explains how all such things may happen in the course of nature--a +man--let me see, let me see--it is George, I think, but not as we +call it, not Jirgi, nor Jegor--no--it sounds harder--Ke-Keyrgi--no, +Keyork--Keyork Aribi----” + +“Keyork Arabian!” exclaimed Beatrice. “Is he here?” + +“You know him?” Sister Paul looked almost suspiciously at the young +girl. + +“Indeed I do. He was with us in Egypt once. He showed us wonderful +things among the tombs. A strange little man, who knew everything, but +very amusing.” + +“I do not know. But that is his name. He lives in Prague.” + +“How can I find him? I must see him at once--he will help me.” + +The nun shook her head with disapproval. + +“I should be sorry that you should talk with him,” she said. “I fear he +is no better than Unorna, and perhaps worse.” + +“You need not fear,” Beatrice answered, with a scornful smile. “I am not +in the least afraid. Only tell me how I am to find him. He lives here, +you say--is there no directory in the convent?” + +“I believe the portress keeps such a book,” said Sister Paul still +shaking her head uneasily. “But you must wait until the morning, my +dear child, if you will do this thing. Of the two, I should say that you +would do better to write to the lady. Come, we must be going. It is very +late.” + +She had taken the lamp again and was moving slowly towards the door. +Beatrice had no choice but to submit. It was evident that nothing more +could be done at present. The two women went back into the church, and +going round the high altar began to examine everything carefully. The +only trace of disorder they could discover was the fallen candlestick, +so massive and strong that it was not even bent or injured. They climbed +the short wooden steps, and uniting their strength, set it up again, +carefully and in its place, restoring the thick candle to the socket. +Though broken in the middle by the fall, the heavy wax supported itself +easily enough. Then they got down again and Sister Paul took away the +steps. For a few moments both women knelt down before the altar. + +They left the church by the nuns’ staircase, bolting the door behind +them, and ascended to the corridors and reached Beatrice’s room. +Unorna’s door was open, as the nun had left it, and the yellow light +streamed upon the pavement. She went in and extinguished the lamp, and +then came back to Beatrice. + +“Are you not afraid to be alone after what has happened?” she asked. + +“Afraid? Of what? No, indeed.” Then she thanked her companion again and +kissed Sister Paul’s waxen cheek. + +“Say a prayer, my daughter--and may all be well with you, now and ever!” + said the good sister as she went away through the darkness. She needed +no light in the familiar way to her cell. + +Beatrice searched among her numerous belongings and at last brought out +a writing-case. Then she sat down to her table by the light of the lamp +that had illuminated so many strange sights that night. + +She wrote the name of the convent clearly upon the paper, and then wrote +a plain message in the fewest possible words. Something of her strong, +devoted nature showed itself in her handwriting. + + +“Beatrice Varanger begs that Keyork Arabian will meet her in the parlour +of the convent as soon after receiving this as possible. The matter is +very important.” + + +She had reasons of her own for believing that Keyork had not forgotten +her in the five years or more since they had been in Egypt together. +Apart from the fact that his memory had always been surprisingly good, +he had at that time professed the most unbounded admiration for her, and +she remembered with a smile his quaint devotion, his fantastic courtesy, +and his gnome-like attempts at grace. + +She folded the note, to wait for the address which she could not +ascertain until the morning. She could do nothing more. It was nearly +two o’clock and there was evidently nothing to be done but to sleep. + +As she laid her head upon the pillow a few minutes later she was +amazed at her own calm. Strong natures, in great tests, often surprise +themselves far more than they surprise others. Others see the results, +always simpler in proportion as they are greater. But the actors +themselves alone know how hard the great and simple can seem. + +Beatrice’s calmness was not only of the outward kind at the present +moment. She felt that she was alone in the world, and that she had taken +her life into her own hands. Fate had lent her the clue of her happiness +at last and she would hold it firmly to the end. It would be time enough +then to open the flood-gates. It would have been unlike her to dwell +long upon the thought of Unorna or to give way to any passionate +outbreak of hatred. Why should Unorna not love him? The whole world +loved him, and small wonder. She feared no rival. + +But he was near her now. Her heart leaped as she realised how very near +he might well be, then sank again to its calm beating. He had been near +her a score of times in the past years, and yet they had not met. But +she had not been free, then, as she was now. There was more hope than +before, but she could not delude herself with any belief in a certainty. + +So thinking, and so saying to herself, she fell asleep, and slept +soundly without dreaming as most people do who are young and strong, and +who are clear-headed and active when they are awake. + +It was late when she opened her eyes, and the broad cold light filled +the room. She lost no time in thinking over the events of the night, for +everything was fresh in her memory. Half dressed, she wrapped about her +a cloak that came down to her feet, and throwing a black veil over her +hair she went down to the portress’s lodge. In five minutes she had +found Keyork’s address and had despatched one of the convent gardeners +with the note. Then she leisurely returned to her room and set about +completing her toilet. She naturally supposed that an hour or two must +elapse before she received an answer, certainly before Keyork appeared +in person, a fact which showed that she had forgotten something of the +man’s characteristics. + +Twenty minutes had scarcely passed, and she had not finished dressing +when Sister Paul entered the room, evidently in a state of considerable +anxiety. As has been seen, it chanced to be her turn to superintend the +guest’s quarters at that time, and the portress had of course informed +her immediately of Keyork’s coming, in order that she might tell +Beatrice. + +“He is there!” she said, as she came in. + +Beatrice was standing before the little mirror that hung upon the wall, +trying, under no small difficulties, to arrange her hair. He turned her +head quickly. + +“Who is there? Keyork Arabian?” + +Sister Paul nodded, glad that she was not obliged to pronounce the name +that had for her such an unChristian sound. + +“Where is he? I did not think he could come so soon. Oh, Sister Paul, do +help me with my hair! I cannot make it stay.” + +“He is in the parlour, down stairs,” answered the nun, coming to her +assistance. “Indeed, child, I do not see how I can help you.” She +touched the black coils ineffectually. “There! Is that better?” she +asked in a timid way. “I do not know how to do it--” + +“No, no!” Beatrice exclaimed. “Hold that end--so--now turn it that +way--no, the other way--it is in the glass--so--now keep it there while +I put in a pin--no, no--in the same place, but the other way--oh, Sister +Paul! Did you never do your hair when you were a girl?” + +“That was so long ago,” answered the nun meekly. “Let me try again.” + +The result was passably satisfactory at last, and assuredly not wanting +in the element of novelty. + +“Are you not afraid to go alone?” asked Sister Paul with evident +preoccupation, as Beatrice put a few more touches to her toilet. + +But the young girl only laughed and made the more haste. Sister Paul +walked with her to the head of the stairs, wishing that the rules would +allow her to accompany Beatrice into the parlour. Then as the latter +went down the nun stood at the top looking after her and audibly +repeating prayers for her preservation. + +The convent parlour was a large, bare room, lighted by a high and grated +window. Plain, straight, modern chairs were ranged against the wall +at regular intervals. There was no table, but a square piece of green +carpet lay upon the middle of the stone pavement. A richly ornamented +glazed earthenware stove, in which a fire had just been lighted, +occupied one corner, a remnant of former aesthetic taste and strangely +out of place since the old carved furniture was gone. A crucifix of +inferior workmanship and realistically painted hung opposite the door. +The place was reserved for the use of ladies in retreat and was situated +outside the constantly closed door which shut off the cloistered part of +the convent from the small portion accessible to outsiders. + +Keyork Arabian was standing in the middle of the parlour waiting for +Beatrice. When she entered at last he made two steps forward, bowing +profoundly, and then smiled in a deferential manner. + +“My dear lady,” he said, “I am here. I have lost no time. It so happened +that I received your note just as I was leaving my carriage after a +morning drive. I had no idea that you were in Bohemia.” + +“Thanks. It was good of you to come so soon.” + +She sat down upon one of the stiff chairs and motioned to him to follow +her example. + +“And your dear father--how is he?” inquired Keyork with suave +politeness, as he took his seat. + +“My father died a week ago,” said Beatrice gravely. + +Keyork’s face assumed all the expression of which it was capable. “I +am deeply grieved,” he said, moderating his huge voice to a soft and +purring sub-bass. “He was an old and valued friend.” + +There was a moment’s silence. Keyork, who knew many things, was well +aware that a silent feud, of which he also knew the cause, had existed +between father and daughter when he had last been with them, and he +rightly judged from his knowledge of their obstinate characters that +it had lasted to the end. He thought therefore that his expression of +sympathy had been sufficient and could pass muster. + +“I asked you to come,” said Beatrice at last, “because I wanted your +help in a matter of importance to myself. I understand that you know a +person who calls herself Unorna, and who lives here.” + +Keyork’s bright blue eyes scrutinized her face. He wondered how much she +knew. + +“Very well indeed,” he answered, as though not at all surprised. + +“You know something of her life, then. I suppose you see her very often, +do you not?” + +“Daily, I can almost say.” + +“Have you any objection to answering one question about her?” + +“Twenty if you ask them, and if I know the answers,” said Keyork, +wondering what form the question would take, and preparing to meet a +surprise with indifference. + +“But will you answer me truly?” + +“My dear lady, I pledge you my sacred word of honour,” Keyork answered +with immense gravity, meeting her eyes and laying his hand upon his +heart. + +“Does she love that man--or not?” Beatrice asked, suddenly showing him +the little miniature of the Wanderer, which she had taken from its case +and had hitherto concealed in her hand. + +She watched every line of his face for she knew something of him, and +in reality put very little more faith in his word of honour than he did +himself, which was not saying much. But she had counted upon surprising +him, and she succeeded, to a certain extent. His answer did not come as +glibly as he could have wished, though his plan was soon formed. + +“Who is it! Ah, dear me! My old friend. We call him the Wanderer. Well, +Unorna certainly knew him when he was here.” + +“Then he is gone?” + +“Indeed, I am not quite sure,” said Keyork, regaining all his +self-possession. “Of course I can find out for you, if you wish to know. +But as regards Unorna, I can tell you nothing. They were a good deal +together at one time. I fancy he was consulting her. You have heard that +she is a clairvoyant, I daresay.” + +He made the last remark quite carelessly, as though he attached no +importance to the fact. + +“Then you do not know whether she loves him?” + +Keyork indulged himself with a little discreet laughter, deep and +musical. + +“Love is a very vague word,” he said presently. + +“Is it?” Beatrice asked, with some coldness. + +“To me, at least,” Keyork hastened to say, as though somewhat confused. +“But, of course, I can know very little about it in myself, and nothing +about it in others.” + +Not knowing how matters might turn out, he was willing to leave Beatrice +with a suspicion of the truth, while denying all knowledge of it. + +“You know him yourself, of course,” Beatrice suggested. + +“I have known him for years--oh, yes, for him, I can answer. He was not +in the least in love.” + +“I did not ask that question,” said Beatrice rather haughtily. “I knew +he was not.” + +“Of course, of course. I beg your pardon!” + +Keyork was learning more from her than she from him. It was true that +she took no trouble to conceal her interest in the Wanderer and his +doings. + +“Are you sure that he has left the city?” Beatrice asked. + +“No, I am not positive. I could not say with certainty.” + +“When did you see him last?” + +“Within the week, I am quite sure,” Keyork answered with alacrity. + +“Do you know where he was staying?” + +“I have not the least idea,” the little man replied, without the +slightest hesitation. “We met at first by chance in the Teyn Kirche, one +afternoon--it was a Sunday, I remember, about a month ago.” + +“A month ago--on a Sunday,” Beatrice repeated thoughtfully. + +“Yes--I think it was New Year’s Day, too.” + +“Strange,” she said. “I was in the church that very morning, with my +maid. I had been ill for several days--I remember how cold it was. +Strange--the same day.” + +“Yes,” said Keyork, noting the words, but appearing to take no notice of +them. “I was looking at Tycho Brahe’s monument. You know how it annoys +me to forget anything--there was a word in the inscription which I could +not recall. I turned round and saw him sitting just at the end of the +pew nearest to the monument.” + +“The old red slab with a figure on it, by the last pillar?” Beatrice +asked eagerly. + +“Exactly. I daresay you know the church very well. You remember that +the pew runs very near to the monument so that there is hardly room to +pass.” + +“I know--yes.” + +She was thinking that it could hardly have been a mere accident which +had led the Wanderer to take the very seat she had occupied on the +morning of that day. He must have seen her during the Mass, but she +could not imagine how he could have missed her. They had been very near +then. And now, a whole month had passed, and Keyork Arabian professed +not to know whether the Wanderer was still in the city or not. + +“Then you wish to be informed of our friend’s movements, as I understand +it?” said Keyork going back to the main point. + +“Yes--what happened on that day?” Beatrice asked, for she wished to hear +more. + +“Oh, on that day? Yes. Well, nothing happened worth mentioning. We +talked a little and went out of the church and walked a little way +together. I forget when we met next, but I have seen him at least a +dozen times since then, I am sure.” + +Beatrice began to understand that Keyork had no intention of giving her +any further information. She reflected that she had learned much in +this interview. The Wanderer had been, and perhaps still was, in Prague. +Unorna loved him and they had been frequently together. He had been in +the Teyn Kirche on the day she had last been there herself, and in all +probability he had seen her, since he had chosen the very seat in which +she had sat. Further, she gathered that Keyork had some interest in +not speaking more frankly. She gave up the idea of examining him any +further. He was a man not easily surprised, and it was only by means +of a surprise that he could be induced to betray even by a passing +expression what he meant to conceal. Her means of attack were exhausted +for the present. She determined at least to repeat her request clearly +before dismissing him, in the hope that it might suit his plans to +fulfil it, but without the least trust in his sincerity. + +“Will you be so kind as to make some inquiry, and let me know the result +to-day?” she asked. + +“I will do everything to give you an early answer,” said Keyork. “And +I shall be the more anxious to obtain one without delay in order that +I may have the very great pleasure of visiting you again. There is much +that I would like to ask you, if you would allow me. For old friends, +as I trust I may say that we are, you must admit that we have exchanged +few--very few--confidences this morning. May I come again to-day? It +would be an immense privilege to talk of old times with you, of our +friends in Egypt and of our many journeys. For you have no doubt +travelled much since then. Your dear father,” he lowered his voice +reverentially, “was a great traveller, as well as a very learned man. +Ah, well, my dear lady--we must all make up our minds to undertake +that great journey one of these days. But I pain you. I was very much +attached to your dear father. Command all my service. I will come again +in the course of the day.” + +With many sympathetic smiles and half-comic inclinations of his short, +broad body, the little man bowed himself out. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +Unorna drew one deep breath when she first heard her name fall with a +loving accent from the Wanderer’s lips. Surely the bitterness of despair +was past since she was loved and not called Beatrice. The sigh that came +then was of relief already felt, the forerunner, as she fancied, too, +of a happiness no longer dimmed by shadows of fear and mists of rising +remorse. Gazing into his eyes, she seemed to be watching in their +reflection a magic change. She had been Beatrice to him, Unorna to +herself, but now the transformation was at hand--now it was to come. For +him she loved, and who loved her, she was Unorna even to the name, in +her own thoughts she had taken the dark woman’s face. She had risked all +upon the chances of one throw and she had won. So long as he had called +her by another’s name the bitterness had been as gall mingled in the +wine of love. But now that too was gone. She felt that it was complete +at last. Her golden head sank peacefully upon his shoulder in the +morning light. + +“You have been long in coming, love,” she said, only half consciously, +“but you have come as I dreamed--it is perfect now. There is nothing +wanting any more.” + +“It is all full, all real, all perfect,” he answered, softly. + +“And there is to be no more parting, now----” + +“Neither here, nor afterwards, beloved.” + +“Then this is afterwards. Heaven has nothing more to give. What is +Heaven? The meeting of those who love--as we have met. I have forgotten +what it was to live before you came----” + +“For me, there is nothing to remember between that day and this.” + +“That day when you fell ill,” Unorna said, “the loneliness, the fear for +you----” + +Unorna scarcely knew that it had not been she who had parted from him so +long ago. Yet she was playing a part, and in the semi-consciousness of +her deep self-illusion it all seemed as real as a vision in a dream so +often dreamed that it has become part of the dreamer’s life. Those +who fall by slow degrees under the power of the all-destroying opium +remember yesterday as being very far, very long past, and recall faint +memories of last year as though a century had lived and perished since +then, seeing confusedly in their own lives the lives of others, and +other existences in their own, until identity is almost gone in the +endless transmigration of their souls from the shadow in one dream-tale +to the wraith of themselves that dreams the next. So, in that hour, +Unorna drifted through the changing scenes that a word had power to call +up, scarce able, and wholly unwilling, to distinguish between her real +and her imaginary self. What matter how? What matter where? The very +questions which at first she had asked herself came now but faintly as +out of an immeasurable distance, and always more faintly still. They +died away in her ears, as when, after long waiting, and false starts, +and turnings back and anxious words exchanged, the great race is at last +begun, the swift long limbs are gathered and stretched and strained +and gathered again, the thunder of flying hoofs is in the air, and the +rider, with low hands, and head inclined and eyes bent forward, hears +the last anxious word of parting counsel tremble and die in the rush of +the wind behind. + +She had really loved him throughout all those years; she had really +sought him and mourned for him and longed for a sight of his face; +they had really parted and had really found each other but a short hour +since; there was no Beatrice but Unorna and no Unorna but Beatrice, for +they were one and indivisible and interchangeable as the glance of +a man’s two eyes that look on one fair sight; each sees alone, the +same--but seeing together, the sight grows doubly fair. + +“And all the sadness, where is it now?” she asked. “And all the +emptiness of that long time? It never was, my love--it was yesterday +we met. We parted yesterday, to meet to-day. Say it was yesterday--the +little word can undo seven years.” + +“It seems like yesterday,” he answered. + +“Indeed, I can almost think so, now, for it was all night between. +But not quite dark, as night is sometimes. It was a night full of +stars--each star was a thought of you, that burned softly and showed me +where heaven was. And darkest night, they say, means coming morning--so +when the stars went out I knew the sun must rise.” + +The words fell from her lips naturally. To her it seemed true that she +had indeed waited long and hoped and thought of him. And it was not all +false. Ever since her childhood she had been told to wait, for her love +would come and would come only once. And so it was true, and the dream +grew sweeter and the illusion of the enchantment more enchanting still. +For it was an enchantment and a spell that bound them together there, +among the flowers, the drooping palms, the graceful tropic plants and +the shadowy leaves. And still the day rose higher, but still the lamps +burned on, fed by the silent, mysterious current that never tires, +blending a real light with an unreal one, an emblem of Unorna’s self, +mixing and blending, too, with a self not hers. + +“And the sun is risen, indeed,” she added presently. + +“Am I the sun, dear?” he asked, foretasting the delight of listening to +her simple answer. + +“You are the sun, beloved, and when you shine, my eyes can see nothing +else in heaven.” + +“And what are you yourself--Beatrice--no, Unorna--is that the name you +chose? It is so hard to remember anything when I look at you.” + +“Beatrice--Unorna--anything,” came the answer, softly murmuring. +“Anything, dear, any name, any face, any voice, if only I am I, and you +are you, and we two love! Both, neither, anything--do the blessed souls +in Paradise know their own names?” + +“You are right--what does it matter? Why should you need a name at all, +since I have you with me always? It was well once--it served me when I +prayed for you--and it served to tell me that my heart was gold while +you were there, as the goldsmith’s mark upon his jewel stamps the pure +metal, that all men may know it.” + +“You need no sign like that to show me what you are,” said she, with a +long glance. + +“Nor I to tell me you are in my heart,” he answered. “It was a foolish +speech. Would you have me wise now?” + +“If wisdom is love--yes. If not----” She laughed softly. + +“Then folly?” + +“Then folly, madness, anything--so that this last, as last it must, or I +shall die!” + +“And why should it not last? Is there any reason, in earth or Heaven, +why we two should part? If there is--I will make that reason itself +folly, and madness, and unreason. Dear, do not speak of this not +lasting. Die, you say? Worse, far worse; as much as eternal death is +worse than bodily dying. Last? Does any one know what for ever means, +if we do not? Die, we must, in these dying bodies of ours, but part--no. +Love has burned the cruel sense out of that word, and bleached its +blackness white. We wounded the devil, parting, with one kiss, we killed +him with the next--this buries him--ah, love, how sweet----” + +There was neither resistance nor the thought of resisting. Their lips +met and were withdrawn only that their eyes might drink again the +draught the lips had tasted, long draughts of sweetness and liquid light +and love unfathomable. And in the interval of speech half false, +the truth of what was all true welled up from the clear depths and +overflowed the falseness, till it grew falser and more fleeting +still--as a thing lying deep in a bright water casts up a distorted +image on refracted rays. + +Glance and kiss, when two love, are as body and soul, supremely human +and transcendently divine. The look alone, when the lips cannot meet, +is but the disembodied spirit, beautiful even in its sorrow, sad, +despairing, saying “ever,” and yet sighing “never,” tasting and knowing +all the bitterness of both. The kiss without the glance? The body +without the soul? The mortal thing without the undying thought? Draw +down the thick veil and hide the sight, lest devils sicken at it, and +lest man should loathe himself for what man can be. + +Truth or untruth, their love was real, hers as much as his. She +remembered only what her heart had been without it. What her goal might +be, now that it had come, she guessed even then, but she would not ask. +Was there never a martyr in old times, more human than the rest, who +turned back, for love perhaps, if not for fear, and said that for love’s +sake life still was sweet, and brought a milk-white dove to Aphrodite’s +altar, or dropped a rose before Demeter’s feet? There must have been, +for man is man, and woman, woman. And if in the next month, or even the +next year, or after many years, that youth or maid took heart to bear a +Christian’s death, was there then no forgiveness, no sign of holy +cross upon the sandstone in the deep labyrinth of graves, no crown, no +sainthood, and no reverent memory of his name or hers among those of men +and women worthier, perhaps, but not more suffering? + +No one can kill Self. No one can be altogether another, save in the +passing passion of a moment’s acting. I--in that syllable lies the whole +history of each human life; in that history lives the individuality; in +the clear and true conception of that individuality dwells such joint +foreknowledge of the future as we can have, such vague solution as to +us is possible of that vast equation in which all quantities are unknown +save that alone, that I which we know as we can know nothing else. + +“Bury it!” she said. “Bury that parting--the thing, the word, and the +thought--bury it with all others of its kind, with change, and old age, +and stealing indifference, and growing coldness, and all that cankers +love--bury them all, together, in one wide deep grave--then build on it +the house of what we are--” + +“Change? Indifference? I do not know those words,” the Wanderer said. +“Have they been in your dreams, love? They have never been in mine.” + +He spoke tenderly, but with the faintest echo of sadness in his voice. +The mere suggestion that such thoughts could have been near her was +enough to pain him. She was silent, and again her head lay upon his +shoulder. She found there still the rest and the peace. Knowing her own +life, the immensity of his faith and trust in that other woman were made +clear by the simple, heartfelt words. If she had been indeed Beatrice, +would he have loved her so? If it had all been true, the parting, the +seven years’ separation, the utter loneliness, the hopelessness, the +despair, could she have been as true as he? In the stillness that +followed she asked herself the question which was so near a greater and +a deadlier one. But the answer came quickly. That, at least, she could +have done. She could have been true to him, even to death. It must be so +easy to be faithful when life was but one faith. In that chord at least +no note rang false. + +“Change in love--indifference to you!” she cried, all at once, hiding +her lovely face in his breast and twining her arms about his neck. “No, +no! I never meant that such things could be--they are but empty words, +words one hears spoken lightly by lips that never spoke the truth, by +men and women who never had such truth to speak as you and I.” + +“And as for old age,” he said, dwelling upon her speech, “what is that +to us? Let it come, since come it must. It is good to be young and fair +and strong, but would not you or I give up all that for love’s sake, +each of us of our own free will, rather than lose the other’s love?” + +“Indeed, indeed I would!” Unorna answered. + +“Then what of age? What is it after all? A few gray hairs, a wrinkle +here and there, a slower step, perhaps a dimmer glance. That is all +it is--the quiet, sunny channel between the sea of earthly joy and the +ocean of heavenly happiness. The breeze of love still fills the sails, +wafting us softly onward through the narrows, never failing, though it +be softer and softer, till we glide out, scarce knowing it, upon the +broader water and are borne swiftly away from the lost land by the first +breath of heaven.” + +His words brought peace and the mirage of a far-off rest, that soothed +again the little half-born doubt. + +“Yes,” she said. “It is better to think so. Then we need think of no +other change.” + +“There is no other possible,” he answered, gently pressing the shoulder +upon which his hand was resting. “We have not waited and believed, and +trusted and loved, for seven years, to wake at last--face to face as +we are to-day--and to find that we have trusted vainly and loved two +shadows, I yours, and you mine, to find at the great moment of all that +we are not ourselves, the selves we knew, but others of like passions +but of less endurance. Have we, beloved? And if we could love, and +trust, and believe without each other, each alone, is it not all the +more sure that we shall be unchanging together? It must be so. The whole +is greater than its parts, two loves together are greater and stronger +than each could be of itself. The strength of two strands close twined +together is more than twice the strength of each.” + +She said nothing. By merest chance he had said words that had waked +the doubt again, so that it grew a little and took a firmer hold in her +unwilling heart. To love a shadow, he had said, to wake and find self +not self at all. That was what might come, would come, must come, +sooner or later, said the doubt. What matter where, or when, or how? The +question came again, vaguely, faintly as a mere memory, but confidently +as though knowing its own answer. Had she not rested in his arms, and +felt his kisses and heard his voice? What matter how, indeed? It matters +greatly, said the growing doubt, rearing its head and finding speech at +last. It matters greatly, it said, for love lies not alone in voice, +and kiss, and gentle touch, but in things more enduring, which to endure +must be sound and whole and not cankered to the core by a living lie. +Then came the old reckless reasoning again: Am I not I? Is he not he? Do +I not love him with my whole strength? Does he not love this very self +of mine, here as it is, my head upon his shoulder, my hand within his +hand? And if he once loved another, have I not her place, to have and +hold, that I may be loved in her stead? Go, said the doubt, growing +black and strong; go, for you are nothing to him but a figure in his +dream, disguised in the lines of one he really loved and loves; go +quickly, before it is too late, before that real Beatrice comes and +wakes him and drives you out of the kingdom you usurp. + +But she knew it was only a doubt, and had it been the truth, and had +Beatrice’s foot been on the threshold, she would not have been driven +away by fear. But the fight had begun. + +“Speak to me, dear,” she said. “I must hear your voice--it makes me know +that it is all real.” + +“How the minutes fly!” he exclaimed, smoothing her hair with his hand. +“It seems to me that I was but just speaking when you spoke.” + +“It seems so long--” She checked herself, wondering whether an hour had +passed or but a second. + +Though love be swifter than the fleeting hours, doubt can outrun a +lifetime in one beating of the heart. + +“Then how divinely long it all may seem,” he answered. “But can we not +begin to think, and to make plans for to-morrow, and the next day, and +for the years before us? That will make more time for us, for with the +present we shall have the future, too. No--that is foolish again. And +yet it is so hard to say which I would have. Shall the moment linger +because it is so sweet? Or shall it be gone quickly, because the next is +to be sweeter still? Love, where is your father?” + +Unorna started. The question was suggested, perhaps, by his inclination +to speak of what was to be done, but it fell suddenly upon her ears, as +a peal of thunder when the sky has no clouds. Must she lie now, or break +the spell? One word, at least, she could yet speak with truth. + +“Dead.” + +“Dead!” the Wanderer repeated, thoughtfully and with a faint surprise. +“Is it long ago, beloved?” he asked presently, in a subdued tone as +though fearing to wake some painful memory. + +“Yes,” she answered. The great doubt was taking her heart in its strong +hands now and tearing it, and twisting it. + +“And whose house is this in which I have found you, darling? Was it +his?” + +“It is mine,” Unorna said. + +How long would he ask questions to which she could find true answers? +What question would come next? There were so many he might ask and few +to which she could reply so truthfully even in that narrow sense of +truth which found its only meaning in a whim of chance. But for a moment +he asked nothing more. + +“Not mine,” she said. “It is yours. You cannot take me and yet call +anything mine.” + +“Ours, then, beloved. What does it matter? So he died long ago--poor +man! And yet, it seems but a little while since some one told me--but +that was a mistake, of course. He did not know. How many years may it +be, dear one? I see you still wear mourning for him.” + +“No--that was but a fancy--to-day. He died--he died more than two years +ago.” + +She bent her head. It was but a poor attempt at truth, a miserable lying +truth to deceive herself with, but it seemed better than to lie the +whole truth outright, and say that her father--Beatrice’s father--had +been dead but just a week. The blood burned in her face. Brave natures, +good and bad alike, hate falsehood, not for its wickedness, perhaps, but +for its cowardice. She could do things as bad, far worse. She could lay +her hand upon the forehead of a sleeping man and inspire in him a deep, +unchangeable belief in something utterly untrue; but now, as it was, she +was ashamed and hid her face. + +“It is strange,” he said, “how little men know of each other’s lives +or deaths. They told me he was alive last year. But it has hurt you to +speak of it. Forgive me, dear, it was thoughtless of me.” + +He tried to lift her head, but she held it obstinately down. + +“Have I pained you, Beatrice?” he asked, forgetting to call her by the +other name that was so new to him. + +“No--oh, no!” she exclaimed without looking up. + +“What is it then?” + +“Nothing--it is nothing--no, I will not look at you--I am ashamed.” That +at least was true. + +“Ashamed, dear heart! Of what?” + +He had seen her face in spite of herself. Lie, or lose all, said a voice +within. + +“Ashamed of being glad that--that I am free,” she stammered, struggling +on the very verge of the precipice. + +“You may be glad of that, and yet be very sorry he is dead,” the +Wanderer said, stroking her hair. + +It was true, and seemed quite simple. She wondered that she had not +thought of that. Yet she felt that the man she loved, in all his +nobility and honesty, was playing the tempter to her, though he could +not know it. Deeper and deeper she sank, yet ever more conscious that +she was sinking. Before him she felt no longer as loving woman to loving +man--she was beginning to feel as a guilty prisoner before his judge. + +He thought to turn the subject to a lighter strain. By chance he glanced +at his own hand. + +“Do you know this ring?” he asked, holding it before her, with a smile. + +“Indeed, I know it,” she answered, trembling again. + +“You gave it to me, love, do you remember? And I gave you a likeness of +myself, because you asked for it, though I would rather have given you +something better. Have you it still?” + +She was silent. Something was rising in her throat. Then she choked it +down. + +“I had it in my hand last night,” she said in a breaking voice. True, +once more. + +“What is it, darling? Are you crying? This is no day for tears.” + +“I little thought that I should have yourself to-day,” she tried to say. + +Then the tears came, tears of shame, big, hot, slow. They fell upon his +hand. She was weeping for joy, he thought. What else could any man think +in such a case? He drew her to him, and pressed her cheek with his hand +as her head nestled on his shoulder. + +“When you put this ring on my finger, dear--so long ago----” + +She sobbed aloud. + +“No, darling--no, dear heart,” he said, comforting her, “you must not +cry--that long ago is over now and gone for ever. Do you remember that +day, sweetheart, in the broad spring sun upon the terrace among the +lemon trees. No, dear--your tears hurt me always, even when they are +shed in happiness--no, dear, no. Rest there, let me dry your dear +eyes--so and so. Again? For ever, if you will. While you have tears, +I have kisses to dry them--it was so then, on that very day. I can +remember. I can see it all--and you. You have not changed, love, in all +those years, more than a blossom changes in one hour of a summer’s day! +You took this ring and put it on my finger. Do you remember what I said? +I know the very words. I promised you--it needed no promise either--that +it should never leave its place until you took it back--and you--how +well I remember your face--you said that you would take it from my hand +some day, when all was well, when you should be free to give me another +in its stead, and to take one in return. I have kept my word, beloved. +Keep yours--I have brought you back the ring. Take it, sweetheart. It +is heavy with the burden of lonely years. Take it and give me that other +which I claim.” + +She did not speak, for she was fighting down the choking sobs, +struggling to keep back the burning drops that scalded her cheeks, +striving to gather strength for the weight of a greater shame. Lie, or +lose all, the voice said. + +Very slowly she raised her head. She knew that his hand was close to +hers, held there that she might fulfil Beatrice’s promise. Was she not +free? Could she not give him what he asked? No matter how--she tried to +say it to herself and could not. She felt his breath upon her hair. He +was waiting. If she did not act soon or speak he would wonder what held +her back--wonder--suspicion next and then? She put out her hand to touch +his fingers, half blinded, groping as though she could not see. He made +it easy for her. He fancied she was trembling, as she was weeping, with +the joy of it all. + +She felt the ring, though she dared not look at it. She drew it a little +and felt that it would come off easily. She felt the fingers she loved +so well, straight, strong and nervous, and she touched them lovingly. +The ring was not tight, it would pass easily over the joint that alone +kept it in its place. + +“Take it, beloved,” he said. “It has waited long enough.” + +He was beginning to wonder at her hesitation as she knew he would. After +wonder would come suspicion--and then? Very slowly--it was just upon the +joint of his finger now. Should she do it? What would happen? He would +have broken his vow--unwittingly. How quickly and gladly Beatrice would +have taken it. What would she say, if they lived and met--why should +they not meet? Would the spell endure that shock--who would Beatrice be +then? The woman who had given him this ring? Or another, whom he would +no longer know? But she must be quick. He was waiting and Beatrice would +not have made him wait. + +Her hand was like stone, numb, motionless, immovable, as though some +unseen being had taken it in an iron grasp and held it there, in +mid-air, just touching his. Yes--no--yes--she could not move--a hand +was clasped upon her wrist, a hand smaller than his, but strong as fate, +fixed in its grip as an iron vice. + +Unorna felt a cold breath, that was not his, upon her forehead, and she +felt as though her heavy hair were rising of itself upon her head. She +knew that horror, for she had been overtaken by it once before. She was +not afraid, but she knew what it was. There was a shadow, too, and a +dark woman, tall, queenly, with deep flashing eyes was standing beside +her. She knew, before she looked; she looked, and it was there. Her own +face was whiter than that other woman’s. + +“Have you come already?” she asked of the shadow, in a low despairing +tone. + +“Beatrice--what has happened?” cried the Wanderer. To him, she seemed to +be speaking to the empty air and her white face startled him. + +“Yes,” she said, staring still, in the same hopeless voice. “It is +Beatrice. She has come for you.” + +“Beatrice--beloved--do not speak like that! For God’s sake--what do you +see? There is nothing there.” + +“Beatrice is there. I am Unorna.” + +“Unorna, Beatrice--have we not said it should be all the same! +Sweetheart--look at me! Rest here--shut those dear eyes of yours. It is +gone now whatever it was--you are tired, dear--you must rest.” + +Her eyes closed and her head sank. It was gone, as he said, and she +knew what it had been--a mere vision called up by her own over-tortured +brain. Keyork Arabian had a name for it. + +Frightened by your own nerves, laughed the voice, when, if you had not +been a coward, you might have faced it down and lied again, and all +would have been well. But you shall have another chance, and lying is +very easy, even when the nerves are over-wrought. You will do better the +next time. + +The voice was like Keyork Arabian’s. Unstrung, almost forgetting all, +she wondered vaguely at the sound, for it was a real sound and a real +voice to her. Was her soul his, indeed, and was he drawing it on slowly, +surely to the end? Had he been behind her last night? Had he left an +hour’s liberty only to come back again and take at last what was his? + +There is time yet, you have not lost him, for he thinks you mad. The +voice spoke once more. + +And at the same moment the strong dear arms were again around her, again +her head was on that restful shoulder of his, again her pale face was +turned up to his, and kisses were raining on her tired eyes, while +broken words of love and tenderness made music through the tempest. + +Again the vast temptation rose. How could he ever know? Who was to +undeceive him, if he was not yet undeceived? Who should ever make him +understand the truth so long as the spell lasted? Why not then take what +was given her, and when the end came, if it came, then tell all boldly? +Even then, he would not understand. Had he understood last night, when +she had confessed all that she had done before? He had not believed one +word of it, except that she loved him. Could she make him believe it +now, when he was clasping her so fiercely to his breast, half mad with +love for her himself? + +So easy, too. She had but to forget that passing vision, to put her arms +about his neck, to give kiss for kiss, and loving word for loving word. +Not even that. She had but to lie there, passive, silent if she could +not speak, and it would be still the same. No power on earth could undo +what she had done, unless she willed it. Neither man nor woman could +make his clasping hands let go of her and give her up. + +Be still and wait, whispered the voice, you have lost nothing yet. + +But Unorna would not. She had spoken and acted her last lie. It was +over. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +Unorna struggled for a moment. The Wanderer did not understand, but +loosed his arms, so that she was free. She rose to her feet and stood +before him. + +“You have dreamed all this,” she said. “I am not Beatrice.” + +“Dreamed? Not Beatrice?” she heard him cry in his bewilderment. + +Something more he said, but she could not catch the words. She was +already gone, through the labyrinth of the many plants, to the door +through which twelve hours earlier she had fled from Israel Kafka. She +ran the faster as she left him behind. She passed the entrance and the +passage and the vestibule beyond, not thinking whither she was going, or +not caring. She found herself in that large, well-lighted room in which +the ancient sleeper lay alone. Perhaps her instinct led her there as to +a retreat safer even than her own chamber. She knew that if she would +there was something there which she could use. + +She sank into a chair and covered her face, trembling from head to foot. +For many minutes after that she could neither see nor hear--she would +hardly have felt a wound or a blow. And yet she knew that she meant to +end her life, since all that made it life was ended. + +After a time, her hands fell in a despairing gesture upon her knees and +she stared about the room. Her eyes rested on the sleeper, then upon +his couch, lying as a prophet in state, the massive head raised upon a +silken pillow, the vast limbs just outlined beneath the snow-white robe, +the hoary beard flowing down over the great breast that slowly rose and +fell. + +To her there was a dreadful irony in that useless life, prolonged in +sleep beyond the limits of human age. Yet she had thought it worth the +labour and care and endless watchfulness it had cost for years. And now +her own, strong, young and fresh, seemed not only useless but fit only +to be cut off and cast away, as an existence that offended God and man +and most of all herself. + +But if she died then, there, in that secret chamber where she and her +companion had sought the secret of life for years, if she died now--how +would all end? Was it an expiation--or a flight? Would one short moment +of half-conscious suffering pay half her debt? + +She stared at the old man’s face with wide, despairing eyes. Many a +time, unknown to Keyork and once to his knowledge, she had roused the +sleeper to speak, and on the whole he had spoken truly, wisely, and +well. She lacked neither the less courage to die, nor the greater +to live. She longed but to hear one honest word, not of hope, but of +encouragement, but one word in contrast to those hideous whispered +promptings that had come to her in Keyork Arabian’s voice. How could she +trust herself alone? Her evil deeds were many--so many, that, although +she had turned at last against them, she could not tell where to strike. + +“If you would only tell me!” she cried leaning over the unconscious +head. “If you would only help me. You are so old that you must be wise, +and if so very wise, then you are good! Wake, but this once, and tell me +what is right!” + +The deep eyes opened and looked up to hers. The great limbs stirred, the +bony hands unclasped. There was something awe-inspiring in the ancient +strength renewed and filled with a new life. + +“Who calls me?” asked the clear, deep voice. + +“I, Unorna----” + +“What do you ask of me?” + +He had risen from his couch and stood before her, towering far above her +head. Even the Wanderer would have seemed but of common stature beside +this man of other years, of a forgotten generation, who now stood erect +and filled with a mysterious youth. + +“Tell me what I should do----” + +“Tell me what you have done.” + +Then in one great confession, with bowed head and folded hands, she +poured out the story of her life. + +“And I am lost!” she cried at last. “One holds my soul, and one my +heart! May not my body die? Oh, say that it is right--that I may die!” + +“Die? Die--when you may yet undo?” + +“Undo?” + +“Undo and do. Undo the wrong and do the right.” + +“I cannot. The wrong is past undoing--and I am past doing right.” + +“Do not blaspheme--go! Do it.” + +“What?” + +“Call her--that other woman--Beatrice. Bring her to him, and him to +her.” + +“And see them meet!” + +She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped her +lips. + +“May I not die?” she cried despairingly. “May I not die--for him--for +her, for both? Would that not be enough? Would they not meet? Would they +not then be free?” + +“Do you love him still?” + +“With all my broken heart----” + +“Then do not leave his happiness to chance alone, but go at once. There +is one little act of Heaven’s work still in your power. Make it all +yours.” + +His great hands rested on her shoulders and his eyes looked down to +hers. + +“Is it so bitter to do right?” he asked. + +“It is very bitter,” she answered. + +Very slowly she turned, and as she moved he went beside her, gently +urging her and seeming to support her. Slowly, through vestibule +and passage, they went on and entered together the great hall of the +flowers. The Wanderer was there alone. + +He uttered a short cry and sprang to meet her, but stepped back in awe +of the great white-robed figure that towered by her side. + +“Beatrice!” he cried, as they passed. + +“I am not Beatrice,” she answered, her downcast eyes not raised to look +at him, moving still forward under the gentle guidance of the giant’s +hand. + +“Not Beatrice--no--you are not she--you are Unorna! Have I dreamed all +this?” + +She had passed him now, and still she would not turn her head. But her +voice came back to him as she walked on. + +“You have dreamed what will very soon be true,” she said. “Wait here, +and Beatrice will soon be with you.” + +“I know that I am mad,” the Wanderer cried, making one step to follow +her, then stopping short. Unorna was already at the door. The ancient +sleeper laid one hand upon her head. + +“You will do it now,” he said. + +“I will do it--to the end,” she answered. “Thank God that I have made +you live to tell me how.” + +So she went out, alone, to undo what she had done so evilly well. + +The old man turned and went towards the Wanderer, who stood still in the +middle of the hall, confused, not knowing whether he had dreamed or was +really mad. + +“What man are you?” he asked, as the white-robed figure approached. + +“A man, as you are, for I was once young--not as you are, for I am very +old, and yet like you, for I am young again.” + +“You speak in riddles. What are you doing here, and where have you sent +Unorna?” + +“When I was old, in that long time between, she took me in, and I have +slept beneath her roof these many years. She came to me to-day. She told +me all her story and all yours, waking me from my sleep, and asking me +what she should do. And she is gone to do that thing of which I told +her. Wait and you will see. She loves you well.” + +“And you would help her to get my love, as she had tried to get it +before?” the Wanderer asked with rising anger. “What am I to you, or you +to me, that you would meddle in my life?” + +“You to me? Nothing. A man.” + +“Therefore an enemy--and you would help Unorna--let me go! This home is +cursed. I will not stay in it.” The hoary giant took his arm, and the +Wanderer started at the weight and strength of the touch. + +“You shall bless this house before you leave it. In this place, here +where you stand, you shall find the happiness you have sought through +all the years.” + +“In Unorna?” the question was asked scornfully. + +“By Unorna.” + +“I do not believe you. You are mad, as I am. Would you play the +prophet?” + +The door opened in the distance, and from behind the screen of plants +Keyork Arabian came forward into the hall, his small eyes bright, his +ivory face set and expressionless, his long beard waving in the swing of +his walk. The Wanderer saw him first and called to him. + +“Keyork--come here!” he said. “Who is this man?” + +For a moment Keyork seemed speechless with amazement. But it was anger +that choked his words. Then he came on quickly. + +“Who waked him?” he cried in fury. “What is this? Why is he here?” + +“Unorna waked me,” answered the ancient sleeper very calmly. + +“Unorna? Again? The curse of The Three Black Angels on her! Mad again? +Sleep, go back! It is not ready yet, and you will die, and I shall lose +it all--all--all! Oh, she shall pay for this with her soul in hell!” + +He threw himself upon the giant, in an insane frenzy, clasping his arms +round the huge limbs and trying to force him backwards. + +“Go! go!” he cried frantically. “It may not be too late! You may yet +sleep and live! Oh, my Experiment, my great Experiment! All lost----” + +“What is this madness?” asked the Wanderer. “You cannot carry him, and +he will not go. Let him alone.” + +“Madness?” yelled Keyork, turning on him. “You are the madman, you the +fool, who cannot understand! Help me to move him--you are strong and +young--together we can take him back--he may yet sleep and live--he must +and shall! I say it! Lay your hands on him--you will not help me? Then I +will curse you till you do----” + +“Poor Keyork!” exclaimed the Wanderer, half pitying him. “Your big +thoughts have cracked your little brain at last.” + +“Poor Keyork? You call me poor Keyork? You boy! You puppet! You ball, +that we have bandied to and fro, half sleeping, half awake! It drives me +mad to see you standing there, scoffing instead of helping me!” + +“You are past my help, I fear.” + +“Will you not move? Are you dead already, standing on your feet and +staring at me?” + +Again Keyork threw himself upon the huge old man, and stamped and +struggled and tried to move him backwards. He might as well have spent +his strength against a rock. Breathless but furious still, he desisted +at last, too much beside himself to see that he whose sudden death he +feared was stronger than he, because the great experiment had succeeded +far beyond all hope. + +“Unorna has done this!” he cried, beating his forehead in impotent rage. +“Unorna has ruined me, and all,--and everything--so she has paid me for +my help! Trust a woman when she loves? Trust angels to curse God, or +Hell to save a sinner! But she shall pay, too--I have her still. Why do +you stare at me? Wait, fool! You shall be happy now. What are you to me +that I should even hate you? You shall have what you want. I will bring +you the woman you love, the Beatrice you have seen in dreams--and then +Unorna’s heart will break and she will die, and her soul--her soul----” + +Keyork broke into a peal of laughter, deep, rolling, diabolical in its +despairing, frantic mirth. He was still laughing as he reached the door. + +“Her soul, her soul!” they heard him cry, between one burst and another +as he went out, and from the echoing vestibule, and from the staircase +beyond, the great laughter rolled back to them when they were left +alone. + +“What is it all? I cannot understand,” the Wanderer said, looking up to +the grand calm face. + +“It is not always given to evil to do good, even for evil’s sake,” said +the old man. “The thing that he would is done already. The wound that he +would make is already bleeding; the heart he is gone to break is broken; +the soul that he would torture is beyond all his torments.” + +“Is Unorna dead?” the Wanderer asked, turning, he knew now why, with a +sort of reverence to his companion. + +“She is not dead.” + +Unorna waited in the parlour of the convent. Then Beatrice came in, and +stood before her. Neither feared the other, and each looked into the +other’s eyes. + +“I have come to undo what I have done,” Unorna said, not waiting for the +cold inquiry which she knew would come if she were silent. + +“That will be hard, indeed,” Beatrice answered. + +“Yes. It is very hard. Make it still harder if you can, I could still do +it.” + +“And do you think I will believe you, or trust you?” asked the dark +woman. + +“I know that you will when you know how I have loved him.” + +“Have you come here to tell me of your love?” + +“Yes. And when I have told you, you will forgive me.” + +“I am no saint,” said Beatrice, coldly. “I do not find forgiveness in +such abundance as you need.” + +“You will find it for me. You are not bad, as I am, but you can +understand what I have done, nevertheless, for you know what you +yourself would do for the sake of him we love. No--do not be angry with +me yet--I love him and I tell you so--that you may understand.” + +“At that price, I would rather not have the understanding. I do not care +to hear you say it. It is not good to hear.” + +“Yet, if I did not love him as I do, I should not be here, of my own +free will, to take you to him. I came for that.” + +“I do not believe you,” Beatrice answered in tones like ice. + +“And yet you will, and very soon. Whether you forgive or not--that is +another matter. I cannot ask it. God knows how much easier it would have +been to die than to come here. But if I were dead you might never have +found him, nor he you, though you are so very near together. Do you +think it is easier for me to come to you, whom he loves, than it is for +you to hear me say I love him, when I come to give him to you? If you +had found it all, not as it is, but otherwise--if you had found that in +these years he had known me and loved me, as he once loved you, if he +turned from you coldly and bid you forget him, because he would be happy +with me, and because he had utterly forgotten you--would it be easy for +you to give him up?” + +“He loved me then--he loves me still,” Beatrice said. “It is another +case.” + +“A much more bitter case. Even then you would have the memory of his +love, which I can never have--in true reality, though I have much to +remember, in his dreams of you.” + +Beatrice started a little, and her brow grew dark and angry. + +“Then you have tried to get what was not yours by your bad powers!” she +cried. “And you have made him sleep--and dream--what?” + +“Of you.” + +“And he talked of love?” + +“Of love for you.” + +“To you?” + +“To me.” + +“And dreamed that you were I? That too?” + +“That I was you.” + +“Is there more to tell?” Beatrice asked, growing white. “He kissed you +in that dream of his--do not tell me he did that--no, tell me--tell me +all!” + +“He kissed the thing he saw, believing the lips yours.” + +“More--more--is it not done yet? Can you sting again? What else?” + +“Nothing--save that last night I tried to kill you, body and soul.” + +“And why did you not kill me?” + +“Because you woke. Then the nun saved you. If she had not come, you +would have slept again, and slept for ever. And I would have let his +dreams last, and made it last--for him, I should have been the only +Beatrice.” + +“You have done all this, and you ask me to forgive you?” + +“I ask nothing. If you will not go to him, I will bring him to you--” + +Beatrice turned away and walked across the room. + +“Loved her,” she said aloud, “and talked to her of love, and kissed--” + She stopped suddenly. Then she came back again with swift steps and +grasped Unorna’s arm fiercely. + +“Tell me more still--this dream has lasted long--you are man and wife!” + +“We might have been. He would still have thought me you, for months +and years. He would have had me take from his finger that ring you put +there. I tried--I tell you the whole truth--but I could not. I saw you +there beside me and you held my hand. I broke away and left him.” + +“Left him of your free will?” + +“I could not lie again. It was too much. He would have broken a promise +if I had stayed. I love him--so I left him.” + +“Is all this true?” + +“Every word.” + +“Swear it to me.” + +“How can I? By what shall I swear to you? Heaven itself would laugh at +any oath of mine. With my life I will answer for every word. With my +soul--no--it is not mine to answer with. Will you have my life? My last +breath shall tell you that I tell the truth. The dying do not lie.” + +“You tell me that you love that man. You tell me that you made him think +in dreams that he loved you. You tell me that you might be man and wife. +And you ask me to believe that you turned back from such happiness +as would make an angel sin? If you had done this--but it is not +possible--no woman could! His words in your ear, and yet turn back? His +lips on yours, and leave him? Who could do that?” + +“One who loves him.” + +“What made you do it?” + +“Love.” + +“No--fear--nothing else----” + +“Fear? And what have I to fear? My body is beyond the fear of death, as +my soul is beyond the hope of life. If it were to be done again I should +be weak. I know I should. If you could know half of what the doing cost! +But let that alone. I did it, and he is waiting for you. Will you come?” + +“If I only knew it to be true----” + +“How hard you make it. Yet, it was hard enough.” + +Beatrice touched her arm, more gently than before, and gazed into her +eyes. + +“If I could believe it all I would not make it hard. I would forgive +you--and you would deserve better than that, better than anything that +is mine to give.” + +“I deserve nothing and ask nothing. If you will come, you will see, and, +seeing, you will believe. And if you then forgive--well then, you will +have done far more than I could do.” + +“I would forgive you freely----” + +“Are you afraid to go with me?” + +“No. I am afraid of something worse. You have put something here--a +hope----” + +“A hope? Then you believe. There is no hope without a little belief in +it. Will you come?” + +“To him?” + +“To him.” + +“It can but be untrue,” said Beatrice, still hesitating. “I can but go. +What of him!” she asked suddenly. “If he were living--would you take me +to him? Could you?” + +She turned very pale, and her eyes stared madly at Unorna. + +“If he were dead,” Unorna answered, “I should not be here.” + +Something in her tone and look moved Beatrice’s heart at last. + +“I will go with you,” she said. “And if I find him--and if all is well +with him--then God in Heaven repay you, for you have been braver than +the bravest I ever knew.” + +“Can love save a soul as well as lose it?” Unorna asked. + +Then they went away together. + +They were scarcely out of sight of the convent gate when another +carriage drove up. Almost before it had stopped, the door opened and +Keyork Arabian’s short, heavy form emerged and descended hastily to the +pavement. He rang the bell furiously, and the old portress set the +gate ajar and looked out cautiously, fearing that the noisy peal meant +trouble or disturbance. + +“The lady Beatrice Varanger--I must see her instantly!” cried the little +man in terrible excitement. + +“She is gone out,” the portress replied. + +“Gone out? Where? Alone?” + +“With a lady who was here last night--a lady with unlike eyes--” + +“Where? Where? Where are they gone?” asked Keyork hardly able to find +breath. + +“The lady bade the coachman drive her home--but where she lives--” + +“Home? To Unorna’s home? It is not true! I see it in your eyes. Witch! +Hag! Let me in! Let me in, I say! May vampires get your body and the +Three Black Angels cast lots upon your soul!” + +In the storm of curses that followed, the convent door was violently +shut in his face. Within, the portress stood shaking with fear, crossing +herself again and again, and verily believing that the devil himself had +tried to force an entrance into the sacred place. + +In fearful anger Keyork drew back. He hesitated one moment and then +regained his carriage. + +“To Unorna’s house!” he shouted, as he shut the door with a crash. + +“This is my house, and he is here,” Unorna said, as Beatrice passed +before her, under the deep arch of the entrance. + +Then she lead the way up the broad staircase, and through the small +outer hall to the door of the great conservatory. + +“You will find him there,” she said. “Go on alone.” + +But Beatrice took her hand to draw her in. + +“Must I see it all?” Unorna asked, hopelessly. + +Then from among the plants and trees a great white-robed figure came +out and stood between them. Joining their hands he gently pushed them +forward to the middle of the hall where the Wanderer stood alone. + +“It is done!” Unorna cried, as her heart broke. + +She saw the scene she had acted so short a time before. She heard the +passionate cry, the rain of kisses, the tempest of tears. The expiation +was complete. Not a sight, not a sound was spared her. The strong arms +of the ancient sleeper held her upright on her feet. She could not fall, +she could not close her eyes, she could not stop her ears, no merciful +stupor overcame her. + +“Is it so bitter to do right?” the old man asked, bending low and +speaking softly. + +“It is the bitterness of death,” she said. + +“It is well done,” he answered. + +Then came a noise of hurried steps and a loud, deep voice, calling, +“Unorna! Unorna!” + +Keyork Arabian was there. He glanced at Beatrice and the Wanderer, +locked in each other’s arms, then turned to Unorna and looked into her +face. + +“It has killed her,” he said. “Who did it?” + +His low-spoken words echoed like angry thunder. + +“Give her to me,” he said again. “She is mine--body and soul.” + +But the great strong arms were around her and would not let her go. + +“Save me!” she cried in failing tones. “Save me from him!” + +“You have saved yourself,” said the solemn voice of the old man. + +“Saved?” Keyork laughed. “From me?” He laid his hand upon her arm. Then +his face changed again, and his laughter died dismally away, and he hung +back. + +“Can you forgive her?” asked the other voice. + +The Wanderer stood close to them now, drawing Beatrice to his side. The +question was for them. + +“Can you forgive me?” asked Unorna faintly, turning her eyes towards +them. + +“As we hope to find forgiveness and trust in a life to come,” they +answered. + +There was a low sound in the air, unearthly, muffled, desperate as of +a strong being groaning in awful agony. When they looked, they saw that +Keyork Arabian was gone. + +The dawn of a coming day rose in Unorna’s face as she sank back. + +“It is over,” she sighed, as her eyes closed. + +Her question was answered; her love had saved her. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Witch of Prague, by F. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/3816-0.zip b/3816-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d59db1f --- /dev/null +++ b/3816-0.zip diff --git a/3816-h.zip b/3816-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..477409d --- /dev/null +++ b/3816-h.zip diff --git a/3816-h/3816-h.htm b/3816-h/3816-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ad95fb5 --- /dev/null +++ b/3816-h/3816-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,17439 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Witch of Prague, by F. Marion Crawford + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Witch of Prague, by F. Marion Crawford + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Witch of Prague + +Author: F. Marion Crawford + +Release Date: April 13, 2006 [EBook #3816] +Last Updated: November 3, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WITCH OF PRAGUE *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE WITCH OF PRAGUE + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + A FANTASTIC TALE <br /> <br /> By F. Marion Crawford + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + A great multitude of people filled the church, crowded together in the old + black pews, standing closely thronged in the nave and aisles, pressing + shoulder to shoulder even in the two chapels on the right and left of the + apse, a vast gathering of pale men and women whose eyes were sad and in + whose faces was written the history of their nation. The mighty shafts and + pilasters of the Gothic edifice rose like the stems of giant trees in a + primeval forest from a dusky undergrowth, spreading out and uniting their + stony branches far above in the upper gloom. From the clerestory windows + of the nave an uncertain light descended halfway to the depths and seemed + to float upon the darkness below as oil upon the water of a well. Over the + western entrance the huge fantastic organ bristled with blackened pipes + and dusty gilded ornaments of colossal size, like some enormous kingly + crown long forgotten in the lumber room of the universe, tarnished and + overlaid with the dust of ages. Eastwards, before the rail which separated + the high altar from the people, wax torches, so thick that a man might not + span one of them with both his hands, were set up at irregular intervals, + some taller, some shorter, burning with steady, golden flames, each one + surrounded with heavy funeral wreaths, and each having a tablet below it, + whereon were set forth in the Bohemian idiom, the names, titles, and + qualities of him or her in whose memory it was lighted. Innumerable lamps + and tapers before the side altars and under the strange canopied shrines + at the bases of the pillars, struggled ineffectually with the gloom, + shedding but a few sickly yellow rays upon the pallid faces of the persons + nearest to their light. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the heavy vibration of a single pedal note burst from the organ + upon the breathing silence, long drawn out, rich, voluminous, and + imposing. Presently, upon the massive bass, great chords grew up, + succeeding each other in a simple modulation, rising then with the blare + of trumpets and the simultaneous crash of mixtures, fifteenths and coupled + pedals to a deafening peal, then subsiding quickly again and terminating + in one long sustained common chord. And now, as the celebrant bowed at the + lowest step before the high altar, the voices of the innumerable + congregation joined the harmony of the organ, ringing up to the groined + roof in an ancient Slavonic melody, melancholy and beautiful, and rendered + yet more unlike all other music by the undefinable character of the + Bohemian language, in which tones softer than those of the softest + southern tongue alternate so oddly with rough gutturals and strident + sibilants. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer stood in the midst of the throng, erect, taller than the men + near him, holding his head high, so that a little of the light from the + memorial torches reached his thoughtful, manly face, making the noble and + passionate features to stand out clearly, while losing its power of + illumination in the dark beard and among the shadows of his hair. His was + a face such as Rembrandt would have painted, seen under the light that + Rembrandt loved best; for the expression seemed to overcome the + surrounding gloom by its own luminous quality, while the deep gray eyes + were made almost black by the wide expansion of the pupils; the dusky + brows clearly defined the boundary in the face between passion and + thought, and the pale forehead, by its slight recession into the shade + from its middle prominence, proclaimed the man of heart, the man of faith, + the man of devotion, as well as the intuitive nature of the delicately + sensitive mind and the quick, elastic qualities of the man’s finely + organized, but nervous bodily constitution. The long white fingers of one + hand stirred restlessly, twitching at the fur of his broad lapel which was + turned back across his chest, and from time to time he drew a deep breath + and sighed, not painfully, but wearily and hopelessly, as a man sighs who + knows that his happiness is long past and that his liberation from the + burden of life is yet far off in the future. + </p> + <p> + The celebrant reached the reading of the Gospel and the men and women in + the pews rose to their feet. Still the singing of the long-drawn-out + stanzas of the hymn continued with unflagging devotion, and still the deep + accompaniment of the ancient organ sustained the mighty chorus of voices. + The Gospel over, the people sank into their seats again, not standing, as + is the custom in some countries, until the Creed had been said. Here and + there, indeed, a woman, perhaps a stranger in the country, remained upon + her feet, noticeable among the many figures seated in the pews. The + Wanderer, familiar with many lands and many varying traditions of worship, + unconsciously noted these exceptions, looking with a vague curiosity from + one to the other. Then, all at once, his tall frame shivered from head to + foot, and his fingers convulsively grasped the yielding sable on which + they lay. + </p> + <p> + She was there, the woman he had sought so long, whose face he had not + found in the cities and dwellings of the living, neither her grave in the + silent communities of the dead. There, before the uncouth monument of dark + red marble beneath which Tycho Brahe rests in peace, there she stood; not + as he had seen her last on that day when his senses had left him in the + delirium of his sickness, not in the freshness of her bloom and of her + dark loveliness, but changed as he had dreamed in evil dreams that death + would have power to change her. The warm olive of her cheek was turned to + the hue of wax, the soft shadows beneath her velvet eyes were deepened and + hardened, her expression, once yielding and changing under the breath of + thought and feeling as a field of flowers when the west wind blows, was + now set, as though for ever, in a death-like fixity. The delicate features + were drawn and pinched, the nostrils contracted, the colourless lips + straightened out of the lines of beauty into the mould of a lifeless mask. + It was the face of a dead woman, but it was her face still, and the + Wanderer knew it well; in the kingdom of his soul the whole resistless + commonwealth of the emotions revolted together to dethrone death’s regent—sorrow, + while the thrice-tempered springs of passion, bent but not broken, stirred + suddenly in the palace of his body and shook the strong foundations of his + being. + </p> + <p> + During the seconds that followed, his eyes were riveted upon the beloved + head. Then, as the Creed ended, the vision sank down and was lost to his + sight. She was seated now, and the broad sea of humanity hid her from him, + though he raised himself the full height of his stature in the effort to + distinguish even the least part of her head-dress. To move from his place + was all but impossible, though the fierce longing to be near her bade him + trample even upon the shoulders of the throng to reach her, as men have + done more than once to save themselves from death by fire in crowded + places. Still the singing of the hymn continued, and would continue, as he + knew, until the moment of the Elevation. He strained his hearing to catch + the sounds that came from the quarter where she sat. In a chorus of a + thousand singers he fancied that he could have distinguished the tender, + heart-stirring vibration of her tones. Never woman sang, never could woman + sing again, as she had once sung, though her voice had been as soft as it + had been sweet, and tuned to vibrate in the heart rather than in the ear. + As the strains rose and fell, the Wanderer bowed his head and closed his + eyes, listening, through the maze of sounds, for the silvery ring of her + magic note. Something he heard at last, something that sent a thrill from + his ear to his heart, unless indeed his heart itself were making music for + his ears to hear. The impression reached him fitfully, often interrupted + and lost, but as often renewing itself and reawakening in the listener the + certainty of recognition which he had felt at the sight of the singer’s + face. + </p> + <p> + He who loves with his whole soul has a knowledge and a learning which + surpass the wisdom of those who spend their lives in the study of things + living or long dead, or never animate. They, indeed, can construct the + figure of a flower from the dried web of a single leaf, or by the + examination of a dusty seed, and they can set up the scheme of life of a + shadowy mammoth out of a fragment of its skeleton, or tell the story of + hill and valley from the contemplation of a handful of earth or of a + broken pebble. Often they are right, sometimes they are driven deeper and + deeper into error by the complicated imperfections of their own science. + But he who loves greatly possesses in his intuition the capacities of all + instruments of observation which man has invented and applied to his use. + The lenses of his eyes can magnify the infinitesimal detail to the + dimensions of common things, and bring objects to his vision from + immeasurable distances; the labyrinth of his ear can choose and + distinguish amidst the harmonies and the discords of the world, muffling + in its tortuous passages the reverberation of ordinary sounds while + multiplying a hundredfold the faint tones of the one beloved voice. His + whole body and his whole intelligence form together an instrument of + exquisite sensibility whereby the perceptions of his inmost soul are + hourly tortured, delighted, caught up into ecstasy, torn and crushed by + jealousy and fear, or plunged into the frigid waters of despair. + </p> + <p> + The melancholy hymn resounded through the vast church, but though the + Wanderer stretched the faculty of hearing to the utmost, he could no + longer find the note he sought amongst the vibrations of the dank and + heavy air. Then an irresistible longing came upon him to turn and force + his way through the dense throng of men and women, to reach the aisle and + press past the huge pillar till he could slip between the tombstone of the + astronomer and the row of back wooden seats. Once there, he should see her + face to face. + </p> + <p> + He turned, indeed, as he stood, and he tried to move a few steps. On all + sides curious looks were directed upon him, but no one offered to make + way, and still the monotonous singing continued until he felt himself + deafened, as he faced the great congregation. + </p> + <p> + “I am ill,” he said in a low voice to those nearest to him. “Pray let me + pass!” + </p> + <p> + His face was white, indeed, and those who heard his words believed him. A + mild old man raised his sad blue eyes, gazed at him, and while trying to + draw back, gently shook his head. A pale woman, whose sickly features were + half veiled in the folds of a torn black shawl, moved as far as she could, + shrinking as the very poor and miserable shrink when they are expected to + make way before the rich and the strong. A lad of fifteen stood upon + tiptoe to make himself even slighter than he was and thus to widen the + way, and the Wanderer found himself, after repeated efforts, as much as + two steps distant from his former position. He was still trying to divide + the crowd when the music suddenly ceased, and the tones of the organ died + away far up under the western window. It was the moment of the Elevation, + and the first silvery tinkling of the bell, the people swayed a little, + all those who were able kneeling, and those whose movements were impeded + by the press of worshippers bending towards the altar as a field of grain + before the gale. The Wanderer turned again and bowed himself with the + rest, devoutly and humbly, with half-closed eyes, as he strove to collect + and control his thoughts in the presence of the chief mystery of his + Faith. Three times the tiny bell was rung, a pause followed, and thrice + again the clear jingle of the metal broke the solemn stillness. Then once + more the people stirred, and the soft sound of their simultaneous motion + was like a mighty sigh breathed up from the secret vaults and the deep + foundations of the ancient church; again the pedal note of the organ + boomed through the nave and aisles, and again the thousands of human + voices took up the strain of song. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer glanced about him, measuring the distance he must traverse to + reach the monument of the Danish astronomer and confronting it with the + short time which now remained before the end of the Mass. He saw that in + such a throng he would have no chance of gaining the position he wished to + occupy in less than half an hour, and he had not but a scant ten minutes + at his disposal. He gave up the attempt therefore, determining that when + the celebration should be over he would move forward with the crowd, + trusting to his superior stature and energy to keep him within sight of + the woman he sought, until both he and she could meet, either just within + or just without the narrow entrance of the church. + </p> + <p> + Very soon the moment of action came. The singing died away, the + benediction was given, the second Gospel was read, the priest and the + people repeated the Bohemian prayers, and all was over. The countless + heads began to move onward, the shuffling of innumerable feet sent heavy, + tuneless echoes through vaulted space, broken every moment by the sharp, + painful cough of a suffering child whom no one could see in the multitude, + or by the dull thud of some heavy foot striking against the wooden seats + in the press. The Wanderer moved forward with the rest. Reaching the + entrance of the pew where she had sat he was kept back during a few + seconds by the half dozen men and women who were forcing their way out of + it before him. But at the farthest end, a figure clothed in black was + still kneeling. A moment more and he might enter the pew and be at her + side. One of the other women dropped something before she was out of the + narrow space, and stooped, fumbling and searching in the darkness. At the + minute, the slight, girlish figure rose swiftly and passed like a shadow + before the heavy marble monument. The Wanderer saw that the pew was open + at the other end, and without heeding the woman who stood in his way, he + sprang upon the low seat, passed her, stepped to the floor upon the other + side and was out in the aisle in a moment. Many persons had already left + the church and the space was comparatively free. + </p> + <p> + She was before him, gliding quickly toward the door. Ere he could reach + her, he saw her touch the thick ice which filled the marble basin, cross + herself hurriedly and pass out. But he had seen her face again, and he + knew that he was not mistaken. The thin, waxen features were as those of + the dead, but they were hers, nevertheless. In an instant he could be by + her side. But again his progress was momentarily impeded by a number of + persons who were entering the building hastily to attend the next Mass. + Scarcely ten seconds later he was out in the narrow and dismal passage + which winds between the north side of the Teyn Kirche and the buildings + behind the Kinsky Palace. The vast buttresses and towers cast deep shadows + below them, and the blackened houses opposite absorb what remains of the + uncertain winter’s daylight. To the left of the church a low arch spans + the lane, affording a covered communication between the north aisle and + the sacristy. To the right the open space is somewhat broader, and three + dark archways give access to as many passages, leading in radiating + directions and under the old houses to the streets beyond. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer stood upon the steps, beneath the rich stone carvings which + set forth the Crucifixion over the door of the church, and his quick eyes + scanned everything within sight. To the left, no figure resembling the one + he sought was to be seen, but on the right, he fancied that among a score + of persons now rapidly dispersing he could distinguish just within one of + the archways a moving shadow, black against the blackness. In an instant + he had crossed the way and was hurrying through the gloom. Already far + before him, but visible and, as he believed, unmistakable, the shade was + speeding onward, light as mist, noiseless as thought, but yet clearly to + be seen and followed. He cried aloud, as he ran, + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice! Beatrice!” + </p> + <p> + His strong voice echoed along the dank walls and out into the court + beyond. It was intensely cold, and the still air carried the sound clearly + to the distance. She must have heard him, she must have known his voice, + but as she crossed the open place, and the gray light fell upon her, he + could see that she did not raise her bent head nor slacken her speed. + </p> + <p> + He ran on, sure of overtaking her in the passage she had now entered, for + she seemed to be only walking, while he was pursuing her at a headlong + pace. But in the narrow tunnel, when he reached it, she was not, though at + the farther end he imagined that the fold of a black garment was just + disappearing. He emerged into the street, in which he could now see in + both directions to a distance of fifty yards or more. He was alone. The + rusty iron shutters of the little shops were all barred and fastened, and + every door within the range of his vision was closed. He stood still in + surprise and listened. There was no sound to be heard, not the grating of + a lock, nor the tinkling of a bell, nor the fall of a footstep. + </p> + <p> + He did not pause long, for he made up his mind as to what he should do in + the flash of a moment’s intuition. It was physically impossible that she + should have disappeared into any one of the houses which had their + entrances within the dark tunnel he had just traversed. Apart from the + presumptive impossibility of her being lodged in such a quarter, there was + the self-evident fact that he must have heard the door opened and closed. + Secondly, she could not have turned to the right, for in that direction + the street was straight and without any lateral exit, so that he must have + seen her. Therefore she must have gone to the left, since on that side + there was a narrow alley leading out of the lane, at some distance from + the point where he was now standing—too far, indeed, for her to have + reached it unnoticed, unless, as was possible, he had been greatly + deceived in the distance which had lately separated her from him. + </p> + <p> + Without further hesitation, he turned to the left. He found no one in the + way, for it was not yet noon, and at that hour the people were either at + their prayers or at their Sunday morning’s potations, and the place was as + deserted as a disused cemetery. Still he hastened onward, never pausing + for breath, till he found himself all at once in the great Ring. He knew + the city well, but in his race he had bestowed no attention upon the + familiar windings and turnings, thinking only of overtaking the fleeting + vision, no matter how, no matter where. Now, on a sudden, the great, + irregular square opened before him, flanked on the one side by the + fantastic spires of the Teyn Church, and the blackened front of the huge + Kinsky Palace, on the other by the half-modern Town Hall with its ancient + tower, its beautiful porch, and the graceful oriel which forms the apse of + the chapel in the second story. + </p> + <p> + One of the city watchmen, muffled in his military overcoat, and + conspicuous by the great bunch of dark feathers that drooped from his + black hat, was standing idly at the corner from which the Wanderer + emerged. The latter thought of inquiring whether the man had seen a lady + pass, but the fellow’s vacant stare convinced him that no questioning + would elicit a satisfactory answer. Moreover, as he looked across the + square he caught sight of a retreating figure dressed in black, already at + such a distance as to make positive recognition impossible. In his haste + he found no time to convince himself that no living woman could have thus + outrun him, and he instantly resumed his pursuit, gaining rapidly upon her + he was following. But it is not an easy matter to overtake even a woman, + when she has an advantage of a couple of hundred yards, and when the race + is a short one. He passed the ancient astronomical clock, just as the + little bell was striking the third quarter after eleven, but he did not + raise his head to watch the sad-faced apostles as they presented their + stiff figures in succession at the two square windows. When the blackened + cock under the small Gothic arch above flapped his wooden wings and + uttered his melancholy crow, the Wanderer was already at the corner of the + little Ring, and he could see the object of his pursuit disappearing + before him into the Karlsgasse. He noticed uneasily that the resemblance + between the woman he was following and the object of his loving search + seemed now to diminish, as in a bad dream, as the distance between himself + and her decreased. But he held resolutely on, nearing her at every step, + round a sharp corner to the right, then to the left, to the right again, + and once more in the opposite direction, always, as he knew, approaching + the old stone bridge. He was not a dozen paces behind her as she turned + quickly a third time to the right, round the wall of the ancient house + which faces the little square over against the enormous buildings + comprising the Clementine Jesuit monastery and the astronomical + observatory. As he sprang past the corner he saw the heavy door just + closing and heard the sharp resounding clang of its iron fastening. The + lady had disappeared, and he felt sure that she had gone through that + entrance. + </p> + <p> + He knew the house well, for it is distinguished from all others in Prague, + both by its shape and its oddly ornamented, unnaturally narrow front. It + is built in the figure of an irregular triangle, the blunt apex of one + angle facing the little square, the sides being erected on the one hand + along the Karlsgasse and on the other upon a narrow alley which leads away + towards the Jews’ quarter. Overhanging passages are built out over this + dim lane, as though to facilitate the interior communications of the + dwelling, and in the shadow beneath them there is a small door studded + with iron nails which is invariably shut. The main entrance takes in all + the scant breadth of the truncated angle which looks towards the + monastery. Immediately over it is a great window, above that another, and, + highest of all, under the pointed gable, a round and unglazed aperture, + within which there is inky darkness. The windows of the first and second + stories are flanked by huge figures of saints, standing forth in strangely + contorted attitudes, black with the dust of ages, black as all old Prague + is black, with the smoke of the brown Bohemian coal, with the dark and + unctuous mists of many autumns, with the cruel, petrifying frosts of ten + score winters. + </p> + <p> + He who knew the cities of men as few have known them, knew also this + house. Many a time had he paused before it by day and by night, wondering + who lived within its massive, irregular walls, behind those uncouth, + barbarously sculptured saints who kept their interminable watch high up by + the lozenged windows. He would know now. Since she whom he sought had + entered, he would enter too; and in some corner of that dwelling which had + long possessed a mysterious attraction for his eyes, he would find at last + that being who held power over his heart, that Beatrice whom he had + learned to think of as dead, while still believing that somewhere she must + be yet alive, that dear lady whom, dead or living, he loved beyond all + others, with a great love, passing words. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + The Wanderer stood still before the door. In the freezing air, his + quick-drawn breath made fantastic wreaths of mist, white and full of odd + shapes as he watched the tiny clouds curling quickly into each other + before the blackened oak. Then he laid his hand boldly upon the chain of + the bell. He expected to hear the harsh jingling of cracked metal, but he + was surprised by the silvery clearness and musical quality of the ringing + tones which reached his ear. He was pleased, and unconsciously took the + pleasant infusion for a favourable omen. The heavy door swung back almost + immediately, and he was confronted by a tall porter in dark green cloth + and gold lacings, whose imposing appearance was made still more striking + by the magnificent fair beard which flowed down almost to his waist. The + man lifted his heavy cocked hat and held it low at his side as he drew + back to let the visitor enter. The latter had not expected to be admitted + thus without question, and paused under the bright light which illuminated + the arched entrance, intending to make some inquiry of the porter. But the + latter seemed to expect nothing of the sort. He carefully closed the door, + and then, bearing his hat in one hand and his gold-headed staff in the + other, he proceeded gravely to the other end of the vaulted porch, opened + a great glazed door and held it back for the visitor to pass. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer recognized that the farther he was allowed to penetrate + unhindered into the interior of the house, the nearer he should be to the + object of his search. He did not know where he was, nor what he might + find. For all that he knew, he might be in a club, in a great + banking-house, or in some semi-public institution of the nature of a + library, an academy or a conservatory of music. There are many such + establishments in Prague, though he was not acquainted with any in which + the internal arrangements so closely resembled those of a luxurious + private residence. But there was no time for hesitation, and he ascended + the broad staircase with a firm step, glancing at the rich tapestries + which covered the walls, at the polished surface of the marble steps on + either side of the heavy carpet, and at the elaborate and beautiful + iron-work of the hand-rail. As he mounted higher, he heard the quick + rapping of an electric signal above him, and he understood that the porter + had announced his coming. Reaching the landing, he was met by a servant in + black, as correct at all points as the porter himself, and who bowed low + as he held back the thick curtain which hung before the entrance. Without + a word the man followed the visitor into a high room of irregular shape, + which served as a vestibule, and stood waiting to receive the guest’s + furs, should it please him to lay them aside. To pause now, and to enter + into an explanation with a servant, would have been to reject an + opportunity which might never return. In such an establishment, he was + sure of finding himself before long in the presence of some more or less + intelligent person of his own class, of whom he could make such inquiries + as might enlighten him, and to whom he could present such excuses for his + intrusion as might seem most fitting in so difficult a case. He let his + sables fall into the hands of the servant and followed the latter along a + short passage. + </p> + <p> + The man introduced him into a spacious hall and closed the door, leaving + him to his own reflections. The place was very wide and high and without + windows, but the broad daylight descended abundantly from above through + the glazed roof and illuminated every corner. He would have taken the room + for a conservatory, for it contained a forest of tropical trees and + plants, and whole gardens of rare southern flowers. Tall letonias, date + palms, mimosas and rubber trees of many varieties stretched their + fantastic spikes and heavy leaves half-way up to the crystal ceiling; + giant ferns swept the polished marble floor with their soft embroideries + and dark green laces; Indian creepers, full of bright blossoms, made + screens and curtains of their intertwining foliage; orchids of every hue + and of every exotic species bloomed in thick banks along the walls. + Flowers less rare, violets and lilies of the valley, closely set and + luxuriant, grew in beds edged with moss around the roots of the larger + plants and in many open spaces. The air was very soft and warm, moist and + full of heavy odours as the still atmosphere of an island in southern + seas, and the silence was broken only by the light plash of softly-falling + water. + </p> + <p> + Having advanced a few steps from the door, the Wanderer stood still and + waited, supposing that the owner of the dwelling would be made aware of a + visitor’s presence and would soon appear. But no one came. Then a gentle + voice spoke from amidst the verdure, apparently from no great distance. + </p> + <p> + “I am here,” it said. + </p> + <p> + He moved forward amidst the ferns and the tall plants, until he found + himself on the farther side of a thick network of creepers. Then he + paused, for he was in the presence of a woman, of her who dwelt among the + flowers. She was sitting before him, motionless and upright in a high, + carved chair, and so placed that the pointed leaves of the palm which rose + above her cast sharp, star-shaped shadows over the broad folds of her + white dress. One hand, as white, as cold, as heavily perfect as the + sculpture of a Praxiteles or a Phidias, rested with drooping fingers on + the arm of the chair. The other pressed the pages of a great book which + lay open on the lady’s knee. Her face was turned toward the visitor, and + her eyes examined his face; calmly and with no surprise in them, but not + without a look of interest. Their expression was at once so unusual, so + disquieting, and yet so inexplicably attractive as to fascinate the + Wanderer’s gaze. He did not remember that he had ever seen a pair of eyes + of distinctly different colours, the one of a clear, cold gray, the other + of a deep, warm brown, so dark as to seem almost black, and he would not + have believed that nature could so far transgress the canons of her own + art and yet preserve the appearance of beauty. For the lady was beautiful, + from the diadem of her red gold hair to the proud curve of her fresh young + lips; from her broad, pale forehead, prominent and boldly modelled at the + angles of the brows, to the strong mouldings of the well-balanced chin, + which gave evidence of strength and resolution wherewith to carry out the + promise of the high aquiline features and of the wide and sensitive + nostrils. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” said the Wanderer, bending his head courteously and advancing + another step, “I can neither frame excuses for having entered your house + unbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence for my intrusion, unless you are + willing in the first place to hear my short story. May I expect so much + kindness?” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and the lady looked at him fixedly and curiously. Without + taking her eyes from his face, and without speaking, she closed the book + she had held on her knee, and laid it beside her upon a low table. The + Wanderer did not avoid her gaze, for he had nothing to conceal, nor any + sense of timidity. He was an intruder upon the privacy of one whom he did + not know, but he was ready to explain his presence and to make such amends + as courtesy required, if he had given offence. + </p> + <p> + The heavy odours of the flowers filled his nostrils with an unknown, + luxurious delight, as he stood there, gazing into the lady’s eyes; he + fancied that a gentle breath of perfumed air was blowing softly over his + hair and face out of the motionless palms, and the faint plashing of the + hidden fountain was like an exquisite melody in his ears. It was good to + be in such a place, to look on such a woman, to breathe such odours, and + to hear such tuneful music. A dreamlike, half-mysterious satisfaction of + the senses dulled the keen self-knowledge of body and soul for one short + moment. In the stormy play of his troubled life there was a brief + interlude of peace. He tasted the fruit of the lotus, his lips were + moistened in the sweet waters of forgetfulness. + </p> + <p> + The lady spoke at last, and the spell left him, not broken, as by a sudden + shock, but losing its strong power by quick degrees until it was wholly + gone. + </p> + <p> + “I will answer your question by another,” said the lady. “Let your reply + be the plain truth. It will be better so.” + </p> + <p> + “Ask what you will. I have nothing to conceal.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know who and what I am? Do you come here out of curiosity, in the + vain hope of knowing me, having heard of me from others?” + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly not.” A faint flush rose in the man’s pale and noble face. “You + have my word,” he said, in the tone of one who is sure of being believed, + “that I have never, to my knowledge, heard of your existence, that I am + ignorant even of your name—forgive my ignorance—and that I + entered this house, not knowing whose it might be, seeking and following + after one for whom I have searched the world, one dearly loved, long lost, + long sought.” + </p> + <p> + “It is enough. Be seated. I am Unorna.” + </p> + <p> + “Unorna?” repeated the Wanderer, with an unconscious question in his + voice, as though the name recalled some half-forgotten association. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna—yes. I have another name,” she added, with a shade of + bitterness, “but it is hardly mine. Tell me your story. You loved—you + lost—you seek—so much I know. What else?” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer sighed. + </p> + <p> + “You have told in those few words the story of my life—the + unfinished story. A wanderer I was born, a wanderer I am, a wanderer I + must ever be, until at last I find her whom I seek. I knew her in a + strange land, far from my birthplace, in a city where I was known but to a + few, and I loved her. She loved me, too, and that against her father’s + will. He would not have his daughter wed with one not of her race; for he + himself had taken a wife among strangers, and while she was yet alive he + had repented of what he had done. But I would have overcome his reasons + and his arguments—she and I could have overcome them together, for + he did not hate me, he bore me no ill-will. We were almost friends when I + last took his hand. Then the hour of destiny came upon me. The air of that + city was treacherous and deadly. I had left her with her father, and my + heart was full of many things, and of words both spoken and unuttered. I + lingered upon an ancient bridge that spanned the river, and the sun went + down. Then the evil fever of the south laid hold upon me and poisoned the + blood in my veins, and stole the consciousness from my understanding. + Weeks passed away, and memory returned, with the strength to speak. I + learned that she I loved and her father were gone, and none knew whither. + I rose and left the accursed city, being at that time scarce able to stand + upright upon my feet. Finding no trace of those I sought, I journeyed to + their own country, for I knew where her father held his lands. I had been + ill many weeks and much time had passed, from the day on which I had left + her, until I was able to move from my bed. When I reached the gates of her + home, I was told that all had been lately sold, and that others now dwelt + within the walls. I inquired of those new owners of the land, but neither + they or any of all those whom I questioned could tell me whither I should + direct my search. The father was a strange man, loving travel and change + and movement, restless and unsatisfied with the world, rich and free to + make his own caprice his guide through life; reticent he was, moreover, + and thoughtful, not given to speaking out his intentions. Those who + administered his affairs in his absence were honourable men, bound by his + especial injunction not to reveal his ever-varying plans. Many times, in + my ceaseless search, I met persons who had lately seen him and his + daughter and spoken with them. I was ever on their track, from hemisphere + to hemisphere, from continent to continent, from country to country, from + city to city, often believing myself close upon them, often learning + suddenly that an ocean lay between them and me. Was he eluding me, + purposely, resolutely, or was he unconscious of my desperate pursuit, + being served by chance alone and by his own restless temper? I do not + know. At last, some one told me that she was dead, speaking thoughtlessly, + not knowing that I loved her. He who told me had heard the news from + another, who had received it on hearsay from a third. None knew in what + place her spirit had parted; none knew by what manner of sickness she had + died. Since then, I have heard others say that she is not dead, that they + have heard in their turn from others that she yet lives. An hour ago, I + knew not what to think. To-day, I saw her in a crowded church. I heard her + voice, though I could not reach her in the throng, struggle how I would. I + followed her in haste, I lost her at one turning, I saw her before me at + the next. At last a figure, clothed as she had been clothed, entered your + house. Whether it was she I know not certainly, but I do know that in the + church I saw her. She cannot be within your dwelling without your + knowledge; if she be here—then I have found her, my journey is + ended, my wanderings have led me home at last. If she be not here, if I + have been mistaken, I entreat you to let me set eyes on that other whom I + mistook for her, to forgive then my mannerless intrusion and to let me + go.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna had listened with half-closed eyes, but with unfaltering attention, + watching the speaker’s face from beneath her drooping lids, making no + effort to read his thoughts, but weighing his words and impressing every + detail of his story upon her mind. When he had done there was silence for + a time, broken only by the plash and ripple of the falling water. + </p> + <p> + “She is not here,” said Unorna at last. “You shall see for yourself. There + is indeed in this house a young girl to whom I am deeply attached, who has + grown up at my side and has always lived under my roof. She is very pale + and dark, and is dressed always in black.” + </p> + <p> + “Like her I saw.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall see her again. I will send for her.” Unorna pressed an ivory + key in the silver ball which lay beside her, attached to a thick cord of + white silk. “Ask Sletchna Axenia to come to me,” she said to the servant + who opened the door in the distance, out of sight behind the forest of + plants. + </p> + <p> + Amid less unusual surroundings the Wanderer would have rejected with + contempt the last remnants of his belief in the identity of Unorna’s + companion, with Beatrice. But, being where he was, he felt unable to + decide between the possible and the impossible, between what he might + reasonably expect and what lay beyond the bounds of reason itself. The air + he breathed was so loaded with rich exotic perfumes, the woman before him + was so little like other women, her strangely mismatched eyes had for his + own such a disquieting attraction, all that he saw and felt and heard was + so far removed from the commonplaces of daily life as to make him feel + that he himself was becoming a part of some other person’s existence, that + he was being gradually drawn away from his identity, and was losing the + power of thinking his own thoughts. He reasoned as the shadows reason in + dreamland, the boundaries of common probability receded to an immeasurable + distance, and he almost ceased to know where reality ended and where + imagination took up the sequence of events. + </p> + <p> + Who was this woman, who called herself Unorna? He tried to consider the + question, and to bring his intelligence to bear upon it. Was she a great + lady of Prague, rich, capricious, creating a mysterious existence for + herself, merely for her own good pleasure? Her language, her voice, her + evident refinement gave colour to the idea, which was in itself attractive + to a man who had long ceased to expect novelty in this working-day world. + He glanced at her face, musing and wondering, inhaling the sweet, + intoxicating odours of the flowers and listening to the tinkling of the + hidden fountain. Her eyes were gazing into his, and again, as if by magic, + the curtain of life’s stage was drawn together in misty folds, shutting + out the past, the present, and the future, the fact, the doubt, and the + hope, in an interval of perfect peace. + </p> + <p> + He was roused by the sound of a light footfall upon the marble pavement. + Unorna’s eyes were turned from his, and with something like a movement of + surprise he himself looked towards the new comer. A young girl was + standing under the shadow of a great letonia at a short distance from him. + She was very pale indeed, but not with that death-like, waxen pallor which + had chilled him when he had looked upon that other face. There was a faint + resemblance in the small, aquiline features, the dress was black, and the + figure of the girl before him was assuredly neither much taller nor much + shorter than that of the woman he loved and sought. But the likeness went + no further, and he knew that he had been utterly mistaken. + </p> + <p> + Unorna exchanged a few indifferent words with Axenia and dismissed her. + </p> + <p> + “You have seen,” she said, when the young girl was gone. “Was it she who + entered the house just now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I was misled by a mere resemblance. Forgive me for my importunity—let + me thank you most sincerely for your great kindness.” He rose as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Do not go,” said Unorna, looking at him earnestly. + </p> + <p> + He stood still, silent, as though his attitude should explain itself, and + yet expecting that she would say something further. He felt that her eyes + were upon him, and he raised his own to meet the look frankly, as was his + wont. For the first time since he had entered her presence he felt that + there was more than a mere disquieting attraction in her steady gaze; + there was a strong, resistless fascination, from which he had no power to + withdraw himself. Almost unconsciously he resumed his seat, still looking + at her, while telling himself with a severe effort that he would look but + one instant longer and then turn away. Ten seconds passed, twenty, half a + minute, in total silence. He was confused, disturbed, and yet wholly + unable to shut out her penetrating glance. His fast ebbing consciousness + barely allowed him to wonder whether he was weakened by the strong + emotions he had felt in the church, or by the first beginning of some + unknown and unexpected malady. He was utterly weak and unstrung. He could + neither rise from his seat, nor lift his hand, nor close the lids of his + eyes. It was as though an irresistible force were drawing him into the + depths of a fathomless whirlpool, down, down, by its endless giddy + spirals, robbing him of a portion of his consciousness at every gyration, + so that he left behind him at every instant something of his + individuality, something of the central faculty of self-recognition. He + felt no pain, but he did not feel that inexpressible delight of peace + which already twice had descended upon him. He experienced a rapid + diminution of all perception, of all feeling, of all intelligence. + Thought, and the memory of thought, ebbed from his brain and left it + vacant, as the waters of a lock subside when the gates are opened, leaving + emptiness in their place. + </p> + <p> + Unorna’s eyes turned from him, and she raised her hand a moment, letting + it fall again upon her knee. Instantly the strong man was restored to + himself; his weakness vanished, his sight was clear, his intelligence was + awake. Instantly the certainty flashed upon him that Unorna possessed the + power of imposing the hypnotic sleep and had exercised that gift upon him, + unexpectedly and against his will. He would have more willingly supposed + that he had been the victim of a momentary physical faintness, for the + idea of having been thus subjected to the influence of a woman, and of a + woman whom he hardly knew, was repugnant to him, and had in it something + humiliating to his pride, or at least to his vanity. But he could not + escape the conviction forced upon him by the circumstances. + </p> + <p> + “Do not go far, for I may yet help you,” said Unorna, quietly. “Let us + talk of this matter and consult what is best to be done. Will you accept a + woman’s help?” + </p> + <p> + “Readily. But I cannot accept her will as mine, nor resign my + consciousness into her keeping.” + </p> + <p> + “Not for the sake of seeing her whom you say you love?” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer was silent, being yet undetermined how to act, and still + unsteadied by what he had experienced. But he was able to reason, and he + asked of his judgment what he should do, wondering what manner of woman + Unorna might prove to be, and whether she was anything more than one of + those who live and even enrich themselves by the exercise of the unusual + faculties of powers nature has given them. He had seen many of that class, + and he considered most of them to be but half fanatics, half charlatans, + worshipping in themselves as something almost divine that which was but a + physical power, or weakness, beyond their own limited comprehension. + Though a whole school of wise and thoughtful men had already produced + remarkable results and elicited astounding facts by sifting the truth + through a fine web of closely logical experiment, it did not follow that + either Unorna, or any other self-convinced, self-taught operator could do + more than grope blindly towards the light, guided by intuition alone + amongst the varied and misleading phenomena of hypnotism. The thought of + accepting the help of one who was probably, like most of her kind, a + deceiver of herself and therefore, and thereby, of others, was an affront + to the dignity of his distress, a desecration of his love’s sanctity, a + frivolous invasion of love’s holiest ground. But, on the other hand, he + was stimulated to catch at the veriest shadows of possibility by the + certainty that he was at last within the same city with her he loved, and + he knew that hypnotic subjects are sometimes able to determine the abode + of persons whom no one else can find. To-morrow it might be too late. Even + before to-day’s sun had set Beatrice might be once more taken from him, + snatched away to the ends of the earth by her father’s ever-changing + caprice. To lose a moment now might be to lose all. + </p> + <p> + He was tempted to yield, to resign his will into Unorna’s hands, and his + sight to her leading, to let her bid him sleep and see the truth. But + then, with a sudden reaction of his individuality, he realized that he had + another course, surer, simpler, more dignified. Beatrice was in Prague. It + was little probable that she was permanently established in the city, and + in all likelihood she and her father were lodged in one of the two or + three great hotels. To be driven from the one to the other of these would + be but an affair of minutes. Failing information from this source, there + remained the registers of the Austrian police, whose vigilance takes note + of every stranger’s name and dwelling-place. + </p> + <p> + “I thank you,” he said. “If all my inquiries fail, and if you will let me + visit you once more to-day, I will then ask your help.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right,” Unorna answered. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + He had been deceived in supposing that he must inevitably find the names + of those he sought upon the ordinary registers which chronicle the arrival + and departure of travellers. He lost no time, he spared no effort, driving + from place to place as fast as two sturdy Hungarian horses could take him, + hurrying from one office to another, and again and again searching endless + pages and columns which seemed full of all the names of earth, but in + which he never found the one of all others which he longed to read. The + gloom in the narrow streets was already deepening, though it was scarcely + two hours after mid-day, and the heavy air had begun to thicken with a + cold gray haze, even in the broad, straight Przikopy, the wide + thoroughfare which has taken the place and name of the moat before the + ancient fortifications, so that distant objects and figures lost the + distinctness of their outlines. Winter in Prague is but one long, + melancholy dream, broken sometimes at noon by an hour of sunshine, by an + intermittent visitation of reality, by the shock and glare of a little + broad daylight. The morning is not morning, the evening is not evening; as + in the land of the Lotus, it is ever afternoon, gray, soft, misty, sad, + save when the sun, being at his meridian height, pierces the dim streets + and sweeps the open places with low, slanting waves of pale brightness. + And yet these same dusky streets are thronged with a moving multitude, are + traversed ever by ceaseless streams of men and women, flowing onward, + silently, swiftly, eagerly. The very beggars do not speak above a whisper, + the very dogs are dumb. The stillness of all voices leaves nothing for the + perception of the hearing save the dull thread of many thousand feet and + the rough rattle of an occasional carriage. Rarely, the harsh tones of a + peasant, or the clear voices of a knot of strangers, unused to such + oppressive silence, startle the ear, causing hundreds of eager, + half-suspicious, half-wondering eyes to turn in the direction of the + sound. + </p> + <p> + And yet Prague is a great city, the capital of the Bohemian Crownland, the + centre of a not unimportant nation, the focus in which are concentrated + the hottest, if not the brightest, rays from the fire of regeneration + kindled within the last half century by the Slavonic race. There is an + ardent furnace of life hidden beneath the crust of ashes: there is a + wonderful language behind that national silence. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer stood in deep thought under the shadow of the ancient Powder + Tower. Haste had no further object now, since he had made every inquiry + within his power, and it was a relief to feel the pavement beneath his + feet and to breathe the misty frozen air after having been so long in the + closeness of his carriage. He hesitated as to what he should do, unwilling + to return to Unorna and acknowledge himself vanquished, yet finding it + hard to resist his desire to try every means, no matter how little + reasonable, how evidently useless, how puerile and revolting to his + sounder sense. The street behind him led directly towards Unorna’s house. + Had he found himself in a more remote quarter, he might have come to + another and a wiser conclusion. Being so near to the house of which he was + thinking, he yielded to the temptation. Having reached this stage of + resolution, his mind began to recapitulate the events of the day, and he + suddenly felt a strong wish to revisit the church, to stand in the place + where Beatrice had stood, to touch in the marble basin beside the door the + thick ice which her fingers had touched so lately, to traverse again the + dark passages through which he had pursued her. To accomplish his purpose + he need only turn aside a few steps from the path he was now following. He + left the street almost immediately, passing under a low arched way that + opened on the right-hand side, and a moment later he was within the walls + of the Teyn Kirche. + </p> + <p> + The vast building was less gloomy than it had been in the morning. It was + not yet the hour of vespers, the funeral torches had been extinguished, as + well as most of the lights upon the high altar, there were not a dozen + persons in the church, and high up beneath the roof broad shafts of + softened sunshine, floating above the mists of the city without, streamed + through the narrow lancet windows and were diffused in the great gloom + below. The Wanderer went to the monument of Brahe and sat down in the + corner of the blackened pew. His hands trembled a little as he clasped + them upon his knee, and his head sank slowly towards his breast. + </p> + <p> + He thought of all that might have been if he had risked everything that + morning. He could have used his strength to force a way for himself + through the press, he could have thrust the multitude to the right and + left, and he could have reached her side. Perhaps he had been weak, + indolent, timid, and he accused himself of his own failure. But then, + again, he seemed to see about him the closely packed crowd, the sea of + faces, the thick, black mass of humanity, and he knew the tremendous power + that lay in the inert, passive resistance of a vast gathering such as had + been present. Had it been anywhere else, in a street, in a theatre, + anywhere except in a church, all would have been well. It had not been his + fault, for he knew, when he thought of it calmly, that the strength of his + body would have been but as a breath of air against the silent, + motionless, and immovable barrier presented by a thousand men, standing + shoulder to shoulder against him. He could have done nothing. Once again + his fate had defeated him at the moment of success. + </p> + <p> + He was aware that some one was standing very near to him. He looked up and + saw a very short, gray-bearded man engaged in a minute examination of the + dark red marble face on the astronomer’s tomb. The man’s head, covered + with closely-cropped gray hair, was half buried between his high, broad + shoulders, in an immense collar of fur, but the shape of the skull was so + singular as to distinguish its possessor, when hatless, from all other + men. The cranium was abnormally shaped, reaching a great elevation at the + summit, then sinking suddenly, then spreading forward to an enormous + development at the temple just visible as he was then standing, and at the + same time forming unusual protuberances behind the large and pointed ears. + No one who knew the man could mistake his head, when even the least + portion of it could be seen. The Wanderer recognised him at once. + </p> + <p> + As though he were conscious of being watched, the little man turned + sharply, exhibiting his wrinkled forehead, broad at the brows, narrow and + high in the middle, showing, too, a Socratic nose half buried in the midst + of the gray hair which grew as high as the prominent cheek bones, and + suggesting the idea of a polished ivory ball lying in a nest of grayish + wool. Indeed all that was visible of the face above the beard might have + been carved out of old ivory, so far as the hue and quality of the surface + were concerned; and if it had been necessary to sculpture a portrait of + the man, no material could have been chosen more fitted to reproduce + faithfully the deep cutting of the features, to render the close network + of the wrinkles which covered them like the shadings of a line engraving, + and at the same time to give the whole that appearance of hardness and + smoothness which was peculiar to the clear, tough skin. The only positive + colour which relieved the half tints of the face lay in the sharp bright + eyes which gleamed beneath the busy eyebrows like tiny patches of vivid + blue sky seen through little rifts in a curtain of cloud. All expression, + all mobility, all life were concentrated in those two points. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer rose to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Keyork Arabian!” he exclaimed, extending his hand. The little man + immediately gripped it in his small fingers, which, soft and delicately + made as they were, possessed a strength hardly to have been expected + either from their shape, or from the small proportions of him to whom they + belonged. + </p> + <p> + “Still wandering?” asked the little man, with a slightly sarcastic + intonation. He spoke in a deep, caressing bass, not loud, but rich in + quality and free from that jarring harshness which often belongs to very + manly voices. A musician would have discovered that the pitch was that of + those Russian choristers whose deep throats yield organ tones, a full + octave below the compass of ordinary singers in other lands. + </p> + <p> + “You must have wandered, too, since we last met,” replied the taller man. + </p> + <p> + “I never wander,” said Keyork. “When a man knows what he wants, knows + where it is to be found, and goes thither to take it, he is not wandering. + Moreover, I have no thought of removing myself or my goods from Prague. I + live here. It is a city for old men. It is saturnine. The foundations of + its houses rest on the silurian formation, which is more than can be said + for any other capital, as far as I know.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that an advantage?” inquired the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + “To my mind. I would say to my son, if I had one—my thanks to a + blind but intelligent destiny for preserving me from such a calamity!—I + would say to him, ‘Spend thy youth among flowers in the land where they + are brightest and sweetest; pass thy manhood in all lands where man + strives with man, thought for thought, blow for blow; choose for thine old + age that spot in which, all things being old, thou mayest for the longest + time consider thyself young in comparison with thy surroundings.’ A man + can never feel old if he contemplates and meditates upon those things only + which are immeasurably older than himself. Moreover the imperishable can + preserve the perishable.” + </p> + <p> + “It was not your habit to talk of death when we were together.” + </p> + <p> + “I have found it interesting of late years. The subject is connected with + one of my inventions. Did you ever embalm a body? No? I could tell you + something singular about the newest process.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the connection?” + </p> + <p> + “I am embalming myself, body and mind. It is but an experiment, and unless + it succeeds it must be the last. Embalming, as it is now understood, means + substituting one thing for another. Very good. I am trying to purge from + my mind its old circulating medium; the new thoughts must all be selected + from a class which admits of no decay. Nothing could be simpler.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me that nothing could be more vague.” + </p> + <p> + “You were not formerly so slow to understand me,” said the strange little + man with some impatience. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know a lady of Prague who calls herself Unorna?” the Wanderer + asked, paying no attention to his friend’s last remark. + </p> + <p> + “I do. What of her?” Keyork Arabian glanced keenly at his companion. + </p> + <p> + “What is she? She has an odd name.” + </p> + <p> + “As for her name, it is easily accounted for. She was born on the + twenty-ninth day of February, the year of her birth being bisextile. Unor + means February, Unorna, derivative adjective, ‘belonging to February.’ + Some one gave her the name to commemorate the circumstance.” + </p> + <p> + “Her parents, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Most probably—whoever they may have been.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is she?” the Wanderer asked. + </p> + <p> + “She calls herself a witch,” answered Keyork with considerable scorn. “I + do not know what she is, or what to call her—a sensitive, an + hysterical subject, a medium, a witch—a fool, if you like, or a + charlatan if you prefer the term. Beautiful she is, at least, whatever + else she may not be.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she is beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “So you have seen her, have you?” The little man again looked sharply up + at his tall companion. “You have had a consultation——” + </p> + <p> + “Does she give consultations? Is she a professional seer?” The Wanderer + asked the question in a tone of surprise. “Do you mean that she maintains + an establishment upon such a scale out of the proceeds of + fortune-telling?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not mean anything of the sort. Fortune-telling is excellent! Very + good!” Keyork’s bright eyes flashed with amusement. “What are you doing + here—I mean in this church?” He put the question suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Pursuing—an idea, if you please to call it so.” + </p> + <p> + “Not knowing what you mean I must please to call your meaning by your own + name for it. It is your nature to be enigmatic. Shall we go out? If I stay + here much longer I shall be petrified instead of embalmed. I shall turn + into dirty old red marble like Tycho’s effigy there, an awful warning to + future philosophers, and an example for the edification of the faithful + who worship here.” + </p> + <p> + They walked towards the door, and the contrast between the appearance of + the two brought the ghost of a smile to the thin lips of the pale + sacristan, who was occupied in renewing the tapers upon one of the side + altars. Keyork Arabian might have stood for the portrait of the + gnome-king. His high and pointed head, his immense beard, his stunted but + powerful and thickset limbs, his short, sturdy strides, the fiery, + half-humorous, half-threatening twinkle of his bright eyes gave him all + the appearance of a fantastic figure from a fairy tale, and the diminutive + height of his compact frame set off the noble stature and graceful motion + of his companion. + </p> + <p> + “So you were pursuing an idea,” said the little man as they emerged into + the narrow street. “Now ideas may be divided variously into classes, as, + for instance, ideas which are good, bad, or indifferent. Or you may + contrast the idea of Plato with ideas anything but platonic—take it + as you please. Then there is my idea, which is in itself, good, + interesting, and worthy of the embalming process; and there is your idea, + which I am human enough to consider altogether bad, worthless, and + frivolous, for the plain and substantial reason that it is not mine. + Perhaps that is the best division of all. Thine eye is necessarily, + fatally, irrevocably evil, because mine is essentially, predestinately, + and unchangeably good. If I secretly adopt your idea, I openly assert that + it was never yours at all, but mine from the beginning, by the + prerogatives of greater age, wider experience, and immeasurably superior + wisdom. If you have an idea upon any subject, I will utterly annihilate it + to my own most profound satisfaction; if you have none concerning any + special point, I will force you to accept mine, as mine, or to die the + intellectual death. That is the general theory of the idea.” + </p> + <p> + “And what does it prove?” inquired the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + “If you knew anything,” answered Keyork, with twinkling eyes, “you would + know that a theory is not a demonstration, but an explanation. But, by the + hypothesis, since you are not I, you can know nothing certainly. Now my + theory explains many things, and, among others, the adamantine, + imperishable, impenetrable nature of the substance vanity upon which the + showman, Nature, projects in fast fading colours the unsubstantial images + of men. Why do you drag me through this dismal passage?” + </p> + <p> + “I passed through it this morning and missed my way.” + </p> + <p> + “In pursuit of the idea, of course. That was to be expected. Prague is + constructed on the same principle as the human brain, full of winding + ways, dark lanes, and gloomy arches, all of which may lead somewhere, or + may not. Its topography continually misleads its inhabitants as the + convolutions of the brain mislead the thoughts that dwell there, sometimes + bringing them out at last, after a patient search for daylight, upon a + fine broad street where the newest fashions in thought are exposed for + sale in brightly illuminated shop windows and showcases; conducting them + sometimes to the dark, unsavoury court where the miserable self drags out + its unhealthy existence in the single room of its hired earthly lodging.” + </p> + <p> + “The self which you propose to preserve from corruption,” observed the + tall man, who was carefully examining every foot of the walls between + which he was passing with his companion, “since you think so poorly of the + lodger and the lodging, I wonder that you should be anxious to prolong the + sufferings of the one and his lease of the other.” + </p> + <p> + “It is all I have,” answered Keyork Arabian. “Did you think of that?” + </p> + <p> + “That circumstance may serve as an excuse, but it does not constitute a + reason.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a reason! Is the most abject poverty a reason for throwing away the + daily crust? My self is all I have. Shall I let it perish when an effort + may preserve it from destruction? On the one side of the line stands + Keyork Arabian, on the other floats the shadow of an annihilation, which + threatens to swallow up Keyork’s self, while leaving all that he has + borrowed of life to be enjoyed, or wasted by others. Could Keyork be + expected to hesitate, so long as he may hope to remain in possession of + that inestimable treasure, his own individuality, which is his only means + for enjoying all that is not his, but borrowed?” + </p> + <p> + “So soon as you speak of enjoyment, argument ceases,” answered the + Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + “You are wrong, as usual,” returned the other. “It is the other way. + Enjoyment is the universal solvent of all arguments. No reason can resist + its mordant action. It will dissolve any philosophy not founded upon it + and modelled out of its substance, as Aqua Regia will dissolve all metals, + even to gold itself. Enjoyment? Enjoyment is the protest of reality + against the tyranny of fiction.” + </p> + <p> + The little man stopped short in his walk, striking his heavy stick sharply + upon the pavement and looking up at his companion, very much as a man of + ordinary size looks up at the face of a colossal statue. + </p> + <p> + “Have wisdom and study led you no farther than that conclusion?” + </p> + <p> + Keyork’s eyes brightened suddenly, and a peal of laughter, deep and rich, + broke from his sturdy breast and rolled long echoes through the dismal + lane, musical as a hunting-song heard among great trees in winter. But his + ivory features were not discomposed, though his white beard trembled and + waved softly like a snowy veil blown about by the wind. + </p> + <p> + “If wisdom can teach how to prolong the lease, what study can be compared + with that of which the results may beautify the dwelling? What more can + any man do for himself than make himself happy? The very question is + absurd. What are you trying to do for yourself at the present moment? Is + it for the sake of improving the physical condition or of promoting the + moral case of mankind at large that you are dragging me through the slums + and byways and alleys of the gloomiest city on this side of eternal + perdition? It is certainly not for my welfare that you are sacrificing + yourself. You admit that you are pursuing an idea. Perhaps you are in + search of some new and curious form of mildew, and when you have found it—or + something else—you will name your discovery <i>Fungus Pragensis</i>, + or <i>Cryptogamus minor Errantis</i>—‘the Wanderer’s toadstool.’ But + I know you of old, my good friend. The idea you pursue is not an idea at + all, but that specimen of the <i>genus homo</i> known as ‘woman,’ species + ‘lady,’ variety ‘true love,’ vulgar designation ‘sweetheart.’” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer stared coldly at his companion. + </p> + <p> + “The vulgarity of the designation is indeed only equalled by that of your + taste in selecting it,” he said slowly. Then he turned away, intending to + leave Keyork standing where he was. + </p> + <p> + But the little man had already repented of his speech. He ran quickly to + his friend’s side and laid one hand upon his arm. The Wanderer paused and + again looked down. + </p> + <p> + “Is it of any use to be offended with my speeches? Am I an acquaintance of + yesterday? Do you imagine that it could ever be my intention to annoy + you?” the questions were asked rapidly in tones of genuine anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I hardly know how I could suppose that. You have always been + friendly—but I confess—your names for things are not—always——” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer did not complete the sentence, but looked gravely at Keyork + as though wishing to convey very clearly again what he had before + expressed in words. + </p> + <p> + “If we were fellow-countrymen and had our native language in common, we + should not so easily misunderstand one another,” replied the other. “Come, + forgive my lack of skill, and do not let us quarrel. Perhaps I can help + you. You may know Prague well, but I know it better. Will you allow me to + say that I know also whom it is you are seeking here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You know. I have not changed since we last met, nor have + circumstances favoured me.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me—have you really seen this Unorna, and talked with her?” + </p> + <p> + “This morning.” + </p> + <p> + “And she could not help you?” + </p> + <p> + “I refused to accept her help, until I had done all that was in my own + power to do.” + </p> + <p> + “You were rash. And have you now done all, and failed?” + </p> + <p> + “I have.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, if you will accept a humble suggestion from me, you will go back to + her at once.” + </p> + <p> + “I know very little of her. I do not altogether trust her—” + </p> + <p> + “Trust! Powers of Eblis—or any other powers! Who talks of trust? + Does the wise man trust himself? Never. Then how can he dare trust any one + else?” + </p> + <p> + “Your cynical philosophy again!” exclaimed the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + “Philosophy? I am a mysosophist! All wisdom is vanity, and I hate it! + Autology is my study, autosophy my ambition, autonomy my pride. I am the + great Panegoist, the would-be Conservator of Self, the inspired prophet of + the Universal I. I—I—I! My creed has but one word, and that + word but one letter, that letter represents Unity, and Unity is Strength. + I am I, one, indivisible, central! O I! Hail and live for ever!” + </p> + <p> + Again the little man’s rich bass voice rang out in mellow laughter. A very + faint smile appeared upon his companion’s sad face. + </p> + <p> + “You are happy, Keyork,” he said. “You must be, since you can laugh at + yourself so honestly.” + </p> + <p> + “At myself? Vain man! I am laughing at you, and at every one else, at + everything except myself. Will you go to Unorna? You need not trust her + any more than the natural infirmity of your judgment suggests.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you tell me nothing more of her? Do you know her well?” + </p> + <p> + “She does not offer her help to every one. You would have done well to + accept it in the first instance. You may not find her in the same humour + again.” + </p> + <p> + “I had supposed from what you said of her that she made a profession of + clairvoyance, or hypnotism, or mesmerism—whatever may be the right + term nowadays.” + </p> + <p> + “It matters very little,” answered Keyork, gravely. “I used to wonder at + Adam’s ingenuity in naming all living things, but I think he would have + made but a poor figure in a tournament of modern terminologists. No. + Unorna does not accept remuneration for her help when she vouchsafes to + give it.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet I was introduced to her presence without even giving my name.” + </p> + <p> + “That is her fancy. She will see any one who wishes to see her, beggar, + gentleman, or prince. But she only answers such questions as she pleases + to answer.” + </p> + <p> + “That is to say, inquiries for which she is already prepared with a + reply,” suggested the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + “See for yourself. At all events, she is a very interesting specimen. I + have never known any one like her.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork Arabian was silent, as though he were reflecting upon Unorna’s + character and peculiar gifts, before describing them to his friend. His + ivory features softened almost imperceptibly, and his sharp blue eyes + suddenly lost their light, as though they no longer saw the outer world. + But the Wanderer cared for none of these things, and bestowed no attention + upon his companion’s face. 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. + </p> + <p> + “You tell me to see for myself,” he said. “I would like to know what I am + to expect. Will you not enlighten me?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” asked the other vaguely, as though roused from sleep. + </p> + <p> + “If I go to Unorna and ask a consultation of her, as though she were a + common somnambulist, and if she deigns to place her powers at my disposal + what sort of assistance shall I most probably get?” + </p> + <p> + They had been walking slowly forward, and Keyork again stopped, rapping + the pavement with his iron-shod stick, and looking up from under his + bushy, overhanging eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “Of two things, one will happen,” he answered. “Either she will herself + fall into the abnormal state and will answer correctly any questions you + put to her, or she will hypnotise you, and you will yourself see—what + you wish to see.” + </p> + <p> + “I myself?” + </p> + <p> + “You yourself. The peculiarity of the woman is her duality, her double + power. She can, by an act of volition, become hypnotic, clairvoyant—whatever + you choose to call it. Or, if her visitor is at all sensitive, she can + reverse the situation and play the part of the hypnotiser. I never heard + of a like case.” + </p> + <p> + “After all, I do not see why it should not be so,” said the Wanderer + thoughtfully. “At all events, whatever she can do, is evidently done by + hypnotism, and such extraordinary experiments have succeeded of late—” + </p> + <p> + “I did not say that there was nothing but hypnotism in her processes.” + </p> + <p> + “What then? Magic?” The Wanderer’s lip curled scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” replied the little man, speaking slowly. “Whatever her + secret may be, she keeps it, even when speaking in sleep. This I can tell + you. I suspect that there is some other being, or person, in that queer + old house of hers whom she consults on grave occasions. At a loss for an + answer to a difficult scientific question, I have known her to leave the + room and to come back in the course of a few minutes with a reply which I + am positive she could never have framed herself.” + </p> + <p> + “She may have consulted books,” suggested the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + “I am an old man,” said Keyork Arabian suddenly. “I am a very old man; + there are not many books which I have not seen and partially read at one + time or at another, and my memory is surprisingly good. I have excellent + reasons for believing that her information is not got from anything that + was ever written or printed.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask of what general nature your questions were?” inquired the + other, more interested than he had hitherto been in the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “They referred to the principles of embalmment.” + </p> + <p> + “Much has been written about that since the days of the Egyptians.” + </p> + <p> + “The Egyptians!” exclaimed Keyork with great scorn. “They embalmed their + dead after a fashion. Did you ever hear that they embalmed the living?” + The little man’s eyes shot fire. + </p> + <p> + “No, nor will I believe in any such outrageous impossibilities! If that is + all, I have little faith in Unorna’s mysterious counsellor.” + </p> + <p> + “The faith which removes mountains is generally gained by experience when + it is gained at all, and the craving for explanation takes the place, in + some minds, of a willingness to learn. It is not my business to find + explanations, nor to raise my little self to your higher level, by + standing upon this curbstone, in order to deliver a lecture in the popular + form, upon matters that interest me. It is enough that I have found what I + wanted. Go and do likewise. See for yourself. You have nothing to lose and + everything to gain. You are unhappy, and unhappiness is dangerous, in rare + cases fatal. If you tell me to-morrow that Unorna is a charlatan, you will + be in no worse plight than to-day, nor will your opinion of her influence + mine. If she helps you to find what you want—so much the better for + you—how much the better, and how great the risk you run, are + questions for your judgment.” + </p> + <p> + “I will go,” answered the Wanderer, after a moment’s hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” said Keyork Arabian. “If you want to find me again, come to + my lodging. Do you know the house of the Black Mother of God?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—there is a legend about a Spanish picture of our Lady once + preserved there—” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly, it takes its name from that black picture. It is on the corner + of the Fruit Market, over against the window at which the Princess + Windischgratz was shot. I live in the upper story. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + After the Wanderer had left her, Unorna continued to hold in her hand the + book she had again taken up, following the printed lines mechanically from + left to right, from the top of the page to the foot. Having reached that + point, however, she did not turn over the leaf. She was vaguely aware that + she had not understood the sense of the words, and she returned to the + place at which she had begun, trying to concentrate her attention upon the + matter, moving her fresh lips to form the syllables, and bending her brows + in the effort of understanding, so that a short, straight furrow appeared, + like a sharp vertical cut extending from between the eyes to the midst of + the broad forehead. One, two and three sentences she grasped and + comprehended; then her thoughts wandered again, and the groups of letters + passed meaningless before her sight. She was accustomed to directing her + intelligence without any perceptible effort, and she was annoyed at being + thus led away from her occupation, against her will and in spite of her + determination. A third attempt showed her that it was useless to force + herself any longer, and with a gesture and look of irritation she once + more laid the volume upon the table at her side. + </p> + <p> + During a few minutes she sat motionless in her chair, her elbow leaning on + the carved arm-piece, her chin supported upon the back of her half-closed + hand, of which the heavy, perfect fingers were turned inwards, drooping in + classic curves towards the lace about her throat. Her strangely mismatched + eyes stared vacantly towards an imaginary horizon, not bounded by banks of + flowers, nor obscured by the fantastic foliage of exotic trees. + </p> + <p> + Presently she held up her head, her white hand dropped upon her knee, she + hesitated an instant, and then rose to her feet, swiftly, as though she + had made a resolution and was about to act upon it. She made a step + forward, and then paused again, while a half-scornful smile passed like a + shadow over her face. Very slowly she began to pace the marble floor, up + and down in the open space before her chair, turning and turning again, + the soft folds of her white gown following her across the smooth pavement + with a gentle, sweeping sound, such as the breeze makes among flowers in + spring. + </p> + <p> + “Is it he?” she asked aloud in a voice ringing with the joy and the fear + of a passion that has waited long and is at last approaching the + fulfilment of satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + No answer came to her from among the thick foliage nor in the scented + breath of the violets and the lilies. The murmuring song of the little + fountain alone disturbed the stillness, and the rustle of her own garments + as she moved. + </p> + <p> + “Is it he? Is it he? Is it he?” she repeated again and again, in varying + tones, chiming the changes of hope and fear, of certainty and vacillation, + of sadness and of gladness, of eager passion and of chilling doubt. + </p> + <p> + She stood still, staring at the pavement, her fingers clasped together, + the palms of her hands turned downward, her arms relaxed. She did not see + the dark red squares of marble, alternating with the white and the gray, + but as she looked a face and a form rose before her, in the contemplation + of which all her senses and faculties concentrated themselves. The pale + and noble head grew very distinct in her inner sight, the dark gray eyes + gazed sadly upon her, the passionate features were fixed in the expression + of a great sorrow. + </p> + <p> + “Are you indeed he?” she asked, speaking softly and doubtfully, and yet + unconsciously projecting her strong will upon the vision, as though to + force it to give the answer for which she longed. + </p> + <p> + And the answer came, imposed by the effort of her imagination upon the + thing imagined. The face suddenly became luminous, as with a radiance + within itself; the shadows of grief melted away, and in their place + trembled the rising light of a dawning love. The lips moved and the voice + spoke, not as it had spoken to her lately, but in tones long familiar to + her in dreams by day and night. + </p> + <p> + “I am he, I am that love for whom you have waited; you are that dear one + whom I have long sought throughout the world. The hour of our joy has + struck, the new life begins to-day, and there shall be no end.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna’s arms went out to grasp the shadow, and she drew it to her in her + fancy and kissed its radiant face. + </p> + <p> + “To ages of ages!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + Then she covered her eyes as though to impress the sight they had seen + upon the mind within, and groping blindly for her chair sank back into her + seat. But the mechanical effort of will and memory could not preserve the + image. In spite of all inward concentration of thought, its colours faded, + its outlines trembled, grew faint and vanished, and darkness was in its + place. Unorna’s hand dropped to her side, and a quick throb of pain + stabbed her through and through, agonising as the wound of a blunt and + jagged knife, though it was gone almost before she knew where she had felt + it. Then her eyes flashed with unlike fires, the one dark and passionate + as the light of a black diamond, the other keen and daring as the gleam of + blue steel in the sun. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but I will!” she exclaimed. “And what I will—shall be.” + </p> + <p> + As though she were satisfied with the promise thus made to herself, she + smiled, her eyelids drooped, the tension of her frame was relaxed, and she + sank again into the indolent attitude in which the Wanderer had found her. + A moment later the distant door turned softly upon its hinges and a light + footfall broke the stillness. There was no need for Unorna to speak in + order that the sound of her voice might guide the new comer to her + retreat. The footsteps approached swiftly and surely. A young man of + singular beauty came out of the green shadows and stood beside the chair + in the open space. + </p> + <p> + Unorna betrayed no surprise as she looked up into her visitor’s face. She + knew it well. In form and feature the youth represented the noblest type + of the Jewish race. It was impossible to see him without thinking of a + young eagle of the mountains, eager, swift, sure, instinct with + elasticity, far-sighted and untiring, strong to grasp and to hold, + beautiful with the glossy and unruffled beauty of a plumage continually + smoothed in the sweep and the rush of high, bright air. + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka stood still, gazing down upon the woman he loved, and drawing + his breath hard between his parted lips. His piercing eyes devoured every + detail of the sight before him, while the dark blood rose in his lean + olive cheek, and the veins of his temples swelled with the beating of his + quickened pulse. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + The single indifferent word received the value of a longer speech from the + tone in which it was uttered, and from the look and gesture which + accompanied it. Unorna’s voice was gentle, soft, half-indolent, + half-caressing, half-expectant, and half-careless. There was something + almost insolent in its assumption of superiority, which was borne out by + the little defiant tapping of two long white fingers upon the arm of the + carved chair. And yet, with the rising inflection of the monosyllable + there went a raising of the brows, a sidelong glance of the eyes, a slowly + wreathing smile that curved the fresh lips just enough to unmask two + perfect teeth, all of which lent to the voice a meaning, a familiarity, a + pliant possibility of favourable interpretation, fit rather to flatter a + hope than to chill a passion. + </p> + <p> + The blood beat more fiercely in the young man’s veins, his black eyes + gleamed yet more brightly, his pale, high-curved nostrils quivered at + every breath he drew. The throbbings of his heart unseated his thoughts + and strongly took possession of the government of his body. Under an + irresistible impulse he fell upon his knees beside Unorna, covering her + marble hand with all his lean, dark fingers and pressing his forehead upon + them, as though he had found and grasped all that could be dear to him in + life. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna! My golden Unorna!” he cried, as he knelt. + </p> + <p> + Unorna looked down upon his bent head. The smile faded from her face, and + for a moment a look of hardness lingered there, which gave way to an + expression of pain and regret. As though collecting her thoughts she + closed her eyes, as she tried to draw back her hand; then as he held it + still, she leaned back and spoke to him. + </p> + <p> + “You have not understood me,” she said, as quietly as she could. + </p> + <p> + The strong fingers were not lifted from hers, but the white face, now + bloodless and transparent, was raised to hers, and a look of such fear as + she had never dreamed of was in the wide black eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Not—understood?” he repeated in startled, broken tones. + </p> + <p> + Unorna sighed, and turned away, for the sight hurt her and accused her. + </p> + <p> + “No, you have not understood. Is it my fault? Israel Kafka, that hand is + not yours to hold.” + </p> + <p> + “Not mine? Unorna!” Yet he could not quite believe what she said. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Neither of the two stirred during the silence which followed. Unorna sat + quite still, staring fixedly into the green shadows of the foliage, as + though not daring to meet the gaze she felt upon her. Israel Kafka still + knelt beside her, motionless and hardly breathing, like a dangerous wild + animal startled by an unexpected enemy, and momentarily paralysed in the + very act of springing, whether backward in flight, or forward in the teeth + of the foe, it is not possible to guess. + </p> + <p> + “I have been mistaken,” Unorna continued at last. “Forgive—forget—” + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka rose to his feet and drew back a step from her side. All his + movements were smooth and graceful. The perfect man is most beautiful in + motion, the perfect woman in repose. + </p> + <p> + “How easy it is for you!” exclaimed the Moravian. “How easy! How simple! + You call me, and I come. You let your eyes rest on me, and I kneel before + you. You sigh, and I speak words of love. You lift your hand and I crouch + at your feet. You frown—and I humbly leave you. How easy!” + </p> + <p> + “You are wrong, and you speak foolishly. You are angry, and you do not + weigh your words.” + </p> + <p> + “Angry! What have I to do with so common a madness as anger? I am more + than angry. Do you think that because I have submitted to the veering + gusts of your good and evil humours these many months, I have lost all + consciousness of myself? Do you think that you can blow upon me as upon a + feather, from east and west, from north and south, hotly or coldly, as + your unstable nature moves you? Have you promised me nothing? Have you + given me no hope? Have you said and done nothing whereby you are bound? Or + can no pledge bind you, no promise find a foothold in your slippery + memory, no word of yours have meaning for those who hear it?” + </p> + <p> + “I never gave you either pledge or promise,” answered Unorna in a harder + tone. “The only hope I have ever extended to you was this, that I would + one day answer you plainly. I have done so. You are not satisfied. Is + there anything more to be said? I do not bid you leave my house for ever, + any more than I mean to drive you from my friendship.” + </p> + <p> + “From your friendship! Ah, I thank you, Unorna; I most humbly thank you! + For the mercy you extend in allowing me to linger near you, I am grateful! + Your friend, you say? Ay, truly, your friend and servant, your servant and + your slave, your slave and your dog. Is the friend impatient and + dissatisfied with his lot? A soft word shall turn away his anger. Is the + servant over-presumptuous? Your scorn will soon teach him his duty. Is the + slave disobedient? Blows will cure him of his faults. Does your dog fawn + upon you too familiarly? Thrust him from you with your foot and he will + cringe and cower till you smile again. Your friendship—I have no + words for thanks!” + </p> + <p> + “Take it, or take it not—as you will.” Unorna glanced at his angry + face and quickly looked away. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “You are wise to suggest the latter alternative as a possibility,” said + Unorna coldly and not heeding his approach. + </p> + <p> + The young man stood still, and folded his arms. The colour had returned to + his face and a deep flush was rising under his olive skin. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean what you say?” he asked slowly. “Do you mean that I shall not + have all, but nothing? Do you still dare to mean that, after all that has + passed between you and me?” + </p> + <p> + Unorna raised her eyes and looked steadily into his. + </p> + <p> + “Israel Kafka, do not speak to me of daring.” + </p> + <p> + But the young man’s glance did not waver. The angry expression of his + features did not relax; he neither drew back nor bent his head. Unorna + seemed to be exerting all the strength of her will in the attempt to + dominate him, but without result. In the effort she made to concentrate + her determination her face grew pale and her lips trembled. Kafka faced + her resolutely, his eyes on fire, the rich colour mantling in his cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Where is your power now?” he asked suddenly. “Where is your witchery? You + are only a woman, after all. You are only a weak woman!” + </p> + <p> + Very slowly he drew nearer to her side, his lithe figure bending a little + as he looked down upon her. Unorna leaned far back, withdrawing her face + from his as far as she could, but still trying to impose her will upon + him. + </p> + <p> + “You cannot,” he said between his teeth, answering her thought. + </p> + <p> + Men who have tamed wild beasts alone know what such a moment is like. A + hundred times the brave man has held the tiger spell-bound and crouching + under his cold, fearless gaze. The beast, ever docile and submissive, has + cringed at his feet, fawned to his touch, and licked the hand that + snatched away the half-devoured morsel. Obedient to voice and eye, the + giant strength and sinewy grace have been debased to make the sport of + multitudes; the noble, pliant frame has contorted itself to execute the + mean antics of the low-comedy ape—to counterfeit death like a poodle + dog; to leap through gaudily-painted rings at the word of command; to + fetch and carry like a spaniel. A hundred times the changing crowd has + paid its paltry fee to watch the little play that is daily acted behind + the stout iron bars by the man and the beast. The man, the nobler, braver + creature, is arrayed in a wretched flimsy finery of tights and spangles, + parading his physical weakness and inferiority in the toggery of a + mountebank. The tiger, vast, sleepy-eyed, mysterious, lies motionless in + the front of his cage, the gorgeous stripes of his velvet coat following + each curve of his body, from the cushions of his great fore paws to the + arch of his gathered haunches. The watchfulness and flexible activity of + the serpent and the strength that knows no master are clothed in the + magnificent robes of the native-born sovereign. Time and times again the + beautiful giant has gone through the slavish round of his mechanical + tricks, obedient to the fragile creature of intelligence, to the little + dwarf, man, whose power is in his eyes and heart only. He is accustomed to + the lights, to the spectators, to the laughter, to the applause, to the + frightened scream of the hysterical women in the audience, to the close + air and to the narrow stage behind the bars. The tamer in his tights and + tinsel has grown used to his tiger, to his emotions, to his hourly danger. + He even finds at last that his mind wanders during the performance, and + that at the very instant when he is holding the ring for the leap, or + thrusting his head into the beast’s fearful jaws, he is thinking of his + wife, of his little child, of his domestic happiness or household + troubles, rather than of what he is doing. Many times, perhaps many + hundreds of times, all passes off quietly and successfully. Then, + inevitably, comes the struggle. Who can tell the causes? The tiger is + growing old, or is ill fed, or is not well, or is merely in one of those + evil humours to which animals are subject as well as their masters. One + day he refuses to go through with the performance. First one trick fails, + and then another. The public grows impatient, the man in spangles grows + nervous, raises his voice, stamps loudly with his foot, and strikes his + terrible slave with his light switch. A low, deep sound breaks from the + enormous throat, the spectators hold their breath, the huge, flexible + limbs are gathered for the leap, and in the gaslight and the dead silence + man and beast are face to face. Life hangs in the balance, and death is at + the door. + </p> + <p> + Then the tamer’s heart beats loud, his chest heaves, his brows are + furrowed. Even then, in the instant that still separates him from triumph + or destruction, the thought of his sleeping child or of his watching wife + darts through his brain. But the struggle has begun and there is no + escape. One of two things must happen: he must overcome or he must die. To + draw back, to let his glance waver, to show so much as the least sign of + fear, is death. The moment is supreme, and he knows it. + </p> + <p> + Unorna grasped the arms of her chair as though seeking for physical + support in her extremity. She could not yield. Before her eyes arose a + vision unlike the reality in all its respects. She saw an older face, a + taller figure, a look of deeper thought between her and the angry man who + was trying to conquer her resistance with a glance. Between her and her + mistake the image of what should be stood out, bright, vivid, and strong. + A new conviction had taken the place of the old, a real passion was + flaming upon the altar whereon she had fed with dreams the semblance of a + sacred fire. + </p> + <p> + “You do not really love me,” she said softly. + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka started, as a man who is struck unawares. The monstrous + untruth which filled the words broke down his guard, sudden tears veiled + the penetrating sharpness of his gaze, and his hand trembled. + </p> + <p> + “I do not love you? I! Unorna—Unorna!” + </p> + <p> + The first words broke from him in a cry of horror and stupefaction. But + her name, when he spoke it, sounded as the death moan of a young wild + animal wounded beyond all power to turn at bay. + </p> + <p> + He moved unsteadily and laid hold of the tall chair in which she sat. He + was behind her now, standing, but bending down so that his forehead + pressed his fingers. He could not bear to look upon her hair, still less + upon her face. Even his hands were white and bloodless. Unorna could hear + his quick breathing just above her shoulder. She sat quite still, and her + lips were smiling, though her brow was thoughtful and almost sad. She knew + that the struggle was over and that she had gained the mastery, though the + price of victory might be a broken heart. + </p> + <p> + “You thought I was jesting,” she said in a low voice, looking before her + into the deep foliage, but knowing that her softest whisper would reach + him. “But there was no jest in what I said—nor any unkindness in + what I meant, though it is all my fault. But that is true—you never + loved me as I would be loved.” + </p> + <p> + “Unorna——” + </p> + <p> + “No, I am not unkind. Your love is young, fierce, inconstant; half + terrible, half boyish, aflame to-day, asleep to-morrow, ready to turn into + hatred at one moment, to melt into tears at the next, intermittent, + unstable as water, fleeting as a cloud’s shadow on the mountain side—” + </p> + <p> + “It pleased you once,” said Israel Kafka in broken tones. “It is not less + love because you are weary of it, and of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Weary, you say? No, not weary—and very truly not of you. You will + believe that to-day, to-morrow, you will still try to force life into your + belief—and then it will be dead and gone like all thoughts which + have never entered into the shapes of reality. We have not loved each + other. We have but fancied that it would be sweet to love, and the knife + of truth has parted the web of our dreams, keenly, in the midst, so that + we see before us what is, though the ghost of what might have been is yet + lingering near.” + </p> + <p> + “Who wove that web, Unorna? You, or I?” He lifted his heavy eyes and gazed + at her coiled hair. + </p> + <p> + “What matters it whether it was your doing or mine? But we wove it + together—and together we must see the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “If this is true, there is no more ‘together’ for you and me.” + </p> + <p> + “We may yet glean friendship in the fields where love has grown.” + </p> + <p> + “Friendship! The very word is a wound! Friendship! The very dregs and lees + of the wine of life! Friendship! The sour drainings of the heart’s cup, + left to moisten the lips of the damned when the blessed have drunk their + fill! I hate the word, as I hate the thought!” + </p> + <p> + Unorna sighed, partly, perhaps, that he might hear the sigh, and put upon + it an interpretation soothing to his vanity, but partly, too, from a + sincere regret that he should need to suffer as he was evidently + suffering. She had half believed that she loved him, and she owed him + pity. Women’s hearts pay such debts unwillingly, but they do pay them, + nevertheless. She wished that she had never set eyes upon Israel Kafka; + she wished that she might never see him again; even his death would hardly + have cost her a pang, and yet she was sorry for him. Diana, the huntress, + shot her arrows with unfailing aim; Diana, the goddess, may have sighed + and shed one bright immortal tear, as she looked into the fast-glazing + eyes of the dying stag—may not Diana, the maiden, have felt a touch + of human sympathy and pain as she listened to the deep note of her hounds + baying on poor Actaeon’s track! No one is all bad, or all good. No woman + is all earthly, nor any goddess all divine. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry,” said Unorna. “You will not understand——” + </p> + <p> + “I have understood enough. I have understood that a woman can have two + faces and two hearts, two minds, two souls; it is enough, my understanding + need go no farther. You sighed before you spoke. It was not for me; it was + for yourself. You never felt pain or sorrow for another.” + </p> + <p> + He was trying hard to grow cold and to find cold words to say, which might + lead her to believe him stronger than he was and able to master his grief. + But he was too young, too hot, too changeable for such a part. Moreover, + in his first violent outbreak Unorna had dominated him, and he could not + now regain the advantage. + </p> + <p> + “You are wrong, Israel Kafka. You would make me less than human. If I + sighed, it was indeed for you. See—I confess that I have done you + wrong, not in deeds, but in letting you hope. Truly, I myself have hoped + also. I have thought that the star of love was trembling just below the + east, and that you and I might be one to another—what we cannot be + now. My wisdom has failed me, my sight has been deceived. Am I the only + woman in this world who has been mistaken? Can you not forgive? If I had + promised, if I had said one word—and yet, you are right, too, for I + have let you think in earnest what has been but a passing dream of my own + thoughts. It was all wrong; it was all my fault. There, lay your hand in + mine and say that you forgive, as I ask forgiveness.” + </p> + <p> + He was still standing behind her, leaning against the back of her chair. + Without looking round she raised her hand above her shoulder as though + seeking for his. But he would not take it. + </p> + <p> + “Is it so hard?” she asked softly. “Is it even harder for you to give than + for me to ask? Shall we part like this—not to meet again—each + bearing a wound, when both might be whole? Can you not say the word?” + </p> + <p> + “What is it to you whether I forgive you or not?” + </p> + <p> + “Since I ask it, believe that it is much to me,” she answered, slowly + turning her head until, without catching sight of his face, she could just + see where his fingers were resting on her chair. Then, over her shoulder, + she touched them, and drew them to her cheek. He made no resistance. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we part without one kind thought?” Her voice was softer still and + so low and sweet that it seemed as though the words were spoken in the + ripple of the tiny fountain. There was magic in the place, in the air, in + the sounds, above all in the fair woman’s touch. + </p> + <p> + “Is this friendship?” asked Kafka. Then he sank upon his knees beside her, + and looked up into her face. + </p> + <p> + “It is friendship; yes—why not? Am I like other women?” + </p> + <p> + “Then why need there be any parting?” + </p> + <p> + “If you will be my friend there need be none. You have forgiven me now—I + see it in your eyes. Is it not true?” + </p> + <p> + He was at her feet, passive at last under the superior power which he had + never been able to resist. Unorna’s fascination was upon him, and he could + only echo her words, as he would have executed her slightest command, + without consciousness of free will or individual thought. It was enough + that for one moment his anger should cease to give life to his resistance; + it was sufficient that Unorna should touch him thus, and speak softly, his + eyelids quivered and his look became fixed, his strength was absorbed in + hers and incapable of acting except under her direction. So long as she + might please the spell would endure. + </p> + <p> + “Sit beside me now, and let us talk,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Like a man in a dream, he rose and sat down near her. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are only my slave, after all,” said Unorna scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “I am only your slave, after all,” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “I could touch you with my hand and you would hate me, and forget that you + ever loved me.” + </p> + <p> + This time the man was silent. There was a contraction of pain in his face, + as though a violent mental struggle were going on within him. Unorna + tapped the pavement impatiently with her foot and bent her brows. + </p> + <p> + “You would hate me and forget that you ever loved me,” she repeated, + dwelling on each word as though to impress it on his consciousness. “Say + it. I order you.” + </p> + <p> + The contraction of his features disappeared. + </p> + <p> + “I should hate you and forget that I ever loved you,” he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + “You never loved me.” + </p> + <p> + “I never loved you.” + </p> + <p> + Again Unorna laughed, and he joined in her laughter, unintelligently, as + he had done before. She leaned back in her seat, and her face grew grave. + Israel Kafka sat motionless in his chair, staring at her with unwinking + eyes. But his gaze did not disturb her. There was no more meaning in it + than in the expression of a marble statue, far less than in that of a + painted portrait. 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. + </p> + <p> + For a long time Unorna was absorbed in her meditations. Again and again + the vision of a newer happiness took shape and colour before her, so + clearly and vividly that she could have clasped it and held it and + believed in its reality, as she had done before Israel Kafka had entered. + But there was a doubt now, which constantly arose between her and it, the + dark and shapeless shadow of a reasoning she hated and yet knew to be + strong. + </p> + <p> + “I must ask him,” she said unconsciously. + </p> + <p> + “You must ask him,” repeated Israel Kafka from his seat. + </p> + <p> + For the third time Unorna laughed aloud as she heard the echo of her own + words. + </p> + <p> + “Whom shall I ask?” she inquired contemptuously, as she rose to her feet. + </p> + <p> + The dull, glassy eyes sought hers in painful perplexity, following her + face as she moved. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” answered the powerless man. + </p> + <p> + Unorna came close to him and laid her hand upon his head. + </p> + <p> + “Sleep, until I wake you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The eyelids drooped and closed at her command, and instantly the man’s + breathing became heavy and regular. Unorna’s full lips curled as she + looked down at him. + </p> + <p> + “And you would be my master!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + Then she turned and disappeared among the plants, leaving him alone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + Unorna passed through a corridor which was, indeed, only a long balcony + covered in with arches and closed with windows against the outer air. At + the farther end three steps descended to a dark door, through the + thickness of a massive wall, showing that at this point Unorna’s house had + at some former time been joined with another building beyond, with which + it thus formed one habitation. Unorna paused, holding the key as though + hesitating whether she should put it into the lock. It was evident that + much depended upon her decision, for her face expressed the anxiety she + felt. Once she turned away, as though to abandon her intention, hesitated, + and then, with an impatient frown, opened the door and went in. She passed + through a small, well-lighted vestibule and entered the room beyond. + </p> + <p> + The apartment was furnished with luxury, but a stranger would have + received an oddly disquieting impression of the whole at a first glance. + There was everything in the place which is considered necessary for a + bedroom, and everything was perfect of its kind, spotless and dustless, + and carefully arranged in order. But almost everything was of an unusual + and unfamiliar shape, as though designed for some especial reason to + remain in equilibrium in any possible position, and to be moved from place + to place with the smallest imaginable physical effort. The carved bedstead + was fitted with wheels which did not touch the ground, and levers so + placed as to be within the reach of a person lying in it. The tables were + each supported at one end only by one strong column, fixed to a heavy base + set on broad rollers, so that the board could be run across a bed or a + lounge with the greatest ease. There was but one chair made like ordinary + chairs; the rest were so constructed that the least motion of the occupant + must be accompanied by a corresponding change of position of the back and + arms, and some of them bore a curious resemblance to a surgeon’s operating + table, having attachments of silver-plated metal at many points, of which + the object was not immediately evident. Before a closed door a sort of + wheeled conveyance, partaking of the nature of a chair and of a + perambulator, stood upon polished rails, which disappeared under the door + itself, showing that the thing was intended to be moved from one room to + another in a certain way and in a fixed line. The rails, had the door been + opened, would have been seen to descend upon the other side by a gentle + inclined plane into the centre of a huge marble basin, and the contrivance + thus made it possible to wheel a person into a bath and out again without + necessitating the slightest effort or change of position in the body. In + the bedroom the windows were arranged so that the light and air could be + regulated to a nicety. The walls were covered with fine basket work, + apparently adapted in panels; but these panels were in reality movable + trays, as it were, forming shallow boxes fitted with closely-woven wicker + covers, and filled with charcoal and other porous substances intended to + absorb the impurities of the air, and thus easily changed and renewed from + time to time. Immediately beneath the ceiling were placed delicate glass + globes of various soft colours, with silken shades, movable from below by + means of brass rods and handles. In the ceiling itself there were large + ventilators, easily regulated as might be required, and there was a + curious arrangement of rails and wheels from which depended a sort of + swing, apparently adapted for moving a person or a weight to different + parts of the room without touching the floor. In one of the lounges, not + far from the window, lay a colossal old man, wrapped in a loose robe of + warm white stuff, and fast asleep. + </p> + <p> + He was a very old man, so old, indeed, as to make it hard to guess his age + from his face and his hands, the only parts visible as he lay at rest, the + vast body and limbs lying motionless under his garment, as beneath a heavy + white pall. He could not be less than a hundred years old, but how much + older than that he might really be, it was impossible to say. What might + be called the waxen period had set in, and the high colourless features + seemed to be modelled in that soft, semi-transparent material. The time + had come when the stern furrows of age had broken up into countless + minutely-traced lines, so close and fine as to seem a part of the texture + of the skin, mere shadings, evenly distributed throughout, and no longer + affecting the expression of the face as the deep wrinkles had done in + former days; at threescore and ten, at fourscore, and even at ninety + years. The century that had passed had taken with it its marks and scars, + leaving the great features in their original purity of design, lean, + smooth, and clearly defined. That last change in living man is rare + enough, but when once seen is not to be forgotten. There is something in + the faces of the very, very old which hardly suggests age at all, but + rather the vague possibility of a returning prime. Only the hands tell the + tale, with their huge, shining, fleshless joints, their shadowy hollows, + and their unnatural yellow nails. + </p> + <p> + The old man lay quite still, breathing softly through his snowy beard. + Unorna came to his side. There was something of wonder and admiration in + her own eyes as she stood there gazing upon the face which other + generations of men and women, all long dead, had looked upon and known. + The secret of life and death was before her each day when she entered that + room, and on the very verge of solution. The wisdom hardly gained in many + lands was striving with all its concentrated power to preserve that life; + the rare and subtle gifts which she herself possessed were daily exercised + to their full in the suggestion of vitality; the most elaborate inventions + of skilled mechanicians were employed in reducing the labour of living to + the lowest conceivable degree of effort. The great experiment was being + tried. What Keyork Arabian described as the embalming of a man still alive + was being attempted. And he lived. For years they had watched him and + tended him, and looked critically for the least signs of a diminution or + an augmentation in his strength. They knew that he was now in his one + hundred and seventh year, and yet he lived and was no weaker. Was there a + limit; or was there not, since the destruction of the tissues was arrested + beyond doubt, so far as the most minute tests could show? Might there not + be, in the slow oscillations of nature, a degree of decay, on this side of + death, from which a return should be possible, provided that the critical + moment were passed in a state of sleep and under perfect conditions? How + do we know that all men must die? We suppose the statement to be true by + induction, from the undoubted fact that men have hitherto died within a + certain limit of age. By induction, too, our fathers, our grandfathers, + knew that it was impossible for man to traverse the earth faster than at + the full speed of a galloping horse. After several thousand years of + experience that piece of knowledge, which seemed to be singularly certain, + was suddenly proved to be the grossest ignorance by a man who had been in + the habit of playing with a tea-kettle when a boy. We ourselves, not very + long ago, knew positively, as all men had known since the beginning of the + world, that it was quite impossible to converse with a friend at a + distance beyond the carrying power of a speaking trumpet. To-day, a boy + who does not know that one may talk very agreeably with a friend a + thousand miles away is an ignoramus; and experimenters whisper among + themselves that, if the undulatory theory of light have any foundation, + there is no real reason why we may not see that same friend at that same + distance, as well as talk with him. Ten years ago we were quite sure that + it was beyond the bounds of natural possibility to produce a bad burn upon + the human body by touching the flesh with a bit of cardboard or a common + lead pencil. Now we know with equal certainty that if upon one arm of a + hypnotised patient we impress a letter of the alphabet cut out of wood, + telling him that it is red-hot iron, the shape of the letter will on the + following day be found on a raw and painful wound not only in the place we + selected but on the other arm, in the exactly corresponding spot, and + reversed as though seen in a looking-glass; and we very justly consider + that a physician who does not know this and similar facts is dangerously + behind the times, since the knowledge is open to all. The inductive + reasoning of many thousands of years has been knocked to pieces in the + last century by a few dozen men who have reasoned little but attempted + much. It would be rash to assert that bodily death may not some day, and + under certain conditions, be altogether escaped. It is nonsense to pretend + that human life may not possibly, and before long, be enormously + prolonged, and that by some shorter cut to longevity than temperance and + sanitation. No man can say that it will, but no man of average + intelligence can now deny that it may. + </p> + <p> + Unorna had hesitated at the door, and she hesitated now. It was in her + power, and in hers only, to wake the hoary giant, or at least to modify + his perpetual sleep so far as to obtain from him answers to her questions. + It would be an easy matter to lay one hand upon his brow, bidding him see + and speak—how easy, she alone knew. But on the other hand, to + disturb his slumber was to interfere with the continuity of the great + experiment, to break through a rule lately made, to incur the risk of an + accident, if not of death itself. + </p> + <p> + She drew back at the thought, as though fearing to startle him, and then + she smiled at her own nervousness. To wake him she must exercise her will. + There was no danger of his ever being roused by any sound or touch not + proceeding from herself. The crash of thunder had no reverberation for his + ears, the explosion of a cannon would not have penetrated into his + lethargy. She might touch him, move him, even speak to him, but unless she + laid her hand upon his waxen forehead and bid him feel and hear, he would + be as unconscious as the dead. She returned to his side and gazed into his + placid face. Strange faculties were asleep in that ancient brain, and + strange wisdom was stored there, gathered from many sources long ago, and + treasured unconsciously by the memory to be recalled at her command. + </p> + <p> + The man had been a failure in his day, a scholar, a student, a searcher + after great secrets, a wanderer in the labyrinths of higher thought. He + had been a failure and had starved, as failures must, in order that vulgar + success may fatten and grow healthy. He had outlived the few that had been + dear to him, he had outlived the power to feed on thought, he had outlived + generations of men, and cycles of changes, and yet there had been life + left in the huge gaunt limbs and sight in the sunken eyes. Then he had + outlived pride itself, and the ancient scholar had begged his bread. In + his hundredth year he had leaned for rest against Unorna’s door, and she + had taken him in and cared for him, and since that time she had preserved + his life. For his history was known in the ancient city, and it was said + that he had possessed great wisdom in his day. Unorna knew that this + wisdom could be hers if she could keep alive the spark of life, and that + she could employ his own learning to that end. Already she had much + experience of her powers, and knew that if she once had the mastery of the + old man’s free will he must obey her fatally and unresistingly. Then she + conceived the idea of embalming, as it were, the living being, in a + perpetual hypnotic lethargy, from whence she recalled him from time to + time to an intermediate state, in which she caused him to do mechanically + all those things which she judged necessary to prolong life. + </p> + <p> + Seeing her success from the first, she had begun to fancy that the present + condition of things might be made to continue indefinitely. Since death + was to-day no nearer than it had been seven years ago, there was no reason + why it might not be guarded against during seven years more, and if during + seven, why not during ten, twenty, fifty? She had for a helper a physician + of consummate practical skill—a man whose interest in the result of + the trial was, if anything, more keen than her own; a friend, above all, + whom she believed she might trust, and who appeared to trust her. + </p> + <p> + But in the course of their great experiment they had together made rules + by which they had mutually agreed to be bound. They had of late determined + that the old man must not be disturbed in his profound rest by any + question tending to cause a state of mental activity. The test of a very + fine instrument had proved that the shortest interval of positive lucidity + was followed by a slight but distinctly perceptible rise of temperature in + the body, and this could mean only a waste of the precious tissues they + were so carefully preserving. They hoped and believed that the grand + crisis was at hand, and that, if the body did not now lose strength and + vitality for a considerable time, both would slowly though surely + increase, in consequence of the means they were using to instill new blood + into the system. But the period was supreme, and to interfere in any way + with the progress of the experiment was to run a risk of which the whole + extent could only be realised by Unorna and her companion. + </p> + <p> + She hesitated therefore, well knowing that her ally would oppose her + intention with all his might, and dreading his anger, bold as she was, + almost as much as she feared the danger to the old man’s life. On the + other hand, she had a motive which the physician could not have, and + which, as she was aware, he would have despised and condemned. She had a + question to ask, which she considered of vital importance to herself, to + which she firmly believed that the true answer would be given, and which, + in her womanly impetuosity and impatience, she could not bear to leave + unasked until the morrow, much less until months should have passed away. + Two very powerful incentives were at work, two of the very strongest which + have influence with mankind, love and a superstitious belief in an + especial destiny of happiness, at the present moment on the very verge of + realisation. + </p> + <p> + She believed profoundly in herself and in the suggestions of her own + imagination. So fixed and unalterable was that belief that it amounted to + positive knowledge, so far as it constituted a motive of action. In her + strange youth wild dreams had possessed her, and some of them, often + dreamed again, had become realities to her now. Her powers were natural, + those gifts which from time to time are seen in men and women, which are + alternately scoffed at as impostures, or accepted as facts, but which are + never understood either by their possessor or by those who witness the + results. She had from childhood the power to charm with eye and hand all + living things, the fascination which takes hold of the consciousness + through sight and touch and word, and lulls it to sleep. It was witchery, + and she was called a witch. In earlier centuries her hideous fate would + have been sealed from the first day when, under her childish gaze, a wolf + that had been taken alive in the Bohemian forest crawled fawning to her + feet, at the full length of its chain, and laid its savage head under her + hand, and closed its bloodshot eyes and slept before her. Those who had + seen had taken her and taught her how to use what she possessed according + to their own shadowy beliefs and dim traditions of the half-forgotten + magic in a distant land. They had filled her heart with longings and her + brain with dreams, and she had grown up to believe that one day love would + come suddenly upon her and bear her away through the enchanted gates of + the earthly paradise; once only that love would come, and the supreme + danger of her life would be that she should not know it when it was at + hand. + </p> + <p> + And now she knew that she loved, for the place of her fondness for the one + man had been taken by her passion for the other, and she felt without + reasoning, where, before, she had tried to reason herself into feeling. + The moment had come. She had seen the man in whom her happiness was to be, + the time was short, the danger great if she should not grasp what her + destiny would offer her but once. Had the Wanderer been by her side, she + would have needed to ask no question, she would have known and been + satisfied. But hours must pass before she could see him again, and every + minute spent without him grew more full of anxiety and disturbing passion + than the last. The wild love-blossom that springs into existence in a + single moment has elements which do not enter into the gentler being of + that other love which is sown in indifference, and which grows up in + slowly increasing interest, tended and refreshed in the pleasant + intercourse of close acquaintance, to bud and bloom at last as a + mild-scented garden flower. Love at first sight is impatient, passionate, + ruthless, cruel, as the year would be, if from the calendar of the season + the months of slow transition were struck out; if the raging heat of + August followed in one day upon the wild tempests of the winter; if the + fruit of the vine but yesterday in leaf grew rich and black to-day, to be + churned to foam to-morrow under the feet of the laughing wine treaders. + </p> + <p> + Unorna felt that the day would be intolerable if she could not hear from + other lips the promise of a predestined happiness. She was not really in + doubt, but she was under the imperious impulse of a passion which must + needs find some response, even in the useless confirmation of its reality + uttered by an indifferent person—the spirit of a mighty cry seeking + its own echo in the echoless, flat waste of the Great Desert. + </p> + <p> + Then, too, she placed a sincere faith in the old man’s answers to her + questions, regardless of the matter inquired into. She believed that in + the mysterious condition between sleep and waking which she could command, + the knowledge of things to be was with him as certainly as the memory of + what had been and of what was even now passing in the outer world. To her, + the one direction of the faculty seemed no less possible than the others, + though she had not yet attained alone to the vision of the future. + Hitherto the old man’s utterances had been fulfilled to the letter. More + than once, as Keyork Arabian had hinted, she had consulted his second + sight in preference to her own, and she had not been deceived. His greater + learning and his vast experience lent to his sayings something divine in + her eyes; she looked upon him as the Pythoness of Delphi looked upon the + divinity of her inspiration. + </p> + <p> + The irresistible longing to hear the passionate pleadings of her own heart + solemnly confirmed by the voice in which she trusted overcame at last + every obstacle. Unorna bent over the sleeper, looking earnestly into his + face, and she laid one hand upon his brow. + </p> + <p> + “You hear me,” she said, slowly and distinctly. “You are conscious of + thought, and you see into the future.” + </p> + <p> + The massive head stirred, the long limbs moved uneasily under the white + robe, the enormous, bony hands contracted, and in the cavernous eyes the + great lids were slowly lifted. A dull stare met her look. + </p> + <p> + “Is it he?” she asked, speaking more quickly in spite of herself. “Is it + he at last?” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. The lips did not part, there was not even the attempt + to speak. She had been sure that the one word would be spoken + unhesitatingly, and the silence startled her and brought back the doubt + which she had half forgotten. + </p> + <p> + “You must answer my question. I command you to answer me. Is it he?” + </p> + <p> + “You must tell me more before I can answer.” + </p> + <p> + The words came in a feeble piping voice, strangely out of keeping with the + colossal frame and imposing features. + </p> + <p> + Unorna’s face was clouded, and the ready gleam of anger flashed in her + eyes as it ever did at the smallest opposition to her will. + </p> + <p> + “Can you not see him?” she asked impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot see him unless you lead me to him and tell me where he is.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you?” + </p> + <p> + “In your mind.” + </p> + <p> + “And what are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I am the image in your eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “There is another man in my mind,” said Unorna. “I command you to see + him.” + </p> + <p> + “I see him. He is tall, pale, noble, suffering. You love him.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it he who shall be my life and my death? Is it he who shall love me as + other women are not loved?” + </p> + <p> + The weak voice was still for a moment, and the face seemed covered with a + veil of perplexity. + </p> + <p> + “I see with your eyes,” said the old man at last. + </p> + <p> + “And I command you to see into the future with your own!” cried Unorna, + concentrating her terrible will as she grew more impatient. + </p> + <p> + There was an evident struggle in the giant’s mind, an effort to obey which + failed to break down an obstacle. She bent over him eagerly and her whole + consciousness was centered in the words she desired him to speak. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the features relaxed into an expression of rest and satisfaction. + There was something unearthly in the sudden smile that flickered over the + old waxen face—it was as strange and unnatural as though the cold + marble effigy upon a sepulchre had laughed aloud in the gloom of an empty + church. + </p> + <p> + “I see. He will love you,” said the tremulous tones. + </p> + <p> + “Then it is he?” + </p> + <p> + “It is he.” + </p> + <p> + With a suppressed cry of triumph Unorna lifted her head and stood upright. + Then she started violently and grew very pale. + </p> + <p> + “You have probably killed him and spoiled everything,” said a rich bass + voice at her elbow—the very sub-bass of all possible voices. + </p> + <p> + Keyork Arabian was beside her. In her intense excitement she had not heard + him enter the room, and he had surprised her at once in the breaking of + their joint convention and in the revelation of her secret. If Unorna + could be said to know the meaning of the word fear in any degree + whatsoever, it was in relation to Keyork Arabian, the man who during the + last few years had been her helper and associate in the great experiment. + Of all men she had known in her life, he was the only one whom she felt to + be beyond the influence of her powers, the only one whom she felt that she + could not charm by word, or touch, or look. The odd shape of his head, she + fancied, figured the outline and proportions of his intelligence, which + was, as it were, pyramidal, standing upon a base so broad and firm as to + place the centre of its ponderous gravity far beyond her reach to disturb. + There was certainly no other being of material reality that could have + made Unorna start and turn pale by its inopportune appearance. + </p> + <p> + “The best thing you can do is to put him to sleep at once,” said the + little man. “You can be angry afterwards, and, I thank heaven, so can I—and + shall.” + </p> + <p> + “Forget,” said Unorna, once more laying her hand upon the waxen brow. “Let + it be as though I had not spoken with you. Drink, in your sleep, of the + fountain of life, take new strength into your body and new blood into your + heart. Live, and when I next wake you be younger by as many months as + there shall pass hours till then. Sleep.” + </p> + <p> + A low sigh trembled in the hoary beard. The eyelids drooped over the + sunken eyes, there was a slight motion of the limbs, and all was still, + save for the soft and regular breathing. + </p> + <p> + “The united patience of the seven archangels, coupled with that of Job and + Simon Stylites, would not survive your acquaintance for a day,” observed + Keyork Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “Is he mine or yours?” Unorna asked, turning to him and pointing to the + sleeper. + </p> + <p> + She was quite ready to face her companion after the first shock of his + unexpected appearance. His small blue eyes sparkled angrily. + </p> + <p> + “I am not versed in the law concerning real estate in human kind in the + Kingdom of Bohemia,” he answered. “You may have property in a couple of + hundredweight, more or less, of old bones rather the worse for the wear + and tear of a century, but I certainly have some ownership in the life. + Without me, you would have been the possessor of a remarkably fine + skeleton by this time—and of nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, his extraordinary voice ran over half a dozen notes of + portentous depth, like the opening of a fugue on the pedals of an organ. + Unorna laughed scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “He is mine, Keyork Arabian, alive or dead. If the experiment fails, and + he dies, the loss is mine, not yours. Moreover, what I have done is done, + and I will neither submit to your reproaches nor listen to your + upbraidings. Is that enough?” + </p> + <p> + “Of its kind, quite. I will build an altar to Ingratitude, we will bury + our friend beneath the shrine, and you shall serve in the temple. You + could deify all the cardinal sins if you would only give your attention to + the subject, merely by the monstrously imposing proportions you would know + how to give them.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it ease you to make such an amazing noise?” inquired Unorna, raising + her eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “Immensely. Our friend cannot hear it, and you can. You dare to tell me + that if he dies you are the only loser. Do fifty years of study count for + nothing? Look at me. I am an old man, and unless I find the secret of life + here, in this very room, before many years are over, I must die—die, + do you understand? Do you know what it means to die? How can you + comprehend that word—you girl, you child, you thing of five and + twenty summers!” + </p> + <p> + “It was to be supposed that your own fears were at the root of your + anger,” observed Unorna, sitting down upon her chair and calmly folding + her hands as though to wait until the storm should pass over. + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything at the root of anything except Self? You moth, you + butterfly, you thread of floating gossamer! How can you understand the + incalculable value of Self—of that which is all to me and nothing to + you, or which, being yours, is everything to you and to me nothing? You + are so young—you still believe in things, and interests, and good + and evil, and love and hate, truth and falsehood, and a hundred notions + which are not facts, but only contrasts between one self and another! What + were you doing here when I found you playing with life and death, perhaps + with my life, for a gipsy trick, in the crazy delusion that this old + parcel of humanity can see the shadows of things which are not yet? I saw, + I heard. How could he answer anything save that which was in your own + mind, when you were forcing him with your words and your eyes to make a + reply of some sort, or perish? Ah! You see now. You understand now. I have + opened your eyes a little. Why did he hesitate, and suffer? Because you + asked that to which he knew there was no answer. And you tortured him with + your will until his individuality fell into yours, and spoke your words.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna’s head sank a little and she covered her eyes. The truth of what he + said flashed upon her suddenly and unexpectedly, bringing with it the + doubt which had left her at the moment when the sleeper had spoken. She + could not hide her discomfiture and Keyork Arabian saw his advantage. + </p> + <p> + “And for what?” he asked, beginning to pace the broad room. “To know + whether a man will love you or not! You seem to have forgotten what you + are. Is not such a poor and foolish thing as love at the command of those + who can say to the soul, be this, or be that, and who are obeyed? Have you + found a second Keyork Arabian, over whom your eyes have no power—neither + the one nor the other?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed rather brutally at the thought of her greatest physical + peculiarity, but then suddenly stopped short. She had lifted her face and + those same eyes were fastened upon him, the black and the gray, in a look + so savage and fierce that even he was checked, if not startled. + </p> + <p> + “They are certainly very remarkable eyes,” he said, more calmly, and with + a certain uneasiness which Unorna did not notice. “I wonder whom you have + found who is able to look you in the face without losing himself. I + suppose it can hardly be my fascinating self whom you wish to enthrall,” + he added, conscious after a moment’s trial that he was proof against her + influence. + </p> + <p> + “Hardly,” answered Unorna, with a bitter laugh. + </p> + <p> + “If I were the happy man you would not need that means of bringing me to + your feet. It is a pity that you do not want me. We should make a very + happy couple. But there is much against me. I am an old man, Unorna. My + figure was never of divine proportions, and as for my face, Nature made it + against her will. I know all that—and yet, I was young once, and + eloquent. I could make love then—I believe that I could still if it + would amuse you.” + </p> + <p> + “Try it,” said Unorna, who, like most people, could not long be angry with + the gnome-like little sage. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <h3> + “I could make love—yes, and since you tell me to try, I will.” + </h3> + <p> + He came and stood before her, straightening his diminutive figure in a + comical fashion as though he were imitating a soldier on parade. + </p> + <p> + “In the first place,” he said, “in order to appreciate my skill, you + should realise the immense disadvantages under which I labour. I am a + dwarf, my dear Unorna. In the presence of that kingly wreck of a Homeric + man”—he pointed to the sleeper beside them—“I am a Thersites, + if not a pigmy. To have much chance of success I should ask you to close + your eyes, and to imagine that my stature matches my voice. That gift at + least, I flatter myself, would have been appreciated on the plains of + Troy. But in other respects I resemble neither the long-haired Greeks nor + the trousered Trojans. I am old and hideous, and in outward appearance I + am as like Socrates as in inward disposition I am totally different from + him. Admit, since I admit it, that I am the ugliest and smallest man of + your acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not to be denied,” said Unorna with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “The admission will make the performance so much the more interesting. And + now, as the conjurer says when he begins, observe that there is no + deception. That is the figure of speech called lying, because there is to + be nothing but deception from beginning to end. Did you ever consider the + nature of a lie, Unorna? It is a very interesting subject.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were going to make love to me.” + </p> + <p> + “True; how easily one forgets those little things! And yet no woman ever + forgave a man who forgot to make love when she expected him to do so. For + a woman, who is a woman, never forgets to be exigent. And now there is no + reprieve, for I have committed myself, am sentenced, and condemned to be + made ridiculous in your eyes. Can there be anything more contemptible, + more laughable, more utterly and hopelessly absurd, than an old and ugly + man declaring his unrequited passion for a woman who might be his + granddaughter? Is he not like a hoary old owl, who leaves his mousing to + perch upon one leg and hoot love ditties at the evening star, or screech + out amorous sonnets to the maiden moon?” + </p> + <p> + “Very like,” said Unorna with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “That is very pretty,” said Unorna, thoughtfully. He had the power of + making his speech sound like a deep, soft music. + </p> + <p> + “For what is love?” he asked. “Is it a garment, a jewel, a fanciful + ornament which only boys and girls may wear upon a summer’s holiday? May + we take it or leave it, as we please? Wear it, if it shows well upon our + beauty, or cast it off for others to put on when we limp aside out of the + race of fashion to halt and breathe before we die? Is love beauty? Is love + youth? Is love yellow hair or black? Is love the rose upon the lip or the + peach blossom in the cheek, that only the young may call it theirs? Is it + an outward grace, which can live but so long as the other outward graces + are its companions, to perish when the first gray hair streaks the dark + locks? Is it a glass, shivered by the first shock of care as a mirror by a + sword-stroke? Is it a painted mask, washed colourless by the first rain of + autumn tears? Is it a flower, so tender that it must perish miserably in + the frosty rime of earliest winter? Is love the accident of youth, the + complement of a fresh complexion, the corollary of a light step, the + physical concomitant of swelling pulses and unstrained sinews?” + </p> + <p> + Keyork Arabian laughed softly. Unorna was grave and looked up into his + face, resting her chin upon her hand. + </p> + <p> + “If that is love, if that is the idol of your shrine, the vision of your + dreams, the familiar genius of your earthly paradise, why then, indeed, he + who worships by your side, and who would share the habitation of your + happiness, must wear Absalom’s anointed curls and walk with Agag’s + delicate step. What matter if he be but a half-witted puppet? He is fair. + What matter if he be foolish, faithless, forgetful, inconstant, changeable + as the tide of the sea? He is young. His youth shall cover all his + deficiencies and wipe out all his sins! Imperial love, monarch and despot + of the human soul, is become the servant of boys for the wage of a girl’s + first thoughtless kiss. If that is love let it perish out of the world, + with the bloom of the wood violet in spring, with the flutter of the + bright moth in June, with the song of the nightingale and the call of the + mocking-bird, with all things that are fair and lovely and sweet but for a + few short days. If that is love, why then love never made a wound, nor + left a scar, nor broke a heart in this easy-going rose-garden of a world. + The rose blooms, blows, fades and withers and feels nothing. If that is + love, we may yet all develop into passionless promoters of a flat and + unprofitable commonwealth; the earth may yet be changed to a sweetmeat for + us to feed on, and the sea to sugary lemonade for us to drink, as the mad + philosopher foretold, and we may yet all be happy after love has left us.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna smiled, while he laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “Good,” she said. “You tell me what love is not, but you have not told me + what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Love is the immortal essence of mortal passion, together they are as soul + and body, one being; separate them, and the body without the soul is a + monster, the soul without the body is no longer human, nor earthly, nor + real to us at all, though still divine. Love is the world’s maker, master + and destroyer, the magician whose word can change water to blood, and + blood to fire, the dove to a serpent, and the serpent to a dove—ay, + and can make of that same dove an eagle, with an eagle’s beak, and talons, + and air-cleaving wing-stroke. Love is the spirit of life and the angel of + death. He speaks, and the thorny wilderness of the lonely heart is become + a paradise of flowers. He is silent, and the garden is but a blackened + desert over which a destroying flame has passed in the arms of the east + wind. Love stands at the gateway of each human soul, holding in his hands + a rose and a drawn sword—the sword is for the many, the rose for the + one.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed and was silent. Unorna looked at him curiously. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever loved, that you should talk like that?” she asked. He + turned upon her almost fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Loved? Yes, as you can never love; as you, in your woman’s heart, can + never dream of loving—with every thought, with every fibre, with + every pulse, with every breath; with a love that is burning the old oak + through and through, root and branch, core and knot, to feathery ashes + that you may scatter with a sigh—the only sigh you will ever breathe + for me, Unorna. Have I loved? Can I love? Do I love to-day as I loved + yesterday and shall love to-morrow? Ah, child! That you should ask that, + with your angel’s face, when I am in hell for you! When I would give my + body to death and my soul to darkness for a touch of your hand, for as + much kindness and gentleness in a word from your dear lips as you give the + beggars in the street! When I would tear out my heart with my hands to + feed the very dog that fawns on you—and who is more to you than I, + because he is yours, and all that is yours I love, and worship, and + adore!” + </p> + <p> + Unorna had looked up and smiled at first, believing that it was all but a + comedy, as he had told her that it should be. But as he spoke, and the + strong words chased each other in the torrent of his passionate speech, + she was startled and surprised. There was a force in his language, a fiery + energy in his look, a ring of half-desperate hope in his deep voice, which + moved her to strange thoughts. His face, too, was changed and ennobled, + his gestures larger, even his small stature ceased, for once, to seem + dwarfish and gnome-like. + </p> + <p> + “Keyork Arabian, is it possible that you love me?” she cried, in her + wonder. + </p> + <p> + “Possible? True? There is neither truth nor possibility in anything else + for me, in anything, in any one, but you, Unorna. The service of my love + fills the days and the nights and the years with you—fills the world + with you only; makes heaven to be on earth, since heaven is but the air + that is made bright with your breath, as the temple of all temples is but + the spot whereon your dear feet stand. The light of life is where you are, + the darkness of death is everywhere where you are not. But I am condemned + to die, cut off, predestined to be lost—for you have no pity, + Unorna, you cannot find it in you to be sorry for the poor old man whose + last pulse will beat for you; whose last word will be your name; whose + last look upon your beauty will end the dream in which he lived his life. + What can it be to you, that I love you so? Why should it be anything to + you? When I am gone—with the love of you in my heart, Unorna—when + they have buried the ugly old body out of your sight, you will not even + remember that I was once your companion, still less that I knelt before + you, that I kissed the ground on which you stood; that I loved you as men + love whose hearts are breaking, that I touched the hem of your garment and + was for one moment young—that I besought you to press my hand but + once, with one thought of kindness, with one last and only word of human + pity—” + </p> + <p> + He broke off suddenly, and there was a tremor in his voice which lent + intense expression to the words. He was kneeling upon one knee beside + Unorna, but between her and the light, so that she saw his face + indistinctly. She could not but pity him. She took his outstretched hand + in hers. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Keyork!” she said, very kindly and gently. “How could I have ever + guessed all this?” + </p> + <p> + “It would have been exceedingly strange if you had,” answered Keyork, in a + tone that made her start. + </p> + <p> + Then a magnificent peal of bass laughter rolled through the room, as the + gnome sprang suddenly to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Did I not warn you?” asked Keyork, standing back and contemplating + Unorna’s surprised face with delight. “Did I not tell you that I was going + to make love to you? That I was old and hideous and had everything against + me? That it was all a comedy for your amusement? That there was to be + nothing but deception from beginning to end? That I was like a decrepit + owl screeching at the moon, and many other things to a similar effect?” + </p> + <p> + Unorna smiled somewhat thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “You are the greatest of great actors, Keyork Arabian. There is something + diabolical about you. I sometimes almost think that you are the devil + himself!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I am,” suggested the little man cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that there is a horror about all this?” Unorna rose to her + feet. Her smile had vanished and she seemed to feel cold. + </p> + <p> + As though nothing had happened, Keyork began to make his daily examination + of his sleeping patient, applying his thermometer to the body, feeling the + pulse, listening to the beatings of the heart with his stethoscope, gently + drawing down the lower lid of one of the eyes to observe the colour of the + membrane, and, in a word, doing all those things which he was accustomed + to do under the circumstances with a promptness and briskness which showed + how little he feared that the old man would wake under his touch. He noted + some of the results of his observations in a pocket-book. Unorna stood + still and watched him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember ever to have been in the least degree like other people?” + she asked, speaking after a long silence, as he was returning his notes to + his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “I believe not,” he answered. “Nature spared me that indignity—or + denied me that happiness—as you may look at it. I am not like other + people, as you justly remark. I need not say that it is the other people + who are the losers.” + </p> + <p> + “The strange thing is, that you should be able to believe so much of + yourself when you find it so hard to believe good of your fellow-men.” + </p> + <p> + “I object to the expression, ‘fellow-men,’” returned Keyork promptly. “I + dislike phrases, and, generally, maxims as a whole, and all their + component parts. A woman must have invented that particular phrase of + yours in order to annoy a man she disliked.” + </p> + <p> + “And why, if you please?” + </p> + <p> + “Because no one ever speaks of ‘fellow-women.’ The question of woman’s + duty to man has been amply discussed since the days of Menes the Thinite—but + no one ever heard of a woman’s duty to her fellow-women; unless, indeed, + her duty is to try and outdo them by fair means or foul. Then why talk of + man and his fellow-men? I can put the wisest rule of life into two short + phrases.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me the advantage of your wisdom.” + </p> + <p> + “The first rule is, Beware of women.” + </p> + <p> + “And the second?” + </p> + <p> + “Beware of men,” laughed the little sage. “Observe the simplicity and + symmetry. Each rule has three words, two of which are the same in each, so + that you have the result of the whole world’s experience at your disposal + at the comparatively small expenditure of one verb, one preposition, and + two nouns.” + </p> + <p> + “There is little room for love in your system,” remarked Unorna, “for such + love, for instance, as you described to me a few minutes ago.” + </p> + <p> + “There is too much room for it in yours,” retorted Keyork. “Your system is + constantly traversed in all directions by bodies, sometimes nebulous and + sometimes fiery, which move in unknown orbits at enormous rates of speed. + In astronomy they call them comets, and astronomers would be much happier + without them.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not an astronomer.” + </p> + <p> + “Fortunately for the peace of the solar system. You have been sending your + comets dangerously near to our sick planet,” he added, pointing to the + sleeper. “If you do it again he will break up into asteroids. To use that + particularly disagreeable and suggestive word invented by men, he will + die.” + </p> + <p> + “He seems no worse,” said Unorna, contemplating the massive, peaceful + face. + </p> + <p> + “I do not like the word ‘seems,’” answered Keyork. “It is the refuge of + inaccurate persons, unable to distinguish between facts and appearances.” + </p> + <p> + “You object to everything to-day. Are there any words which I may use + without offending your sense of fitness in language?” + </p> + <p> + “None which do not express a willing affirmation of all I say. I will + receive any original speech on your part at the point of the sword. You + have done enough damage to-day, without being allowed the luxury of + dismembering common sense. Seems, you say! By all that is unholy! By + Eblis, Ahriman, and the Three Black Angels! He is worse, and there is no + seeming. The heat is greater, the pulse is weaker, the heart flutters like + a sick bird.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna’s face showed her anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry,” she said, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry! No doubt you are. It remains to be seen whether your sorrow can be + utilized as a simple, or macerated in tears to make a tonic, or sublimated + to produce a corrosive which will destroy the canker, death. But be sorry + by all means. It occupies your mind without disturbing me, or injuring the + patient. Be sure that if I can find an active application for your + sentiment, I will give you the rare satisfaction of being useful.” + </p> + <p> + “You have the art of being the most intolerably disagreeable of living men + when it pleases you.” + </p> + <p> + “When you displease me, you should say. I warn you that if he dies—our + friend here—I will make further studies in the art of being + unbearable to you. You will certainly be surprised by the result.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing that you could say or do would surprise me.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? We shall see.” + </p> + <p> + “I will leave you to your studies, then. I have been here too long as it + is.” + </p> + <p> + She moved and arranged the pillow under the head of the sleeping giant and + adjusted the folds of his robe. Her touch was tender and skilful in spite + of her ill-suppressed anger. Then she turned away and went towards the + door. Keyork Arabian watched her until her hand was upon the latch. His + sharp eyes twinkled, as though he expected something amusing to occur. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna!” he said, suddenly, in an altered voice. She stopped and looked + back. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Do not be angry, Unorna. Do not go away like this.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna turned, almost fiercely, and came back a step. + </p> + <p> + “Keyork Arabian, do you think you can play upon me as on an instrument? Do + you suppose that I will come and go at your word like a child—or + like a dog? Do you think you can taunt me at one moment, and flatter me + the next, and find my humour always at your command?” + </p> + <p> + The gnome-like little man looked down, made a sort of inclination of his + short body, and laid his hand upon his heart. + </p> + <p> + “I was never presumptuous, my dear lady. I never had the least intention + of taunting you, as you express it, and as for your humour—can you + suppose that I could expect to command, where it is only mine to obey?” + </p> + <p> + “It is of no use to talk in that way,” said Unorna, haughtily. “I am not + prepared to be deceived by your comedy this time.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I to play one. Since I have offended you, I ask your pardon. Forgive + the expression, for the sake of the meaning; the thoughtless word for the + sake of the unworded thought.” + </p> + <p> + “How cleverly you turn and twist both thoughts and words!” + </p> + <p> + “Do not be so unkind, dear friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Unkind to you? I wish I had the secret of some unkindness that you should + feel!” + </p> + <p> + “The knowledge of what I can feel is mine alone,” answered Keyork, with a + touch of sadness. “I am not a happy man. The world, for me, holds but one + interest and one friendship. Destroy the one, or embitter the other, and + Keyork’s remnant of life becomes but a foretaste of death.” + </p> + <p> + “And that interest—that friendship—where are they?” asked + Unorna in a tone still bitter, but less scornful than before. + </p> + <p> + “Together, in this room, and both in danger, the one through your young + haste and impetuosity, the other through my wretched weakness in being + made angry; forgive me, Unorna, as I ask forgiveness——” + </p> + <p> + “Your repentance is too sudden; it savours of the death-bed.” + </p> + <p> + “Small wonder, when my life is in the balance.” + </p> + <p> + “Your life?” She uttered the question incredulously, but not without + curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “My life—and for your word,” he answered, earnestly. He spoke so + impressively, and in so solemn a tone, that Unorna’s face became grave. + She advanced another step towards him, and laid her hand upon the back of + the chair in which she previously had sat. + </p> + <p> + “We must understand each other—to-day or never,” she said. “Either + we must part and abandon the great experiment—for, if we part, it + must be abandoned—” + </p> + <p> + “We cannot part, Unorna.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, if we are to be associates and companions—” + </p> + <p> + “Friends,” said Keyork in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Friends? Have you laid the foundation for a friendship between us? You + say that your life is in the balance. That is a figure of speech, I + suppose. Or has your comedy another act? I can believe well enough that + your greatest interest in life lies there, upon that couch, asleep. I know + that you can do nothing without me, as you know it yourself. But in your + friendship I can never trust—never!—still less can I believe + that any words of mine can affect your happiness, unless they be those you + need for the experiment itself. Those, at least, I have not refused to + pronounce.” + </p> + <p> + While she was speaking, Keyork began to walk up and down the room, in + evident agitation, twisting his fingers and bending down his head. + </p> + <p> + “My accursed folly!” he exclaimed, as though speaking to himself. “My + damnable ingenuity in being odious! It is not to be believed! That a man + of my age should think one thing and say another—like a tetchy girl + or a spoilt child! The stupidity of the thing! And then, to have the + idiotic utterances of the tongue registered and judged as a confession of + faith—or rather, of faithlessness! But it is only just—it is + only right—Keyork Arabian’s self is ruined again by Keyork Arabian’s + vile speeches, which have no more to do with his self than the clouds on + earth have with the sun above them! Ruined, ruined—lost, this time. + Cut off from the only living being he respects—the only being whose + respect he covets; sent back to die in his loneliness, to perish like a + friendless beast, as he is, to the funereal music of his own irrepressible + snarling! To growl himself out of the world, like a broken-down old tiger + in the jungle, after scaring away all possible peace and happiness and + help with his senseless growls! Ugh! It is perfectly just, it is + absolutely right and supremely horrible to think of! A fool to the last, + Keyork, as you always were—and who would make a friend of such a + fool?” + </p> + <p> + Unorna leaned upon the back of the chair watching him, and wondering + whether, after all, he were not in earnest this time. 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. His manner + became very humble. + </p> + <p> + “You are right, my dear lady,” he said. “I have no claim to your + forbearance for my outrageous humours. I have offended you, insulted you, + spoken to you as no man should speak to any woman. I cannot even ask you + to forgive me, and, if I tell you that I am sorry, you will not believe + me. Why should you? But you are right. This cannot go on. Rather than run + the risk of again showing you my abominable temper, I will go away.” + </p> + <p> + His voice trembled and his bright eyes seemed to grow dull and misty. + </p> + <p> + “Let this be our parting,” he continued, as though mastering his emotion. + “I have no right to ask anything, and yet I ask this of you. When I have + left you, when you are safe for ever from my humours and my tempers and + myself—then, do not think unkindly of Keyork Arabian. He would have + seemed the friend he is, but for his unruly tongue.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna hesitated a moment. Then she put out her hand, convinced of his + sincerity in spite of herself. + </p> + <p> + “Let bygones be bygones, Keyork,” she said. “You must not go, for I + believe you.” + </p> + <p> + At the words, the light returned to his eyes, and a look of ineffable + beatitude overspread the face which could be so immovably expressionless. + </p> + <p> + “You are as kind as you are good, Unorna, and as good as you are + beautiful,” he said, and with a gesture which would have been courtly in a + man of nobler stature, but which was almost grotesque in such a dwarf, he + raised her fingers to his lips. + </p> + <p> + This time, no peal of laugher followed to destroy the impression he had + produced upon Unorna. She let her hand rest in his a few seconds, and then + gently withdrew it. + </p> + <p> + “I must be going,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “So soon?” exclaimed Keyork regretfully. “There were many things I had + wished to say to you to-day, but if you have no time——” + </p> + <p> + “I can spare a few minutes,” answered Unorna, pausing. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “One thing is this.” His face had again become impenetrable as a mask of + old ivory, and he spoke in his ordinary way. “This is the question. I was + in the Teyn Kirche before I came here.” + </p> + <p> + “In church!” exclaimed Unorna in some surprise, and with a slight smile. + </p> + <p> + “I frequently go to church,” answered Keyork gravely. “While there, I met + an old acquaintance of mine, a strange fellow whom I have not seen for + years. The world is very small. He is a great traveller—a wanderer + through the world.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna looked up quickly, and a very slight colour appeared in her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Who is he?” she asked, trying to seem indifferent. “What is his name?” + </p> + <p> + “His name? It is strange, but I cannot recall it. He is very tall, wears a + dark beard, has a pale, thoughtful face. But I need not describe him, for + he told me that he had been with you this morning. That is not the point.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke carelessly and scarcely glanced at Unorna while speaking. + </p> + <p> + “What of him?” she inquired, trying to seem as indifferent as her + companion. + </p> + <p> + “He is a little mad, poor man, that is all. It struck me that, if you + would, you might save him. I know something of his story, though not much. + He once loved a young girl, now doubtless dead, but whom he still believes + to be alive, and he spends—or wastes—his life in a useless + search for her. You might cure him of the delusion.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that the girl is dead?” + </p> + <p> + “She died in Egypt, four years ago,” answered Keyork. “They had taken her + there in the hope of saving her, for she was at death’s door already, poor + child.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you convince him of that.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no convincing him, and if he were really convinced he would die + himself. I used to take an interest in the man, and I know that you could + cure him in a simpler and safer way. But of course it lies with you.” + </p> + <p> + “If you wish it, I will try,” Unorna answered, turning her face from the + light. “But he will probably not come back to me.” + </p> + <p> + “He will. I advised him very strongly to come back, very strongly indeed. + I hope I did right. Are you displeased?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all!” Unorna laughed a little. “And if he comes, how am I to + convince him that he is mistaken, and that the girl is dead?” + </p> + <p> + “That is very simple. You will hypnotise him, he will yield very easily, + and you will suggest to him very forcibly to forget the girl’s existence. + You can suggest to him to come back to-morrow and the next day, or as + often as you please, and you can renew the suggestion each time. In a week + he will have forgotten—as you know people can forget—entirely, + totally, without hope of recalling what is lost.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true,” said Unorna, in a low voice. “Are you sure that the effect + will be permanent?” she asked with sudden anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “A case of the kind occurred in Hungary last year. The cure was effected + in Pesth. I was reading it only a few months ago. The oblivion was still + complete, as long as six months after the treatment, and there seems no + reason to suppose that the patient’s condition will change. I thought it + might interest you to try it.” + </p> + <p> + “It will interest me extremely. I am very grateful to you for telling me + about him.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna had watched her companion narrowly during the conversation, + expecting him to betray his knowledge of a connection between the + Wanderer’s visit and the strange question she had been asking of the + sleeper when Keyork had surprised her. She was agreeably disappointed in + this however. He spoke with a calmness and ease of manner which disarmed + suspicion. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad I did right,” said he. + </p> + <p> + He stood at the foot of the couch upon which the sleeper was lying, and + looked thoughtfully and intently at the calm features. + </p> + <p> + “We shall never succeed in this way,” he said at last. “This condition may + continue indefinitely, till you are old, and I—until I am older than + I am by many years. He may not grow weaker, but he cannot grow stronger. + Theories will not renew tissues.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna looked up. + </p> + <p> + “That has always been the question,” she answered. “At least, you have + told me so. Will lengthened rest and perfect nourishment alone give a new + impulse to growth or will they not?” + </p> + <p> + “They will not. I am sure of it now. We have arrested decay, or made it so + slow as to be imperceptible. But we have made many attempts to renew the + old frame, and we are no farther advanced than we were nearly four years + ago. Theories will not make tissues.” + </p> + <p> + “What will?” + </p> + <p> + “Blood,” answered Keyork Arabian very softly. + </p> + <p> + “I have heard of that being done for young people in illness,” said + Unorna. + </p> + <p> + “It has never been done as I would do it,” replied the gnome, shaking his + head and gathering his great beard in his hand, as he gazed at the + sleeper. + </p> + <p> + “What would you do?” + </p> + <p> + “I would make it constant for a day, or for a week if I could—a + constant circulation; the young heart and the old should beat together; it + could be done in the lethargic sleep—an artery and a vein—a + vein and an artery—I have often thought of it; it could not fail. + The new young blood would create new tissue, because it would itself + constantly be renewed in the young body which is able to renew it, only + expending itself in the old. The old blood would itself become young again + as it passed to the younger man.” + </p> + <p> + “A man!” exclaimed Unorna. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. An animal would not do, because you could not produce the + lethargy nor make use of suggestion for healing purposes—” + </p> + <p> + “But it would kill him!” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, as I would do it, especially if the young man were very + strong and full of life. When the result is obtained, an antiseptic + ligature, suggestion of complete healing during sleep, proper nourishment, + such as we are giving at present, by recalling the patient to the hypnotic + state, sleep again, and so on; in eight and forty hours your young man + would be waked and would never know what had happened to him—unless + he felt a little older, by nervous sympathy,” added the sage with a low + laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Are you perfectly sure of what you say?” asked Unorna eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. I have examined the question for years. There can be no doubt + of it. Food can maintain life, blood alone can renew it.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you everything you need here?” inquired Unorna. + </p> + <p> + “Everything. There is no hospital in Europe that has the appliances we + have prepared for every emergency.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her face curiously. It was ghastly pale with excitement. The + pupil of her brown eye was so widely expanded that the iris looked black, + while the aperture of the gray one was contracted to the size of a pin’s + head, so that the effect was almost that of a white and sightless ball. + </p> + <p> + “You seem interested,” said the gnome. + </p> + <p> + “Would such a man—such a man as Israel Kafka answer the purpose?” + she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Admirably,” replied the other, beginning to understand. + </p> + <p> + “Keyork Arabian,” whispered Unorna, coming close to him and bending down + to his ear, “Israel Kafka is alone under the palm tree where I always sit. + He is asleep, and he will not wake.” + </p> + <p> + The gnome looked up and nodded gravely. But she was gone almost before she + had finished speaking the words. + </p> + <p> + “As upon an instrument,” said the little man, quoting Unorna’s angry + speech. “Truly I can play upon you, but it is a strange music.” + </p> + <p> + Half an hour later Unorna returned to her place among the flowers, but + Israel Kafka was gone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + The Wanderer, when Keyork Arabian had left him, had intended to revisit + Unorna without delay, but he had not proceeded far in the direction of her + house when he turned out of his way and entered a deserted street which + led towards the river. He walked slowly, drawing his furs closely about + him, for it was very cold. + </p> + <p> + He found himself in one of those moments of life in which the presentiment + of evil almost paralyses the mind’s power of making any decision. In + general, a presentiment is but the result upon the consciousness of + conscious or unconscious fear. This fear is very often the natural + consequence of the reaction which, in melancholy natures, comes almost + inevitably after a sudden and unexpected satisfaction or after a period in + which the hopes of the individual have been momentarily raised by some + unforeseen circumstance. It is by no means certain that hope is of itself + a good thing. The wise and mournful soul prefers the blessedness of that + non-expectancy which shall not be disappointed, to the exhilarating + pleasures of an anticipation which may prove empty. In this matter lies + one of the great differences between the normal moral state of the heathen + and that of the Christian. The Greek hoped for all things in this world + and for nothing in the next; the Christian, on the contrary, looks for a + happiness to come hereafter, while fundamentally denying the reality of + any earthly joy whatsoever in the present. Man, however, is so constituted + as to find it almost impossible to put faith in either bliss alone, + without helping his belief by borrowing some little refreshment from the + hope of the other. The wisest of the Greeks believed the soul to be + immortal; the sternest of Christians cannot forget that once or twice in + his life he had been contemptibly happy, and condemns himself for secretly + wishing that he might be as happy again before all is over. Faith is the + evidence of things unseen, but hope is the unreasoning belief that unseen + things may soon become evident. The definition of faith puts earthly + disappointment out of the question; that of hope introduces it into human + affairs as a constant and imminent probability. + </p> + <p> + The development of psychologic research in our day has proved beyond a + doubt that individuals of a certain disposition may be conscious of events + actually occurring, or which have recently occurred, at a great distance; + but it has not shown satisfactorily that things yet to happen are + foreshadowed by that restless condition of the sensibilities which we call + presentiment. We may, and perhaps must, admit that all that is or has been + produces a real and perceptible impression upon all else that is. But + there is as yet no good reason for believing that an impression of what + shall be can be conveyed by anticipation—without reasoning—to + the mind of man. + </p> + <p> + But though the realisation of a presentiment may be as doubtful as any + event depending upon chance alone, yet the immense influence which a mere + presentiment may exercise is too well known to be denied. The human + intelligence has a strong tendency to believe in its own reasonings, of + which, indeed, the results are often more accurate and reliable than those + reached by the physical perceptions alone. The problems which can be + correctly solved by inspection are few indeed compared with those which + fall within the province of logic. Man trusts to his reason, and then + often confounds the impressions produced by his passions with the results + gained by semi-conscious deduction. His love, his hate, his anger create + fears, and these supply him with presentiments which he is inclined to + accept as so many well-reasoned grounds of action. If he is often + deceived, he becomes aware of his mistake, and, going to the other + extreme, considers a presentiment as a sort of warning that the contrary + of what he expects will take place; if he chances to be often right he + grows superstitious. + </p> + <p> + The lonely man who was pacing the icy pavement of the deserted street on + that bitter winter’s day felt the difficulty very keenly. He would not + yield and he could not advance. His heart was filled with forebodings + which his wisdom bade him treat with indifference, while his passion gave + them new weight and new horror with every minute that passed. + </p> + <p> + He had seen with his eyes and heard with his ears. Beatrice had been + before him, and her voice had reached him among the voices of thousands, + but now, since the hours has passed and he had not found her, it was as + though he had been near her in a dream, and the strong certainty took hold + of him that she was dead and that he had looked upon her wraith in the + shadowy church. + </p> + <p> + He was a strong man, not accustomed to distrust his senses, and his reason + opposed itself instantly to the suggestion of the supernatural. He had + many times, on entering a new city, felt himself suddenly elated by the + irresistible belief that his search was at an end, and that within a few + hours he must inevitably find her whom he had sought so long. Often as he + passed through the gates of some vast burying-place, he had almost + hesitated to walk through the silent ways, feeling all at once convinced + that upon the very first headstone he was about to see the name that was + ever in his heart. But the expectation of final defeat, like the + anticipation of final success, had been always deceived. Neither living + nor dead had he found her. + </p> + <p> + Two common, reasonable possibilities lay before him, and two only. He had + either seen Beatrice, or he had not. If she had really been in the Teyn + Kirche, she was in the city and not far from him. If she had not been + there, he had been deceived by an accidental but extraordinary likeness. + Within the logical concatenation of cause and effect there was no room for + any other supposition, and it followed that his course was perfectly + clear. He must continue his search until he should find the person he had + seen, and the result would be conclusive, for he would again see the same + face and hear the same voice. Reason told him that he had in all + likelihood been mistaken after all. Reason reminded him that the church + had been dark, the multitude of worshippers closely crowded together, the + voices that sang almost innumerable and wholly undistinguishable from each + other. Reason showed him a throng of possibilities, all pointing to an + error of his perceptions and all in direct contradiction with the one fact + which his loving instinct held for true. + </p> + <p> + The fear of evil, the presentiment of death, defied logic and put its own + construction and interpretation upon the strange event. He neither + believed, nor desired to believe, in a supernatural visitation, yet the + inexplicable certainty of having seen a ghostly vision overwhelmed reason + and all her arguments. Beatrice was dead. Her spirit had passed in that + solemn hour when the Wanderer had stood in the dusky church; he had looked + upon her shadowy wraith, and had heard the echo of a voice from beyond the + stars, whose crystal tones already swelled the diviner harmony of an + angelic strain. + </p> + <p> + The impression was so strong at first as to be but one step removed from + conviction. The shadow of a great mourning fell upon him, of a grief too + terrible for words, too solemn for tears, too strong to find any + expression save in death itself. He walked heavily, bending his head, his + eyes half closed as though in bodily pain, the icy pavement rang like iron + under his tread, the frozen air pierced through him, as his sorrow pierced + his heart, the gloom of the fast-sinking winter’s day deepened as the + darkness in his own soul. He, who was always alone, knew at last what + loneliness could mean. While she had lived she had been with him always, a + living, breathing woman, visible to his inner eyes, speaking to his inward + hearing, waking in his sleepless love. He had sought her with restless + haste and untiring strength through the length and breadth of the whole + world, but yet she had never left him, he had never been separated from + her for one moment, never, in the years of his wandering, had he entered + the temple of his heart without finding her in its most holy place. Men + had told him that she was dead, but he had looked within himself and had + seen that she was still alive; the dread of reading her sacred name carved + upon the stone that covered her resting-place, had chilled him and made + his sight tremble, but he had entered the shrine of his soul and had found + her again, untouched by death, unchanged by years, living, loved, and + loving. But now, when he shut out the dismal street from view, and went to + the sanctuary and kneeled upon the threshold, he saw but a dim vision, as + of something lying upon an altar in the dark, something shrouded in white, + something shapely and yet shapeless, something that had been and was not + any more. + </p> + <p> + He reached the end of the street, but he felt a reluctance to leave it, + and turned back again, walking still more slowly and heavily than before. + So far as any outward object or circumstance could be said to be in + harmony with his mood, the dismal lane, the failing light, the bitter air, + were at that moment sympathetic to him. The tomb itself is not more + sepulchral than certain streets and places in Prague on a dark winter’s + afternoon. In the certainty that the last and the greatest of misfortunes + had befallen him, the Wanderer turned back into the gloomy by-way as the + pale, wreathing ghosts, fearful of the sharp daylight and the distant + voices of men, sink back at dawn into the graves out of which they have + slowly risen to the outer air in the silence of the night. + </p> + <p> + Death, the arch-steward of eternity, walks the bounds of man’s entailed + estate, and the headstones of men’s graves are landmarks in the great + possession committed to his stewardship, enclosing within their narrow + ring the wretched plot of land which makes up all of life’s inheritance. + From ever to always the generations of men do bondsmen’s service in that + single field, to plough it and sow it, and harrow it and water it, to lay + the sickle to the ripe corn if so be that their serfdom falls in the years + of plenty and the ear is full, to eat the bread of tears, if their season + of servitude be required of them in a time of scarcity and famine. + Bondsmen of death, from birth, they are sent forth out of the sublime + silence of the pathless forest which hems in the open glebe land of the + present and which is eternity, past and to come; bondsmen of death, from + youth to age, they join in the labour of the field, they plough, they sow, + they reap, perhaps, tears they shed many, and of laughter there is also a + little amongst them; bondsmen of death, to the last, they are taken in the + end, when they have served their tale of years, many or few, and they are + led from furrow and grass land, willing or unwilling, mercifully or + cruelly, to the uttermost boundary, and they are thrust out quickly into + the darkness whence they came. For their place is already filled, and the + new husbandmen, their children, have in their turn come into the field, to + eat of the fruit they sowed, to sow in turn a seed of which they + themselves shall not see the harvest, whose sheaves others shall bind, + whose ears others shall thresh, and of whose corn others shall make bread + after them. With our eyes we may yet see the graves of two hundred + generations of men, whose tombs serve but to mark that boundary more + clearly, whose fierce warfare, when they fought against the master, could + not drive back that limit by a handbreadth, whose uncomplaining labour, + when they accepted their lot patiently, earned them not one scant foot of + soil wherewith to broaden their inheritance as reward for their + submission; and of them all, neither man nor woman was ever forgotten in + the day of reckoning, nor was one suffered to linger in the light. Death + will bury a thousand generations more, in graves as deep, strengthening + year by year the strong chain of his grim landmarks. He will remember us + every one when the time comes; to some of us he will vouchsafe a peaceful + end, but some shall pass away in mortal agony, and some shall be dragged + unconscious to the other side; but all must go. Some shall not see him + till he is at hand, and some shall dream of him in year-long dreams of + horror, to be taken unawares at the last. He will remember us every one + and will come to us, and the place of our rest shall be marked for + centuries, for years, or for seconds, for each a stone, or a few green + sods laid upon a mound beneath the sky, or the ripple on a changing wave + when the loaded sack has slipped from the smooth plank, and the sound of a + dull splash has died away in the wind. There be strong men, as well as + weak, who shudder and grow cold when they think of that yet undated day + which must close with its black letter their calendar of joy and sorrow; + there are weaklings, as well as giants, who fear death for those they + love, but who fear not anything else at all. The master treats courage and + cowardice alike; Achilles and Thersites must alike perish, and none will + be so bold as to say that he can tell the dust of the misshapen varlet + from the ashes of the swift-footed destroyer, whose hair was once so + bright, whose eyes were so fierce, whose mighty heart was so slothless, so + wrathful, so inexorable and so brave. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer was of those who dread nothing save for the one + dearly-beloved object, but who, when that fear is once roused by a real or + an imaginary danger, can suffer in one short moment the agony which should + be distributed through a whole lifetime. The magnitude of his passion + could lend to the least thought or presentiment connected with it the + force of a fact and the overwhelming weight of a real calamity. + </p> + <p> + In order to feel any great or noble passion a man must have an imagination + both great and sensitive in at least one direction. The execution of a + rare melody demands as a prime condition an instrument of wide compass and + delicate construction, and one of even more rich and varied capabilities + is needed to render those grand harmonies which are woven in the + modulation of sonorous chords. A skilful hand may draw a scale from wooden + blocks set upon ropes of straw, but the great musician must hold the + violin, or must feel the keys of the organ under his fingers and the + responsive pedals at his feet, before he can expect to interpret fittingly + the immortal thought of the composer. The strings must vibrate in perfect + tune, the priceless wood must be seasoned and penetrated with the melodies + of years, and scores of years, the latent music must be already trembling + to be free, before the hand that draws the bow can command the ears and + hearts of those who hear. So, too, love, the chief musician of this world, + must find an instrument worthy of his touch before he can show all his + power, and make heart and soul ring with the lofty strains of a sublime + passion. Not every one knows what love means; few indeed know all that + love can mean. There is no more equality among men than there is likeness + between them, and no two are alike. The many have little, the few have + much. To the many is given the faint perception of higher things, which is + either the vestige, or the promise, of a nobler development, past or yet + to come. As through a veil they see the line of beauty which it is not + theirs to trace; as in a dream they hear the succession of sweet tones + which they can themselves never bring together, though their half-grown + instinct feels a vague satisfaction in the sequence; as from another + world, they listen to the poet’s song, wondering, admiring, but powerless + over the great instrument of human speech, from whose 15,000 keys their + touch can draw but the dull, tuneless prose of daily question and answer; + as in a mirage of things unreal, they see the great deeds that are done in + their time for love or hate, for race or country, for ambition and for + vengeance, but though they see the result, and know the motive, the inward + meaning and spirit of it all escapes them. It is theirs to be, and + existence is in itself their all. To think, to create, to act, to feel can + be only for the few. To one is given the transcendent genius that turns + the very stones along life’s road to precious gems of thought; whose gift + it is to find speech in dumb things and eloquence in the ideal half of the + living world; to whom sorrow is a melody and joy sweet music; to whom the + humblest effort of a humble life can furnish an immortal lyric, and in + whom one thought of the Divine can inspire a sublime hymn. Another stoops + and takes a handful of clay from the earth, and with the pressure of his + fingers moulds it to the reality of an unreal image seen in dreams; or, + standing before the vast, rough block of marble, he sees within the mass + the perfection of a faultless form—he lays the chisel to the stone, + the mallet strikes the steel, one by one the shapeless fragments fly from + the shapely limbs, the matchless curves are uncovered, the breathing mouth + smiles through the petrifaction of a thousand ages, the shroud of stone + falls from the godlike brow, and the Hermes of Olympia stands forth in all + his deathless beauty. Another is born to the heritage of this world’s + power, fore-destined to rule and fated to destroy; the naked sword of + destiny lies in his cradle; the axe of a king-maker awaits the awakening + of his strength; the sceptre of supreme empire hangs within his reach. + Unknown, he dreams and broods over the future; unheeded, he begins to move + among his fellows; a smile, half of encouragement, half of indifference, + greets his first effort; he advances a little farther, and thoughtful men + look grave, another step, and suddenly all mankind cries out and faces him + and would beat him back; but it is too late; one struggle more, and the + hush of a great and unknown fear falls on the wrangling nations; they are + silent, and the world is his. He is the man who is already thinking when + others have scarcely begun to feel; who is creating before the thoughts of + his rivals have reached any conclusion; who acts suddenly, terribly and + irresistibly, before their creations have received life. And yet, the + greatest and the richest inheritance of all is not his, for it has fallen + to another, to the man of heart, and it is the inheritance of the kingdom + of love. + </p> + <p> + In all ages the reason of the world has been at the mercy of brute force. + The reign of law has never had more than a passing reality, and never can + have more than that so long as man is human. The individual intellect and + the aggregate intelligence of nations and races have alike perished in the + struggles of mankind, to revive again, indeed, but as surely to be again + put to the edge of the sword. Here and there great thoughts and great + masterpieces have survived the martyrdom of a thinker, the extinction of a + school, the death of a poet, the wreck of a high civilisation. Socrates is + murdered with the creed of immortality on his very lips; hardly had he + spoken the wonderful words recorded in the <i>Phaedo</i> when the fatal + poison sent its deathly chill through his limbs; the Greeks are gone, yet + the Hermes of Olympia remains, mutilated and maimed, indeed, but faultless + still, and still supreme. The very name of Homer is grown wellnigh as + mythic as his blindness. There are those to-day who, standing by the grave + of William Shakespeare, say boldly that he was not the creator of the + works that bear his name. And still, through the centuries, Achilles + wanders lonely by the shore of the sounding sea; Paris loves, and Helen is + false; Ajax raves, and Odysseus steers his sinking ship through the raging + storm. Still, Hamlet the Avenger swears, hesitates, kills at last, and + then himself is slain; Romeo sighs in the ivory moonlight, and love-bound + Juliet hears the triumphant lark carolling his ringing hymn high in the + cool morning air, and says it is the nightingale—Immortals all, the + marble god, the Greek, the Dane, the love-sick boy, the maiden foredoomed + to death. But how short is the roll-call of these deathless ones! Through + what raging floods of destruction have they lived, through what tempests + have they been tossed, upon what inhospitable shores have they been cast + up by the changing tides of time! Since they were called to life by the + great, half-nameless departed, how often has their very existence been + forgotten by all but a score in tens of millions? Has it been given to + those embodied thoughts of transcendent genius to ride in the whirlwind of + men’s passions or to direct the stormy warfare of half frantic nations? + Since they were born in all their bright perfection, to live on in + unchanging beauty, violence has ruled the world; many a time since then + the sword has mown down its harvest of thinkers, many a time has the iron + harrow of war torn up and scarred the face of the earth. Athens still + stands in broken loveliness, and the Tiber still rolls its tawny waters + heavily through Rome; but Rome and Athens are to-day but places of + departed spirits; they are no longer the seats of life, their broken + hearts are petrified. All men may see the ports through which the blood + flowed to the throbbing centre, the traces of the mighty arteries through + which it was driven to the ends of the earth. But the blood is dried up, + the hearts are broken, and though in their stony ruins those dead + world-hearts be grander and more enduring than any which in our time are + whole and beating, yet neither their endurance nor their grandeur have + saved them from man, the destroyer, nor was the beauty of their thoughts + or the thoughtfully-devised machinery of their civilisation a shield + against a few score thousand rough-hammered blades, wielded by rough-hewn + mortals who recked neither of intellect nor of civilisation, nor yet of + beauty, being but very human men, full of terribly strong and human + passions. Look where you will, throughout the length and breadth of all + that was the world five thousand, or five hundred years ago; everywhere + passion has swept thought before it, and belief, reason. And we, too, with + our reason and our thoughts, shall be swept from existence and the memory + of it. Is this the age of reason, and is this the reign of law? In the + midst of this civilisation of ours three millions of men lie down nightly + by their arms, men trained to handle rifle and sword, taught to destroy + and to do nothing else; and nearly as many more wait but a summons to + leave their homes and join the ranks. And often it is said that we are on + the eve of a universal war. At the command of a few individuals, at the + touch of a few wires, more than five millions of men in the very prime and + glory of strength, armed as men never were armed since time began, will + arise and will kill civilisation and thought, as both the one and the + other have been slain before by fewer hands and less deadly weapons. Is + this reason, or is this law? Passion rules the world, and rules alone. And + passion is neither of the head, nor of the hand, but of the heart. Passion + cares nothing for the mind. Love, hate, ambition, anger, avarice, either + make a slave of intelligence to serve their impulses, or break down its + impotent opposition with the unanswerable argument of brute force, and + tear it to pieces with iron hands. + </p> + <p> + Love is the first, the greatest, the gentlest, the most cruel, the most + irresistible of passions. In his least form he is mighty. A little love + has destroyed many a great friendship. The merest outward semblance of + love has made such havoc as no intellect could repair. The reality has + made heroes and martyrs, traitors and murderers, whose names will not be + forgotten, for glory or for shame. Helen is not the only woman whose smile + has kindled the beacon of a ten years’ war, nor Antony the only man who + has lost the world for a caress. It may be that the Helen who shall work + our destruction is even now twisting and braiding her golden hair; it may + be that the new Antony, who is to lose this same old world again, already + stands upon the steps of Cleopatra’s throne. Love’s day is not over yet, + nor has man outgrown the love of woman. + </p> + <p> + But the power to love greatly is a gift, differing much in kind, though + little in degree, from the inspiration of the poet, the genius of the + artist, or the unerring instinct and eagle’s glance of the conqueror; for + conqueror, artist and poet are moved by passion and not by reason, which + is but their servant in so far as it can be commanded to move others, and + their deadliest enemy when it would move themselves. Let the passion and + the instrument but meet, being suited to each other, and all else must go + down before them. Few, indeed, are they to whom is given that rich + inheritance, and they themselves alone know all their wealth, and all + their misery, all the boundless possibilities of happiness that are + theirs, and all the dangers and the terrors that beset their path. He who + has won woman in the face of daring rivals, of enormous odds, of gigantic + obstacles, knows what love means; he who has lost her, having loved her, + alone has measured with his own soul the bitterness of earthly sorrow, the + depth of total loneliness, the breadth of the wilderness of despair. And + he who has sorrowed long, who has long been alone, but who has watched the + small, twinkling ray still burning upon the distant border of his desert—the + faint glimmer of a single star that was still above the horizon of despair—he + only can tell what utter darkness can be upon the face of the earth when + that last star has set for ever. With it are gone suddenly the very + quarters and cardinal points of life’s chart, there is no longer any right + hand or any left, any north or south, any rising of the sun or any going + down, any forward or backward direction in his path, any heaven above, or + any hell below. The world has stood still and there is no life in the + thick, black stillness. Death himself is dead, and one living man is + forgotten behind, to mourn him as a lost friend, to pray that some new + destroyer, more sure of hand than death himself, may come striding through + the awful silence to make an end at last of the tormented spirit, to bear + it swiftly to the place where that last star ceased to shine, and to let + it down into the restful depths of an unremembering eternity. But into + that place, which is the soul of man, no destroyer can penetrate; that + solitary life neither the sword, nor pestilence, nor age, nor eternity can + extinguish; that immortal memory no night can obscure. There was a + beginning indeed, but end there can be none. + </p> + <p> + Such a man was the Wanderer, as he paced the deserted street in the cruel, + gloomy cold of the late day. Between his sight and the star of his own + hope an impenetrable shadow had arisen, so that he saw it no more. The + memory of Beatrice was more than ever distinct to his inner sense, but the + sudden presentiment of her death, real in its working as any certainty, + had taken the reality of her from the ground on which he stood. For that + one link had still been between them. Somewhere, near or far, during all + these years, she, too, had trodden the earth with her light footsteps, the + same universal mother earth on which they both moved and lived. The very + world was hers, since she was touching it, and to touch it in his turn was + to feel her presence. For who could tell what hidden currents ran in the + secret depths, or what mysterious interchange of sympathy might not be + maintained through them? The air itself was hers, since she was somewhere + breathing it; the stars, for she looked on them; the sun, for it warmed + her; the cold of winter, for it chilled her too; the breezes of spring, + for they fanned her pale cheek and cooled her dark brow. All had been + hers, and at the thought that she had passed away, a cry of universal + mourning broke from the world she had left behind, and darkness descended + upon all things, as a funeral pall. + </p> + <p> + Cold and dim and sad the ancient city had seemed before, but it was a + thousandfold more melancholy now, more black, more saturated with the + gloom of ages. From time to time the Wanderer raised his heavy lids, + scarcely seeing what was before him, conscious of nothing but the horror + which had so suddenly embraced his whole existence. Then, all at once, he + was face to face with some one. A woman stood still in the way, a woman + wrapped in rich furs, her features covered by a dark veil which could not + hide the unequal fire of the unlike eyes so keenly fixed on his. + </p> + <p> + “Have you found her?” asked the soft voice. + </p> + <p> + “She is dead,” answered the Wanderer, growing very white. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + During the short silence which followed, and while the two were still + standing opposite to each other, the unhappy man’s look did not change. + Unorna saw that he was sure of what he said, and a thrill of triumph, as + jubilant as his despair was profound ran through her. If she had cared to + reason with herself and to examine into her own sincerity, she would have + seen that nothing but genuine passion, good or bad, could have lent the + assurance of her rival’s death such power to flood the dark street with + sunshine. But she was already long past doubt upon that question. The + enchanter had bound her heart with his spells at the first glance, and the + wild nature was already on fire. For one instant the light shot from her + eyes, and then sank again as quickly as it had come. She had other + impulses than those of love, and subtle gifts of perception that condemned + her to know the truth, even when the delusion was most glorious. He was + himself deceived, and she knew it. Beatrice might, indeed, have died long + ago. She could not tell. But as she sought in the recesses of his mind, + she saw that he had no certainty of it, she saw the black presentiment + between him and the image, for she could see the image too. She saw the + rival she already hated, not receiving a vision of the reality, but + perceiving it through his mind, as it had always appeared to him. For one + moment she hesitated still, and she knew that her whole life was being + weighed in the trembling balance of that hesitation. For one moment her + face became an impenetrable mask, her eyes grew dull as uncut jewels, her + breathing ceased, her lips were set like cold marble. Then the stony mask + took life again, the sight grew keen, and a gentle sigh stirred the chilly + air. + </p> + <p> + “She is not dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Not dead!” The Wanderer started, but fully two seconds after she had + spoken, as a man struck by a bullet in battle, in whom the suddenness of + the shock has destroyed the power of instantaneous sensation. + </p> + <p> + “She is not dead. You have dreamed it,” said Unorna, looking at him + steadily. + </p> + <p> + He pressed his hand to his forehead and then moved it, as though brushing + away something that troubled him. + </p> + <p> + “Not dead? Not dead!” he repeated, in changing tones. + </p> + <p> + “Come with me. I will show her to you.” + </p> + <p> + He gazed at her and his senses reeled. Her words sounded like rarest music + in his ear; in the darkness of his brain a soft light began to diffuse + itself. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible? Have I been mistaken?” he asked in a low voice, as though + speaking to himself. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” said Unorna again very gently. + </p> + <p> + “Whither? With you? How can you bring me to her? What power have you to + lead the living to the dead?” + </p> + <p> + “To the living. Come.” + </p> + <p> + “To the living—yes. I have dreamed an evil dream—a dream of + death. She is not—no, I see it now. She is not dead. She is only + very far from me, very, very far. And yet it was this morning—but I + was mistaken, deceived by some faint likeness. Ah, God! I thought I knew + her face! What is it that you want with me?” + </p> + <p> + He asked the question as though again suddenly aware of Unorna’s presence. + She had lifted her veil and her eyes drew his soul into their mysterious + depths. + </p> + <p> + “She calls you. Come.” + </p> + <p> + “She? She is not here. What can you know of her? Why do you look at me + so?” + </p> + <p> + He felt an unaccountable uneasiness under her gaze, like a warning of + danger not far off. The memory of his meeting with her on that same + morning was not clear at that moment, but he had not forgotten the odd + disturbance of his faculties which had distressed him at the time. He was + inclined to resist any return of the doubtful state and to oppose Unorna’s + influence. He felt the fascination of her glance, and he straightened + himself rather proudly and coldly as though to withdraw himself from it. + It was certain that Unorna, at the surprise of meeting her, had + momentarily dispelled the gloomy presentiment which had given him such + terrible pain. And yet, even his disturbed and anxious consciousness found + it more than strange that she should thus press him to go with her, and so + boldly promise to bring him to the object of his search. He resisted her, + and found that resistance was not easy. + </p> + <p> + “And yet,” said she, dropping her eyes and seeming to abandon the attempt, + “you said that if you failed to-day you would come back to me. Have you + succeeded, that you need no help?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not succeeded.” + </p> + <p> + “And if I had not come to you—if I had not met you here, you would + have failed for the last time. You would have carried with you the + conviction of her death to the moment of your own.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a horrible delusion, but since it was a delusion it would have + passed away in time.” + </p> + <p> + “With your life, perhaps. Who would have waked you, if I had not?” + </p> + <p> + “I was not sleeping. Why do you reason? What would you prove?” + </p> + <p> + “Much, if I knew how. Will you walk with me? It is very cold.” + </p> + <p> + 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. Her strong will was suddenly veiled by the most gentle and + womanly manner, and a little shiver, real or feigned, passed over her as + she drew the folds of her fur more closely round her. The man before her + could resist the aggressive manifestation of her power, but he was far too + courteous to refuse her request. + </p> + <p> + “Which way?” he asked quietly. + </p> + <p> + “To the river,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + He turned and took his place by her side. For some moments they walked on + in silence. It was already almost twilight. + </p> + <p> + “How short the days are!” exclaimed Unorna, rather suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “How long, even at their shortest!” replied her companion. + </p> + <p> + “They might be short—if you would.” + </p> + <p> + He did not answer her, though he glanced quickly at her face. She was + looking down at the pavement before her, as though picking her way, for + there were patches of ice upon the stones. She seemed very quiet. He could + not guess that her heart was beating violently, and that she found it hard + to say six words in a natural tone. + </p> + <p> + So far as he himself was concerned he was in no humour for talking. He had + seen almost everything in the world, and had read or heard almost + everything that mankind had to say. The streets of Prague had no novelty + for him, and there was no charm in the chance acquaintance of a beautiful + woman, to bring words to his lips. Words had long since grown useless in + the solitude of a life that was spent in searching for one face among the + millions that passed before his sight. Courtesy had bidden him to walk + with her, because she had asked it, but courtesy did not oblige him to + amuse her, he thought, and she had not the power that Keyork Arabian had + to force him into conversation, least of all into conversing upon his own + inner life. He regretted the few words he had spoken, and would have taken + them back, had it been possible. He felt no awkwardness in the long + silence. + </p> + <p> + Unorna for the first time in her life felt that she had not full control + of her faculties. She who was always so calm, so thoroughly mistress of + her own powers, whose judgment Keyork Arabian could deceive, but whose + self-possession he could not move, except to anger, was at the present + moment both weak and unbalanced. Ten minutes earlier she had fancied that + it would be an easy thing to fix her eyes on his and to cast the veil of a + half-sleep over his already half-dreaming senses. She had fancied that it + would be enough to say “Come,” and that he would follow. She had formed + the bold scheme of attaching him to herself, by visions of the woman whom + he loved as she wished to be loved by him. She believed that if he were + once in that state she could destroy the old love for ever, or even turn + it to hate, at her will. And it had seemed easy. That morning, when he had + first come to her, she had fastened her glance upon him more than once, + and she had seen him turn a shade paler, had noticed the drooping of his + lids and the relaxation of his hands. She had sought him in the street, + guided by something surer than instinct, she had found him, had read his + thoughts, and had felt him yielding to her fixed determination. Then, + suddenly, her power had left her, and as she walked beside him, she knew + that if she looked into his face she would blush and be confused like a + shy girl. She almost wished that he would leave her without a word and + without an apology. + </p> + <p> + It was not possible, however, to prolong the silence much longer. A vague + fear seized her. Had she really lost all her dominating strength in the + first moments of the first sincere passion she had ever felt? Was she + reduced to weakness by his presence, and unable so much as to sustain a + fragmentary conversation, let alone suggesting to his mind the turn it + should take? She was ashamed of her poverty of spirit in the emergency. + She felt herself tongue-tied, and the hot blood rose to her face. He was + not looking at her, but she could not help fancying that he knew her + secret embarrassment. She hung her head and drew her veil down so that it + should hide even her mouth. + </p> + <p> + But her trouble increased with every moment, for each second made it + harder to break the silence. She sought madly for something to say, and + she knew that her cheeks were on fire. Anything would do, no matter what. + The sound of her own voice, uttering the commonest of commonplaces, would + restore her equanimity. But that simple, almost meaningless phrase would + not be found. She would stammer, if she tried to speak, like a child that + has forgotten its lesson and fears the schoolmaster as well as the + laughter of its schoolmates. It would be so easy if he would say something + instead of walking quietly by her side, suiting his pace to hers, shifting + his position so that she might step upon the smoothest parts of the + ill-paved street, and shielding her, as it were, from the passers-by. + There was a courteous forethought for her convenience and safety in every + movement of his, a something which a woman always feels when traversing a + crowded thoroughfare by the side of a man who is a true gentleman in every + detail of life, whether husband, or friend, or chance acquaintance. For + the spirit of the man who is really thoughtful for woman, as well as + sincerely and genuinely respectful in his intercourse with them, is + manifest in his smallest outward action. + </p> + <p> + While every step she took increased the violence of the passion which had + suddenly swept away her strength, every instant added to her confusion. + She was taken out of the world in which she was accustomed to rule, and + was suddenly placed in one where men are men, and women are women, and in + which social conventionalities hold sway. She began to be frightened. The + walk must end, and at the end of it they must part. Since she had lost her + power over him he might go away, for there would be nothing to bring him + to her. She wondered why he would not speak, and her terror increased. She + dared not look up, lest she should find him looking at her. + </p> + <p> + Then they emerged from the street and stood by the river, in a lonely + place. The heavy ice was gray with old snow in some places and black in + others, where the great blocks had been cut out in long strips. It was + lighter here. A lingering ray of sunshine, forgotten by the departing day, + gilded the vast walls and turrets of venerable Hradschin, far above them + on the opposite bank, and tinted the sharp dark spires of the half-built + cathedral which crowns the fortress. The distant ring of fast-moving + skates broke the stillness. + </p> + <p> + “Are you angry with me?” asked Unorna, almost humbly, and hardly knowing + what she said. The question had risen to her lips without warning, and was + asked almost unconsciously. + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand. Angry? At what? Why should you think I am angry?” + </p> + <p> + “You are so silent,” she answered, regaining courage from the mere sound + of her own words. “We have been walking a long time, and you have said + nothing. I thought you were displeased.” + </p> + <p> + “You must forgive me. I am often silent.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were displeased,” she repeated. “I think that you were, + though you hardly knew it. I should be very sorry if you were angry.” + </p> + <p> + “Why would you be sorry?” asked the Wanderer with a civil indifference + that hurt Unorna more than any acknowledgment of his displeasure could + have done. + </p> + <p> + “Because I would help you, if you would let me.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her with sudden keenness. In spite of herself she blushed and + turned her head away. He hardly noticed the fact, and, if he had, would + assuredly not have put upon it any interpretation approaching to the + truth. He supposed that she was flushed with walking. + </p> + <p> + “No one has ever helped me, least of all in the way you mean,” he said. + “The counsels of wise men—of the wisest—have been useless, as + well as the dreams of women who fancy they have the gift of mental sight + beyond the limit of bodily vision.” + </p> + <p> + “Who fancy they see!” exclaimed Unorna, almost glad to find that she was + still strong enough to feel annoyance at the slight. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon. I do not mean to doubt your powers, of which I have + had no experience.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not offer to see for you. I did not offer you a dream.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you show me that which I already see, waking and sleeping? Would + you bring to my hearing the sound of a voice which I can hear even now? I + need no help for that.” + </p> + <p> + “I can do more than that—for you.” + </p> + <p> + “And why for me?” he asked with some curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “Because—because you are Keyork Arabian’s friend.” She glanced at + his face, but he showed no surprise. + </p> + <p> + “You have seen him this afternoon, of course,” he remarked. + </p> + <p> + And odd smile passed over Unorna’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I have seen him this afternoon. He is a friend of mine, and of yours—do + you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “He is the wisest of men,” said the Wanderer. “And also the maddest,” he + added thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “And you think it was in his madness, rather than in his wisdom, that he + advised you to come to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly. In his belief in you, at least.” + </p> + <p> + “And that may be madness?” She was gaining courage. + </p> + <p> + “Or wisdom—if I am mad. He believes in you. That is certain.” + </p> + <p> + “He has no beliefs. Have you known him long, and do not know that? With + him there is nothing between knowledge and ignorance.” + </p> + <p> + “And he knows, of course, by experience what you can do and what you + cannot do?” + </p> + <p> + “By very long experience, as I know him.” + </p> + <p> + “Neither your gifts nor his knowledge of them can change dreams to facts.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna smiled again. + </p> + <p> + “You can produce a dream—nothing more,” continued the Wanderer, + drawn at last into argument. “I, too, know something of these things. The + wisdom of the Egyptians is not wholly lost yet. You may possess some of + it, as well as the undeveloped power which could put all their magic + within your reach if you knew how to use it. Yet a dream is a dream.” + </p> + <p> + “Philosophers have disputed that,” answered Unorna. “I am no philosopher, + but I can overthrow the results of all their disputations.” + </p> + <p> + “You can do this. If I resign my will into your keeping you can cause me + to dream. You can call up vividly before me the remembered and + unremembered sights of my life. You can make me see clearly the sights + impressed upon your own memory. You might do that, and yet you could be + showing me nothing which I do not see now before me—of those things + which I care to see.” + </p> + <p> + “But suppose that you were wrong, and that I had no dream to show you, but + a reality?” + </p> + <p> + She spoke the words very earnestly, gazing into his eyes at last without + fear. Something in her tone struck him and fixed his attention. + </p> + <p> + “There is no sleep needed to see realities,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I did not say that there was. I only asked you to come with me to the + place where she is.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer started slightly and forgot all the instinct of opposition to + her which he had felt so strongly before. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that you know—that you can take me to her——” + he could not find words. A strange, overmastering astonishment took + possession of him, and with it came wild hope and the wilder longing to + reach its realisation instantly. + </p> + <p> + “What else could I have meant? What else did I say?” Her eyes were + beginning to glitter in the gathering dusk. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer no longer avoided their look, but he passed his hand over his + brow, as though dazed. + </p> + <p> + “I only asked you to come with me,” she repeated softly. “There is nothing + supernatural about that. When I saw that you did not believe me I did not + try to lead you then, though she is waiting for you. She bade me bring you + to her.” + </p> + <p> + “You have seen her? You have talked with her? She sent you? Oh, for God’s + sake, come quickly!—come, come!” + </p> + <p> + He put out his hand as though to take hers and lead her away. She grasped + it eagerly. He had not seen that she had drawn off her glove. He was lost. + Her eyes held him and her fingers touched his bare wrist. His lids drooped + and his will was hers. In the intolerable anxiety of the moment he had + forgotten to resist, he had not even thought of resisting. + </p> + <p> + There were great blocks of stone in the desolate place, landed there + before the river had frozen for a great building, whose gloomy, unfinished + mass stood waiting for the warmth of spring to be completed. She led him + by the hand, passive and obedient as a child, to a sheltered spot and made + him sit down upon one of the stones. It was growing dark. + </p> + <p> + “Look at me,” she said, standing before him, and touching his brow. He + obeyed. + </p> + <p> + “You are the image in my eyes,” she said, after a moment’s pause. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I am the image in your eyes,” he answered in a dull voice. + </p> + <p> + “You will never resist me again, I command it. Hereafter it will be enough + for me to touch your hand, or to look at you, and if I say, ‘Sleep,’ you + will instantly become the image again. Do you understand that?” + </p> + <p> + “I understand it.” + </p> + <p> + “Promise!” + </p> + <p> + “I promise,” he replied, without perceptible effort. + </p> + <p> + “You have been dreaming for years. From this moment you must forget all + your dreams.” + </p> + <p> + His face expressed no understanding of what she said. She hesitated a + moment and then began to walk slowly up and down before him. His + half-glazed look followed her as she moved. She came back and laid her + hand upon his head. + </p> + <p> + “My will is yours. You have no will of your own. You cannot think without + me,” She spoke in a tone of concentrated determination, and a slight + shiver passed over him. + </p> + <p> + “It is of no use to resist, for you have promised never to resist me + again,” she continued. “All that I command must take place in your mind + instantly, without opposition. Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, moving uneasily. + </p> + <p> + For some seconds she again held her open palm upon his head. She seemed to + be evoking all her strength for a great effort. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me, and let everything I say take possession of your mind for + ever. My will is yours, you are the image in my eyes, my word is your law. + You know what I please that you should know. You forget what I command you + to forget. You have been mad these many years, and I am curing you. You + must forget your madness. You have now forgotten it. I have erased the + memory of it with my hand. There is nothing to remember any more.” + </p> + <p> + The dull eyes, deep-set beneath the shadows of the overhanging brow, + seemed to seek her face in the dark, and for the third time there was a + nervous twitching of the shoulders and limbs. Unorna knew the symptom + well, but had never seen it return so often, like a protest of the body + against the enslaving of the intelligence. She was nervous in spite of her + success. The immediate results of hypnotic suggestion are not exactly the + same in all cases, even in the first moments; its consequences may be + widely different with different individuals. Unorna, indeed, possessed an + extraordinary power, but on the other hand she had to deal with an + extraordinary organisation. She knew this instinctively, and endeavoured + to lead the sleeping mind by degrees to the condition in which she wished + it to remain. + </p> + <p> + The repeated tremor in the body was the outward sign of a mental + resistance which it would not be easy to overcome. The wisest course was + to go over the ground already gained. This she was determined to do by + means of a sort of catechism. + </p> + <p> + “Who am I?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna,” answered the powerless man promptly, but with a strange air of + relief. + </p> + <p> + “Are you asleep?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Awake?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “In what state are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I am an image.” + </p> + <p> + “And where is your body?” + </p> + <p> + “Seated upon that stone.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you see your face?” + </p> + <p> + “I see it distinctly. The eyes in the body are glassy.” + </p> + <p> + “The body is gone now. You do not see it any more. Is that true?” + </p> + <p> + “It is true. I do not see it. I see the stone on which it was sitting.” + </p> + <p> + “You are still in my eyes. Now”—she touched his head again—“now, + you are no longer an image. You are my mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I am your mind.” + </p> + <p> + “You, my Mind, know that I met to-day a man called the Wanderer, whose + body you saw when you were in my eyes. Do you know that or not?” + </p> + <p> + “I know it. I am your mind.” + </p> + <p> + “You know, Mind, that the man was mad. He had suffered for many years from + a delusion. In pursuit of the fixed idea he had wandered far through the + world. Do you know whither his travels had led him?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know. That is not in your mind. You did not know it when I + became your mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. Tell me, Mind, what was this man’s delusion?” + </p> + <p> + “He fancied that he loved a woman whom he could not find.” + </p> + <p> + “The man must be cured. You must know that he was mad and is now sane. + You, my Mind, must see that it was really a delusion. You see it now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I see it.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna watched the waking sleeper narrowly. It was now night, but the sky + had cleared and the starlight falling upon the snow in the lonely, open + place, made it possible to see very well. Unorna seemed as unconscious of + the bitter cold as her subject, whose body was in a state past all outward + impressions. So far she had gone through all the familiar process of + question and answer with success, but this was not all. She knew that if, + when he awoke, the name he loved still remained in his memory, the result + would not be accomplished. She must produce entire forgetfulness, and to + do this, she must wipe out every association, one by one. She gathered her + strength during a short pause. She was greatly encouraged by the fact that + the acknowledgment of the delusion had been followed by no convulsive + reaction in the body. She was on the very verge of a complete triumph, and + the concentration of her will during a few moments longer might win the + battle. + </p> + <p> + She could not have chosen a spot better suited for her purpose. Within + five minutes’ walk of streets in which throngs of people were moving + about, the scene which surrounded her was desolate and almost wild. The + unfinished building loomed like a ruin behind her; the rough hewn blocks + lay like boulders in a stony desert; the broad gray ice lay like a floor + of lustreless iron before her under the uncertain starlight. Only afar + off, high up in the mighty Hradschin, lamps gleamed here and there from + the windows, the distant evidences of human life. All was still. Even the + steely ring of the skates had ceased. + </p> + <p> + “And so,” she continued, presently, “this man’s whole life has been a + delusion, ever since he began to fancy in the fever of an illness that he + loved a certain woman. Is this clear to you, my Mind?” + </p> + <p> + “It is quite clear,” answered the muffled voice. + </p> + <p> + “He was so utterly mad that he even gave that woman a name—a name, + when she had never existed except in his imagination.” + </p> + <p> + “Except in his imagination,” repeated the sleeper, without resistance. + </p> + <p> + “He called her Beatrice. The name was suggested to him because he had + fallen ill in a city of the South where a woman called Beatrice once lived + and was loved by a great poet. That was the train of self-suggestion in + his delirium. Mind, do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “He suggested to himself the name in his illness.” + </p> + <p> + “In the same way that he suggested to himself the existence of the woman + whom he afterwards believed he loved?” + </p> + <p> + “In exactly the same way.” + </p> + <p> + “It was all a curious and very interesting case of auto-hypnotic + suggestion. It made him very mad. He is now cured of it. Do you see that + he is cured?” + </p> + <p> + The sleeper gave no answer. The stiffened limbs did not move, indeed, nor + did the glazed eyes reflect the starlight. But he gave no answer. The lips + did not even attempt to form words. Had Unorna been less carried away by + the excitement in her own thoughts, or less absorbed in the fierce + concentration of her will upon its passive subject, she would have noticed + the silence and would have gone back again over the old ground. As it was, + she did not pause. + </p> + <p> + “You understand therefore, my Mind, that this Beatrice was entirely the + creature of the man’s imagination. Beatrice does not exist, because she + never existed. Beatrice never had any real being. Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + This time she waited for an answer, but none came. + </p> + <p> + “There never was any Beatrice,” she repeated firmly, laying her hand upon + the unconscious head and bending down to gaze into the sightless eyes. + </p> + <p> + The answer did not come, but a shiver like that of an ague shook the long, + graceful limbs. + </p> + <p> + “You are my Mind,” she said fiercely. “Obey me! There never was any + Beatrice, there is no Beatrice now, and there never can be.” + </p> + <p> + The noble brow contracted in a look of agonising pain, and the whole frame + shook like an aspen leaf in the wind. The mouth moved spasmodically. + </p> + <p> + “Obey me! Say it!” cried Unorna with passionate energy. + </p> + <p> + The lips twisted themselves, and the face was as gray as the gray snow. + </p> + <p> + “There is—no—Beatrice.” The words came out slowly, and yet not + distinctly, as though wrung from the heart by torture. + </p> + <p> + Unorna smiled at last, but the smile had not faded from her lips when the + air was rent by a terrible cry. + </p> + <p> + “By the Eternal God of Heaven!” cried the ringing voice. “It is a lie!—a + lie!—a lie!” + </p> + <p> + She who had never feared anything earthly or unearthly shrank back. She + felt her heavy hair rising bodily upon her head. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer had sprung to his feet. The magnitude and horror of the + falsehood spoken had stabbed the slumbering soul to sudden and terrible + wakefulness. The outline of his tall figure was distinct against the gray + background of ice and snow. He was standing at his full height, his arms + stretched up to heaven, his face luminously pale, his deep eyes on fire + and fixed upon her face, forcing back her dominating will upon itself. But + he was not alone! + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice!” he cried in long-drawn agony. + </p> + <p> + Between him and Unorna something passed by, something dark and soft and + noiseless, that took shape slowly—a woman in black, a veil thrown + back from her forehead, her white face turned towards the Wanderer, her + white hands hanging by her side. She stood still, and the face turned, and + the eyes met Unorna’s, and Unorna knew that it was Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + There she stood, between them, motionless as a statue, impalpable as air, + but real as life itself. The vision, if it was a vision, lasted fully a + minute. Never, to the day of her death, was Unorna to forget that face, + with its deathlike purity of outline, with its unspeakable nobility of + feature. + </p> + <p> + It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. A low broken sound of pain + escaped from the Wanderer’s lips, and with his arms extended he fell + forwards. The strong woman caught him and he sank to the ground gently, in + her arms, his head supported upon her shoulder, as she kneeled under the + heavy weight. + </p> + <p> + There was a sound of quick footsteps on the frozen snow. A Bohemian + watchman, alarmed by the loud cry, was running to the spot. + </p> + <p> + “What has happened?” he asked, bending down to examine the couple. + </p> + <p> + “My friend has fainted,” said Unorna calmly. “He is subject to it. You + must help me to get him home.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it far?” asked the man. + </p> + <p> + “To the House of the Black Mother of God.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + The principal room of Keyork Arabian’s dwelling was in every way + characteristic of the man. In the extraordinary confusion which at first + disturbed a visitor’s judgment, some time was needed to discover the + architectural bounds of the place. The vaulted roof was indeed apparent, + as well as small portions of the wooden flooring. Several windows, which + might have been large had they filled the arched embrasures in which they + were set, admitted the daylight when there was enough of it in Prague to + serve the purpose of illumination. So far as could be seen from the + street, they were commonplace windows without shutters and with double + casements against the cold, but from within it was apparent that the tall + arches in the thick walls had been filled in with a thinner masonry in + which the modern frames were set. So far as it was possible to see, the + room had but two doors; the one, masked by a heavy curtain made of a + Persian carpet, opened directly upon the staircase of the house; the + other, exactly opposite, gave access to the inner apartments. On account + of its convenient size, however, the sage had selected for his principal + abiding place this first chamber, which was almost large enough to be + called a hall, and here he had deposited the extraordinary and + heterogeneous collection of objects, or, more property speaking, of + remains, upon the study of which he spent a great part of his time. + </p> + <p> + Two large tables, three chairs and a divan completed the list of all that + could be called furniture. The tables were massive, dark, and + old-fashioned; the feet at each end consisted of thick flat boards sawn + into a design of simple curves, and connected by strong crosspieces keyed + to them with large wooden bolts. The chairs were ancient folding stools, + with movable backs and well-worn cushions of faded velvet. The divan + differed in no respect from ordinary oriental divans in appearance, and + was covered with a stout dark Bokhara carpet of no great value; but so far + as its use was concerned, the disorderly heaps of books and papers that + lay upon it showed that Keyork was more inclined to make a book-case of it + than a couch. + </p> + <p> + The room received its distinctive character however neither from its + vaulted roof, nor from the deep embrasures of its windows, nor from its + scanty furniture, but from the peculiar nature of the many curious + objects, large and small, which hid the walls and filled almost all the + available space on the floor. It was clear that every one of the specimens + illustrated some point in the great question of life and death which + formed the chief study of Keyork Arabian’s latter years; for by far the + greater number of the preparations were dead bodies, of men, of women, of + children, of animals, to all of which the old man had endeavoured to + impart the appearance of life, and in treating some of which he had + attained results of a startling nature. The osteology of man and beast was + indeed represented, for a huge case, covering one whole wall, was filled + to the top with a collection of many hundred skulls of all races of + mankind, and where real specimens were missing, their place was supplied + by admirable casts of craniums; but this reredos, so to call it, of bony + heads, formed but a vast, grinning background for the bodies which stood + and sat and lay in half-raised coffins and sarcophagi before them, in + every condition produced by various known and lost methods of embalming. + There were, it is true, a number of skeletons, disposed here and there in + fantastic attitudes, gleaming white and ghostly in their mechanical + nakedness, the bones of human beings, the bones of giant orang-outangs, of + creatures large and small down to the flimsy little framework of a common + bull frog, strung on wires as fine as hairs, which squatted comfortably + upon an old book near the edge of a table, as though it had just skipped + to that point in pursuit of a ghostly fly and was pausing to meditate a + farther spring. But the eye did not discover these things at the first + glance. Solemn, silent, strangely expressive, lay three slim Egyptians, + raised at an angle as though to give them a chance of surveying their + fellow-dead, the linen bandages unwrapped from their heads and arms and + shoulders, their jet-black hair combed and arranged and dressed by + Keyork’s hand, their faces softened almost to the expression of life by + one of his secret processes, their stiffened joints so limbered by his art + that their arms had taken natural positions again, lying over the edges of + the sarcophagi in which they had rested motionless and immovable through + thirty centuries. For the man had pursued his idea in every shape and with + every experiment, testing, as it were, the potential imperishability of + the animal frame by the degree of life-like plumpness and softness and + flexibility which it could be made to take after a mummification of three + thousand years. And he had reached the conclusion that, in the nature of + things, the human body might vie, in resisting the mere action of time, + with the granite of the pyramids. Those had been his earliest trials. The + results of many others filled the room. Here a group of South Americans, + found dried in the hollow of an ancient tree, had been restored almost to + the likeness of life, and were apparently engaged in a lively dispute over + the remains of a meal—as cold as themselves and as human. There, + towered the standing body of an African, leaning upon a knotted club, + fierce, grinning, lacking only sight in the sunken eyes to be terrible. + There again, surmounting a lay figure wrapped in rich stuffs, smiled the + calm and gentle face of a Malayan lady—decapitated for her sins, so + marvellously preserved that the soft dark eyes still looked out from + beneath the heavy, half-drooping lids, and the full lips, still richly + coloured, parted a little to show the ivory teeth. Other sights there + were, more ghastly still, triumphs of preservation, if not of + semi-resuscitation, over decay, won on its own most special ground. + Triumphs all, yet almost failures in the eyes of the old student, they + represented the mad efforts of an almost supernatural skill and superhuman + science to revive, if but for one second, the very smallest function of + the living body. Strange and wild were the trials he had made; many and + great the sacrifices and blood offerings lavished on his dead in the hope + of seeing that one spasm which would show that death might yet be + conquered; many the engines, the machines, the artificial hearts, the + applications of electricity that he had invented; many the powerful + reactives he had distilled wherewith to excite the long dead nerves, or + those which but two days had ceased to feel. The hidden essence was still + undiscovered, the meaning of vitality eluded his profoundest study, his + keenest pursuit. The body died, and yet the nerves could still be made to + act as though alive for the space of a few hours—in rare cases for a + day. With his eyes he had seen a dead man spring half across a room from + the effects of a few drops of musk—on the first day; with his eyes + he had seen the dead twist themselves, and move and grin under the + electric current—provided it had not been too late. But that “too + late” had baffled him, and from his first belief that life might be + restored when once gone, he had descended to what seemed the simpler + proposition of the two, to the problem of maintaining life indefinitely so + long as its magic essence lingered in the flesh and blood. And now he + believed that he was very near the truth; how terribly near he had yet to + learn. + </p> + <p> + On that evening when the Wanderer fell to the earth before the shadow of + Beatrice, Keyork Arabian sat alone in his charnel-house. The brilliant + light of two powerful lamps illuminated everything in the place, for + Keyork loved light, like all those who are intensely attached to life for + its own sake. The yellow rays flooded the life-like faces of his dead + companions, and streamed upwards to the heterogeneous objects that filled + the shelves almost to the spring of the vault—objects which all + reminded him of the conditions of lives long ago extinct, endless heaps of + barbarous weapons, of garments of leather and of fish skin, Amurian, + Siberian, Gothic, Mexican, and Peruvian; African and Red Indian masks, + models of boats and canoes, sacred drums, Liberian idols, Runic calendars, + fiddles made of human skulls, strange and barbaric ornaments, all + producing together an amazing richness of colour—all things in which + the man himself had taken but a passing interest, the result of his + central study—life in all its shapes. + </p> + <p> + He sat alone. The African giant looked down at his dwarf-like form as + though in contempt of such half-grown humanity; the Malayan lady’s + bodiless head turned its smiling face towards him; scores of dead beings + seemed to contemplate half in pity, half in scorn, their would-be reviver. + Keyork Arabian was used to their company and to their silence. Far beyond + the common human horror of dead humanity, if one of them had all at once + nodded to him and spoken to him he would have started with delight and + listened with rapture. But they were all still dead, and they neither + spoke or moved a finger. A thought that had more hope in it than any which + had passed through his brain for many years now occupied and absorbed him. + A heavy book lay open on the table by his side, and from time to time he + glanced at a phrase which seemed to attract him. It was always the same + phrase, and two words alone sufficed to bring him back to contemplation of + it. Those two words were “Immortality” and “Soul.” He began to speak aloud + to himself, being by nature fond of speech. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The soul is immortal. I am quite willing to grant that. But it does + not in any way follow that it is the source of life, or the seat of + intelligence. The Buddhists distinguished it even from the individuality. + And yet life holds it, and when life ends it takes its departure. How + soon? I do not know. It is not a condition of life, but life is one of its + conditions. Does it leave the body when life is artificially prolonged in + a state of unconsciousness—by hypnotism, for instance? Is it more + closely bound up with animal life, or with intelligence? If with either, + has it a definite abiding place in the heart, or in the brain? Since its + presence depends directly on life, so far as I know, it belongs to the + body rather than to the brain. I once made a rabbit live an hour without + its head. With a man that experiment would need careful manipulation—I + would like to try it. Or is it all a question of that phantom, Vitality? + Then the presence of the soul depends upon the potential excitability of + the nerves, and, as far as we know, it must leave the body not more than + twenty-four hours after death, and it certainly does not leave the body at + the moment of dying. But if of the nerves, then what is the condition of + the soul in the hypnotic state? Unorna hypnotises our old friend there—and + our young one, too. For her, they have nerves. At her touch they wake, + they sleep, they move, they feel, they speak. But they have no nerves for + me. I can cut them with knives, burn them, turn the life-blood of the one + into the arteries of the other—they feel nothing. If the soul is of + the nerves—or of the vitality, then they have souls for Unorna, and + none for me. That is absurd. Where is that old man’s soul? He has slept + for years. Has not his soul been somewhere else in the meanwhile? If we + could keep him asleep for centuries, or for scores of centuries, like that + frog found alive in a rock, would his soul—able by the hypothesis to + pass through rocks or universes—stay by him? Could an ingenious + sinner escape damnation for a few thousand years by being hypnotised? + Verily the soul is a very unaccountable thing, and what is still more + unaccountable is that I believe in it. Suppose the case of the ingenious + sinner. Suppose that he could not escape by his clever trick. Then his + soul must inevitably taste the condition of the damned while he is asleep. + But when he is waked at last, and found to be alive, his soul must come + back to him, glowing from the eternal flames. Unpleasant thought! Keyork + Arabian, you had far better not go to sleep at present. Since all that is + fantastic nonsense, on the face of it, I am inclined to believe that the + presence of the soul is in some way a condition requisite for life, rather + than depending upon it. I wish I could buy a soul. It is quite certain + that life is not a mere mechanical or chemical process. I have gone too + far to believe that. Take man at the very moment of death—have + everything ready, do what you will—my artificial heart is a very + perfect instrument, mechanically speaking—and how long does it take + to start the artificial circulation through the carotid artery? Not a + hundredth part so long a time as drowned people often lie before being + brought back, without a pulsation, without a breath. Yet I never + succeeded, though I have made the artificial heart work on a narcotised + rabbit, and the rabbit died instantly when I stopped the machine, which + proves that it was the machine that kept it alive. Perhaps if one applied + it to a man just before death he might live on indefinitely, grow fat and + flourish so long as the glass heart worked. Where would his soul be then? + In the glass heart, which would have become the seat of life? Everything, + sensible or absurd, which I can put into words makes the soul seem an + impossibility—and yet there is something which I cannot put into + words, but which proves the soul’s existence beyond all doubt. I wish I + could buy somebody’s soul and experiment with it.” + </p> + <p> + He ceased and sat staring at his specimens, going over in his memory the + fruitless experiments of a lifetime. A loud knocking roused him from his + reverie. He hastened to open the door and was confronted by Unorna. She + was paler than usual, and he saw from her expression that there was + something wrong. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter?” he asked, almost roughly. + </p> + <p> + “He is in a carriage downstairs,” she answered quickly. “Something has + happened to him. I cannot wake him, you must take him in—” + </p> + <p> + “To die on my hands? Not I!” laughed Keyork in his deepest voice. “My + collection is complete enough.” + </p> + <p> + She seized him suddenly by both arms, and brought her face near to his. + </p> + <p> + “If you dare to speak of death——” + </p> + <p> + She grew intensely white, with a fear she had not before known in her + life. Keyork laughed again, and tried to shake himself free of her grip. + </p> + <p> + “You seem a little nervous,” he observed calmly. “What do you want of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Your help, man, and quickly! Call your people! Have him carried upstairs! + Revive him! do something to bring him back!” + </p> + <p> + Keyork’s voice changed. + </p> + <p> + “Is he in real danger?” he asked. “What have you done to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I do not know what I have done!” cried Unorna desperately. “I do not + know what I fear——” + </p> + <p> + She let him go and leaned against the doorway, covering her face with her + hands. Keyork stared at her. He had never seen her show so much emotion + before. Then he made up his mind. He drew her into his room and left her + standing and staring at him while he thrust a few objects into his pockets + and threw his fur coat over him. + </p> + <p> + “Stay here till I come back,” he said, authoritatively, as he went out. + </p> + <p> + “But you will bring him here?” she cried, suddenly conscious of his going. + </p> + <p> + The door had already closed. She tried to open it, in order to follow him, + but she could not. The lock was of an unusual kind, and either + intentionally or accidentally Keyork had shut her in. For a few moments + she tried to force the springs, shaking the heavy wood work a very little + in the great effort she made. Then, seeing that it was useless, she walked + slowly to the table and sat down in Keyork’s chair. + </p> + <p> + She had been in the place before, and she was as free from any unpleasant + fear of the dead company as Keyork himself. To her, as to him, they were + but specimens, each having a peculiar interest, as a thing, but all + destitute of that individuality, of that grim, latent malice, of that + weird, soulless, physical power to harm, with which timid imaginations + endow dead bodies. + </p> + <p> + She scarcely gave them a glance, and she certainly gave them no thought. + She sat before the table, supporting her head in her hands and trying to + think connectedly of what had just happened. She knew well enough how the + Wanderer had lain upon the frozen ground, his head supported on her knee, + while the watchman had gone to call a carriage. She remembered how she had + summoned all her strength and had helped to lift him in, as few women + could have done. She remembered every detail of the place, and everything + she had done, even to the fact that she had picked up his hat and a stick + he had carried and had taken them into the vehicle with her. The short + drive through the ill-lighted streets was clear to her. She could still + feel the pressure of his shoulder as he had leaned heavily against her; + she could see the pale face by the fitful light of the lanterns as they + passed, and of the lamps that flashed in front of the carriage with each + jolting of the wheels over the rough paving-stones. She remembered exactly + what she had done, her efforts to wake him, at first regular and made with + the certainty of success, then more and more mad as she realised that + something had put him beyond the sphere of her powers for the moment, if + not for ever; his deathly pallor, his chilled hands, his unnatural + stillness—she remembered it all, as one remembers circumstances in + real life a moment after they have taken place. But there remained also + the recollection of a single moment during which her whole being had been + at the mercy of an impression so vivid that it seemed to stand alone + divested of any outward sensations by which to measure its duration. She, + who could call up visions in the minds of others, who possessed the + faculty of closing her bodily eyes in order to see distant places and + persons in the state of trance, she, who expected no surprises in her own + act, had seen something very vividly, which she could not believe had been + a reality, and which she yet could not account for as a revelation of + second sight. That dark, mysterious presence that had come bodily, yet + without a body, between her and the man she loved was neither a real + woman, nor the creation of her own brain, nor a dream seen in hypnotic + state. She had not the least idea how long it had stood there; it seemed + an hour, and it seemed but a second. But that incorporeal thing had a life + and a power of its own. Never before had she felt that unearthly chill run + through her, nor that strange sensation in her hair. It was a thing of + evil omen, and the presage was already about to be fulfilled. The spirit + of the dark woman had arisen at the sound of the words in which he denied + her; she had risen and had come to claim her own, to rob Unorna of what + seemed most worth coveting on earth—and she could take him, surely, + to the place whence she came. How could Unorna tell that he was not + already gone, that his spirit had not passed already, even when she was + lifting his weight from the ground? + </p> + <p> + At the despairing thought she started and looked up. She had almost + expected to see that shadow beside her again. But there was nothing. The + lifeless bodies stood motionless in their mimicry of life under the bright + light. The swarthy negro frowned, the face of the Malayan woman wore still + its calm and gentle expression. Far in the background the rows of gleaming + skulls grinned, as though at the memory of their four hundred lives; the + skeleton of the orang-outang stretched out its long bony arms before it; + the dead savages still squatted round the remains of their meal. The + stillness was oppressive. + </p> + <p> + Unorna rose to her feet in sudden anxiety. She did not know how long she + had been alone. She listened anxiously at the door for the sound of + footsteps on the stairs, but all was silent. Surely, Keyork had not taken + him elsewhere, to his lodgings, where he would not be cared for. That was + impossible. She must have heard the sound of the wheels as the carriage + drove away. She glanced at the windows and saw that the casements were + covered with small, thick curtains which would muzzle the sound. She went + to the nearest, thrust the curtain aside, opened the inner and the second + glass and looked out. Though the street below was dim, she could see well + enough that the carriage was no longer there. It was the bitterest night + of the year and the air cut her like a knife, but she would not draw back. + She strained her sight in both directions, searching in the gloom for the + moving lights of a carriage, but she saw nothing. At last she shut the + window and went back to the door. They must be on the stairs, or still + below, perhaps, waiting for help to carry him up. The cold might kill him + in his present state, a cold that would kill most things exposed to it. + Furiously she shook the door. It was useless. She looked about for an + instrument to help her strength. She could see nothing—no—yes—there + was the iron-wood club of the black giant. She went and took it from his + hand. The dead thing trembled all over, and rocked as though it would + fall, and wagged its great head at her, but she was not afraid. She raised + the heavy club and struck upon the door, upon the lock, upon the panels + with all her might. The terrible blows sent echoes down the staircase, but + the door did not yield, nor the lock either. Was the door of iron and the + lock of granite? she asked herself. Then she heard a strange, sudden noise + behind her. She turned and looked. The dead negro had fallen bodily from + his pedestal to the floor, with a dull, heavy thud. She did not desist, + but struck the oaken planks again and again with all her strength. Then + her arms grew numb and she dropped the club. It was all in vain. Keyork + had locked her in and had taken the Wanderer away. + </p> + <p> + She went back to her seat and fell into an attitude of despair. The + reaction from the great physical efforts she had made overcame her. It + seemed to her that Keyork’s only reason for taking him away must be that + he was dead. Her head throbbed and her eyes began to burn. The great + passion had its will of her and stabbed her through and through with such + pain as she had never dreamed of. The horror of it all was too deep for + tears, and tears were by nature very far from her eyes at all times. She + pressed her hands to her breast and rocked herself gently backwards and + forwards. There was no reason left in her. To her there was no reason left + in anything if he were gone. And if Keyork Arabian could not cure him, who + could? She knew now what that old prophecy had meant, when they had told + her that love would come but once, and that the chief danger of her life + lay in a mistake on that decisive day. Love had indeed come upon her like + a whirlwind, he had flashed upon her like the lightning, she had tried to + grasp him and keep him, and he was gone again—for ever. Gone through + her own fault, through her senseless folly in trying to do by art what + love would have done for himself. Blind, insensate, mad! She cursed + herself with unholy curses, and her beautiful face was strained and + distorted. With unconscious fingers she tore at her heavy hair until it + fell about her like a curtain. In the raging thirst of a great grief for + tears that would not flow she beat her bosom, she beat her face, she + struck with her white forehead the heavy table before her, she grasped her + own throat, as though she would tear the life out of herself. Then again + her head fell forward and her body swayed regularly to and fro, and low + words broke fiercely from her trembling lips now and then, bitter words of + a wild, strong language in which it is easier to curse than to bless. As + the sudden love that had in a few hours taken such complete possession of + her was boundless, so its consequences were illimitable. In a nature + strange to fear, the fear for another wrought a fearful revolution. Her + anger against herself was as terrible as her fear for him she loved was + paralysing. The instinct to act, the terror lest it should be too late, + the impossibility of acting at all so long as she was imprisoned in the + room, all three came over her at once. + </p> + <p> + The mechanical effort of rocking her body from side to side brought no + rest; the blow she struck upon her breast in her frenzy she felt no more + than the oaken door had felt those she had dealt it with the club. She + could not find even the soothing antidote of bodily pain for her intense + moral suffering. Again the time passed without her knowing or guessing of + its passage. + </p> + <p> + Driven to desperation she sprang at last from her seat and cried aloud. + </p> + <p> + “I would give my soul to know that he is safe!” + </p> + <p> + The words had not died away when a low groan passed, as it were, round the + room. The sound was distinctly that of a human voice, but it seemed to + come from all sides at once. Unorna stood still and listened. + </p> + <p> + “Who is in this room?” she asked in loud clear tones. + </p> + <p> + Not a breath stirred. She glanced from one specimen to another, as though + suspecting that among the dead some living being had taken a disguise. But + she knew them all. There was nothing new to her there. She was not afraid. + Her passion returned. + </p> + <p> + “My soul!—yes!” she cried again, leaning heavily on the table, “I + would give it if I could know, and it would be little enough!” + </p> + <p> + Again that awful sound filled the room, and rose now almost to a wail and + died away. + </p> + <p> + Unorna’s brow flushed angrily. In the direct line of her vision stood the + head of the Malayan woman, its soft, embalmed eyes fixed on hers. + </p> + <p> + “If there are people hidden here,” cried Unorna fiercely, “let them show + themselves! let them face me! I say it again—I would give my + immortal soul!” + </p> + <p> + This time Unorna saw as well as heard. The groan came, and the wail + followed it and rose to a shriek that deafened her. And she saw how the + face of the Malayan woman changed; she saw it move in the bright + lamp-light, she saw the mouth open. Horrified, she looked away. Her eyes + fell upon the squatting savages—their heads were all turned towards + her, she was sure that she could see their shrunken chests heave as they + took breath to utter that terrible cry again and again; even the fallen + body of the African stirred on the floor, not five paces from her. Would + their shrieking never stop? All of them—every one—even to the + white skulls high up in the case; not one skeleton, not one dead body that + did not mouth at her and scream and moan and scream again. + </p> + <p> + Unorna covered her ears with her hands to shut out the hideous, unearthly + noise. She closed her eyes lest she should see those dead things move. + Then came another noise. Were they descending from their pedestals and + cases and marching upon her, a heavy-footed company of corpses? + </p> + <p> + Fearless to the last, she dropped her hands and opened her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “In spite of you all,” she cried defiantly, “I will give my soul to have + him safe!” + </p> + <p> + Something was close to her. She turned and saw Keyork Arabian at her + elbow. There was an odd smile on his usually unexpressive face. + </p> + <p> + “Then give me that soul of yours, if you please,” he said. “He is quite + safe and peacefully asleep. You must have grown a little nervous while I + was away.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + Unorna let herself sink into a chair. She stared almost vacantly at + Keyork, then glanced uneasily at the motionless specimens, then stared at + him again. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said at last. “Perhaps I was a little nervous. Why did you lock + me in? I would have gone with you. I would have helped you.” + </p> + <p> + “An accident—quite an accident,” answered Keyork, divesting himself + of his fur coat. “The lock is a peculiar one, and in my hurry I forgot to + show you the trick of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I tried to get out,” said Unorna with a forced laugh. “I tried to break + the door down with a club. I am afraid I have hurt one of your specimens.” + </p> + <p> + She looked about the room. Everything was in its usual position, except + the body of the African. She was quite sure that when she had head that + unearthly cry, the dead faces had all been turned towards her. + </p> + <p> + “It is no matter,” replied Keyork in a tone of indifference which was + genuine. “I wish somebody would take my collection off my hands. I should + have room to walk about without elbowing a failure at every step.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would bury them all,” suggested Unorna, with a slight shudder. + </p> + <p> + Keyork looked at her keenly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say that those dead things frightened you?” he asked + incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “No; I do not. I am not easily frightened. But something odd happened—the + second strange thing that has happened this evening. Is there any one + concealed in this room?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a rat—much less a human being. Rats dislike creosote and + corrosive sublimate, and as for human beings——” + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Then I have been dreaming,” said Unorna, attempting to look relieved. + “Tell me about him. Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “In bed—at his hotel. He will be perfectly well to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he wake?” she asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. We talked together.” + </p> + <p> + “And he was in his right mind?” + </p> + <p> + “Apparently. But he seems to have forgotten something.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgotten? What? That I had made him sleep?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He had forgotten that too.” + </p> + <p> + “In Heaven’s name, Keyork, tell me what you mean! Do not keep me—” + </p> + <p> + “How impatient women are!” exclaimed Keyork with exasperating calm. “What + is it that you most want him to forget?” + </p> + <p> + “You cannot mean——” + </p> + <p> + “I can, and I do. He has forgotten Beatrice. For a witch—well, you + are a very remarkable one, Unorna. As a woman of business——” + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, this time? What did you say?” Her questions came in a + strained tone and she seemed to have difficulty in concentrating her + attention, or in controlling her emotions, or both. + </p> + <p> + “You paid a large price for the information,” observed Keyork. + </p> + <p> + “What price? What are you speaking of? I do not understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Your soul,” he answered, with a laugh. “That was what you offered to any + one who would tell you that the Wanderer was safe. I immediately closed + with your offer. It was an excellent one for me.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna tapped the table impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “It is odd that a man of your learning should never be serious,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I supposed that you were serious,” he answered. “Besides, a bargain is a + bargain, and there were numerous witnesses to the transaction,” he added, + looking round the room at his dead specimens. + </p> + <p> + Unorna tried to laugh with him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, I was so nervous that I fancied all those creatures were + groaning and shrieking and gibbering at me, when you came in.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely they were,” said Keyork Arabian, his small eyes twinkling. + </p> + <p> + “And I imagined that the Malayan woman opened her mouth to scream, and + that the Peruvian savages turned their heads; it was very strange—at + first they groaned, and then they wailed, and then they howled and + shrieked at me.” + </p> + <p> + “Under the circumstances, that is not extraordinary.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna stared at him rather angrily. He was jesting, of course, and she + had been dreaming, or had been so overwrought by excitement as to have + been made the victim of a vivid hallucination. Nevertheless there was + something disagreeable in the matter-of-fact gravity of his jest. + </p> + <p> + “I am tired of your kind of wit,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “The kind of wit which is called wisdom is said to be fatiguing,” he + retorted. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would give me an opportunity of being wearied in that way.” + </p> + <p> + “Begin by opening your eyes to facts, then. It is you who are trying to + jest. It is I who am in earnest. Did you, or did you not, offer your soul + for a certain piece of information? Did you, or did you not, hear those + dead things moan and cry? Did you, or did you not, see them move?” + </p> + <p> + “How absurd!” cried Unorna. “You might as well ask whether, when one is + giddy, the room is really going round? Is there any practical difference, + so far as sensation goes, between a mummy and a block of wood?” + </p> + <p> + “That, my dear lady, is precisely what we do not know, and what we most + wish to know. Death is not the change which takes place at a moment which + is generally clearly defined, when the heart stops beating, and the eye + turns white, and the face changes colour. Death comes some time after + that, and we do not know exactly when. It varies very much in different + individuals. You can only define it as the total and final cessation of + perception and apperception, both functions depending on the nerves. In + ordinary cases Nature begins of herself to destroy the nerves by a sure + process. But how do you know what happens when decay is not only arrested + but prevented before it has begun? How can you foretell what may happen + when a skilful hand has restored the tissues of the body to their original + flexibility, or preserved them in the state in which they were last + sensitive?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing can ever make me believe that a mummy can suddenly hear and + understand,” said Unorna. “Much less that it can move and produce a sound. + I know that the idea has possessed you for many years, but nothing will + make me believe it possible.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing short of seeing and hearing.” + </p> + <p> + “But you have seen and heard.” + </p> + <p> + “I was dreaming.” + </p> + <p> + “When you offered your soul?” + </p> + <p> + “Not then, perhaps. I was only mad then.” + </p> + <p> + “And on the ground of temporary insanity you would repudiate the bargain?” + </p> + <p> + Unorna shrugged her shoulders impatiently and did not answer. Keyork + relinquished the fencing. + </p> + <p> + “It is of no importance,” he said, changing his tone. “Your dream—or + whatever it was—seems to have been the second of your two + experiences. You said there were two, did you not? What was the first?” + </p> + <p> + Unorna sat silent for some minutes, as though collecting her thoughts. + Keyork, who never could have enough light, busied himself with another + lamp. The room was now brighter than it generally was in the daytime. + </p> + <p> + Unorna watched him. She did not want to make confidences to him, and yet + she felt irresistibly impelled to do so. He was a strange compound of + wisdom and levity, in her opinion, and his light-hearted moods were those + which she most resented. She was never sure whether he was in reality + tactless, or frankly brutal. She inclined to the latter view of his + character, because he always showed such masterly skill in excusing + himself when he had gone too far. Neither his wisdom nor his love of + jesting explained to her the powerful attraction he exercised over her + whole nature, and of which she was, in a manner, ashamed. She could + quarrel with him as often as they met, and yet she could not help being + always glad to meet him again. She could not admit that she liked him + because she dominated him; on the contrary, he was the only person she had + ever met over whom she had no influence whatever, who did as he pleased + without consulting her, and who laughed at her mysterious power so far as + he himself was concerned. Nor was her liking founded upon any + consciousness of obligation. If he had helped her to the best of his + ability in the great experiment, it was also clear enough that he had the + strongest personal interest in doing so. He loved life with a mad passion + for its own sake, and the only object of his study was to find a means of + living longer than other men. All the aims and desires and complex + reasonings of his being tended to this simple expression—the wish to + live. To what idolatrous self-worship Keyork Arabian might be capable of + descending, if he ever succeeded in eliminating death from the equation of + his immediate future, it was impossible to say. The wisdom of ages bids us + beware of the man of one idea. He is to be feared for his ruthlessness, + for his concentration, for the singular strength he has acquired in the + centralization of his intellectual power, and because he has welded, as it + were, the rough metal of many passions and of many talents into a single + deadly weapon which he wields for a single purpose. Herein lay, perhaps, + the secret of Unorna’s undefined fear of Keyork and of her still less + definable liking for him. + </p> + <p> + She leaned one elbow on the table and shaded her eyes from the brilliant + light. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know why I should tell you,” she said at last. “You will only + laugh at me, and then I shall be angry, and we shall quarrel as usual.” + </p> + <p> + “I may be of use,” suggested the little man gravely. “Besides, I have made + up my mind never to quarrel with you again, Unorna.” + </p> + <p> + “You are wise, my dear friend. It does no good. As for your being of use + in this case, the most I can hope is that you may find me an explanation + of something I cannot understand.” + </p> + <p> + “I am good at that. I am particularly good at explanations—and, + generally, at all <i>post facto</i> wisdom.” + </p> + <p> + “Keyork, do you believe that the souls of the dead can come back and be + visible to us?” + </p> + <p> + Keyork Arabian was silent for a few seconds. + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing about it,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “But what do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Either it is possible, or it is not, and until the one + proposition or the other is proved I suspend my judgment. Have you seen a + ghost?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know. I have seen something——” She stopped, as + though the recollections were unpleasant. + </p> + <p> + “Then” said Keyork, “the probability is that you saw a living person. + Shall I sum up the question of ghosts for you?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would, in some way that I can understand.” + </p> + <p> + “We are, then, in precisely the same position with regard to the belief in + ghosts which we occupy towards such questions as the abolition of death. + The argument in both cases is inductive and all but conclusive. We do not + know of any case, in the two hundred generations of men, more or less, + with whose history we are in some degree acquainted, of any individual who + has escaped death. We conclude that all men must die. Similarly, we do not + know certainly—not from real, irrefutable evidence at least—that + the soul of any man or woman dead has ever returned visibly to earth. We + conclude, therefore, that none ever will. There is a difference in the two + cases, which throws a slight balance of probability on the side of the + ghost. Many persons have asserted that they have seen ghosts, though none + have ever asserted that men do not die. For my own part, I have had a very + wide, practical, and intimate acquaintance with dead people—sometimes + in very queer places—but I have never seen anything even faintly + suggestive of a ghost. Therefore, my dear lady, I advise you to take it + for granted that you have seen a living person.” + </p> + <p> + “I never shivered with cold and felt my hair rise upon my head at the + sight of any living thing,” said Unorna dreamily, and still shading her + eyes with her hand. + </p> + <p> + “But might you not feel that if you chanced to see some one whom you + particularly disliked?” asked Keyork, with a gentle laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Disliked?” repeated Unorna in a harsh voice. She changed her position and + looked at him. “Yes, perhaps that is possible. I had not thought of that. + And yet—I would rather it had been a ghost.” + </p> + <p> + “More interesting, certainly, and more novel,” observed Keyork, slowly + polishing his smooth cranium with the palm of his hand. His head, and the + perfect hemisphere of his nose, reflected the light like ivory balls of + different sizes. + </p> + <p> + “I was standing before him,” said Unorna. “The place was lonely and it was + already night. The stars shone on the snow, and I could see distinctly. + Then she—that woman—passed softly between us. He cried out, + calling her by name, and then fell forward. After that, the woman was + gone. What was it that I saw?” + </p> + <p> + “You are quite sure that it was not really a woman?” + </p> + <p> + “Would a woman, and of all women that one, have come and gone without a + word?” + </p> + <p> + “Not unless she is a very singularly reticent person,” answered Keyork, + with a laugh. “But you need not go so far as the ghost theory for an + explanation. You were hypnotised, my dear friend, and he made you see her. + That is as simple as anything need be.” + </p> + <p> + “But that is impossible, because——” Unorna stopped and changed + colour. + </p> + <p> + “Because you had hypnotised him already,” suggested Keyork gravely. + </p> + <p> + “The thing is not possible,” Unorna repeated, looking away from him. + </p> + <p> + “I believe it to be the only natural explanation. You had made him sleep. + You tried to force his mind to something contrary to its firmest beliefs. + I have seen you do it. He is a strong subject. His mind rebelled, yielded, + then made a final and desperate effort, and then collapsed. That effort + was so terrible that it momentarily forced your will back upon itself, and + impressed his vision on your sight. There are no ghosts, my dear + colleague. There are only souls and bodies. If the soul can be defined as + anything it can be defined as Pure Being in the Mode of Individuality but + quite removed from the Mode of Matter. As for the body—well, there + it is before you, in a variety of shapes, and in various states of + preservation, as incapable of producing a ghost as a picture or a statue. + You are altogether in a very nervous condition to-day. It is really quite + indifferent whether that good lady be alive or dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Indifferent!” exclaimed Unorna fiercely. Then she was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Indifferent to the validity of the theory. If she is dead, you did not + see her ghost, and if she is alive you did not see her body, because, if + she had been there in the flesh, she would have entered into an + explanation—to say the least. Hypnosis will explain anything and + everything, without causing you a moment’s anxiety for the future.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I did not hear shrieks and moans, nor see your specimens moving when + I was here along just now?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not! Hypnosis again. Auto-hypnosis this time. You should really + be less nervous. You probably stared at the lamp without realising the + fact. You know that any shining object affects you in that way, if you are + not careful. It is a very bright lamp, too. Instantaneous effect—bodies + appear to move and you hear unearthly yells—you offer your soul for + sale and I buy it, appearing in the nick of time? If your condition had + lasted ten seconds longer you would have taken me for his majesty and + lived, in imagination, through a dozen years or so of sulphurous + purgatorial treatment under my personal supervision, to wake up and find + yourself unscorched—and unredeemed, as ever.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a most comforting person, Keyork,” said Unorna, with a faint + smile. “I only wish I could believe everything you tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “You must either believe me or renounce all claim to intelligence,” + answered the little man, climbing from his chair and sitting upon the + table at her elbow. His short, sturdy legs swung at a considerable height + above the floor, and he planted his hands firmly upon the board on either + side of him. The attitude was that of an idle boy, and was so oddly out of + keeping with his age and expression that Unorna almost laughed as she + looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “At all events,” he continued, “you cannot doubt my absolute sincerity. + You come to me for an explanation. I give you the only sensible one that + exists, and the only one which can have a really sedative effect upon your + excitement. Of course, if you have any especial object in believing in + ghosts—if it affords you any great and lasting pleasure to + associate, in imagination, with spectres, wraiths, and airily-malicious + shadows, I will not cross your fancy. To a person of solid nerves a + banshee may be an entertaining companion, and an apparition in a well-worn + winding-sheet may be a pretty toy. For all I know, it may be a delight to + you to find your hair standing on end at the unexpected appearance of a + dead woman in a black cloak between you and the person with whom you are + engaged in animated conversation. All very well, as a mere pastime, I say. + But if you find that you are reaching a point on which your judgment is + clouded, you had better shut up the magic lantern and take the rational + view of the case.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are right.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you allow me to say something very frank, Unorna?” asked Keyork with + unusual diffidence. + </p> + <p> + “If you can manage to be frank without being brutal.” + </p> + <p> + “I will be short, at all events. It is this. I think you are becoming + superstitious.” He watched her closely to see what effect the speech would + produce. She looked up quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Am I? What is superstition?” + </p> + <p> + “Gratuitous belief in things not proved.” + </p> + <p> + “I expected a different definition from you.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you expect me to say?” + </p> + <p> + “That superstition is belief.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not a heathen,” observed Keyork sanctimoniously. + </p> + <p> + “Far from it,” laughed Unorna. “I have heard that devils believe and + tremble.” + </p> + <p> + “And you class me with those interesting things, my dear friend?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes: when I am angry with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Two or three times a day, then? Not more than that?” inquired the sage, + swinging his heels, and staring at the rows of skulls in the background. + </p> + <p> + “Whenever we quarrel. It is easy for you to count the occasions.” + </p> + <p> + “Easy, but endless. Seriously, Unorna, I am not the devil. I can prove it + to you conclusively on theological grounds.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you? They say that his majesty is a lawyer, and a successful one, in + good practice.” + </p> + <p> + “What caused Satan’s fall? Pride. Then pride is his chief characteristic. + Am I proud, Unorna? The question is absurd, I have nothing to be proud of—a + little old man with a gray beard, of whom nobody ever heard anything + remarkable. No one ever accused me of pride. How could I be proud of + anything? Except of your acquaintance, my dear lady,” he added gallantly, + laying his hand on his heart, and leaning towards her as he sat. + </p> + <p> + Unorna laughed at the speech, and threw back her dishevelled hair with a + graceful gesture. Keyork paused. + </p> + <p> + “You are very beautiful,” he said thoughtfully, gazing at her face and at + the red gold lights that played in the tangled tresses. + </p> + <p> + “Worse and worse!” she exclaimed, still laughing. “Are you going to repeat + the comedy you played so well this afternoon, and make love to me again?” + </p> + <p> + “If you like. But I do not need to win your affections now.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Have I not bought your soul, with everything in it, like a furnished + house?” he asked merrily. + </p> + <p> + “Then you are the devil after all?” + </p> + <p> + “Or an angel. Why should the evil one have a monopoly in the soul-market? + But you remind me of my argument. You would have distracted Demosthenes in + the heat of a peroration, or Socrates in the midst of his defence, if you + had flashed that hair of yours before their old eyes. You have almost + taken the life out of my argument. I was going to say that my peculiarity + is not less exclusive than Lucifer’s, though it takes a different turn. I + was going to confess with the utmost frankness and the most sincere truth + that my only crime against Heaven is a most perfect, unswerving, + devotional love for my own particular Self. In that attachment I have + never wavered yet—but I really cannot say what may become of Keyork + Arabian if he looks at you much longer.” + </p> + <p> + “He might become a human being,” suggested Unorna. + </p> + <p> + “How can you be so cruel as to suggest such a horrible possibility?” cried + the gnome with a shudder, either real or extremely well feigned. + </p> + <p> + “You are betraying yourself, Keyork. You must control your feelings + better, or I shall find out the truth about you.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced keenly at her, and was silent for a while. Unorna rose slowly + to her feet, and standing beside him, began to twist her hair into a great + coil upon her head. + </p> + <p> + “What made you let it down?” asked Keyork with some curiosity, as he + watched her. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know,” she answered, still busy with the braids. “I was nervous, + I suppose, as you say, and so it got loose and came down.” + </p> + <p> + “Nervous about our friend?” + </p> + <p> + She did not reply, but turned from him with a shake of the head and took + up her fur mantle. + </p> + <p> + “You are not going?” said Keyork quietly, in a tone of conviction. + </p> + <p> + She started slightly, dropped the sable, and sat down again. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, “I am not going yet. I do not know what made me take my + cloak.” + </p> + <p> + “You have really no cause for nervousness now that it is all over,” + remarked the sage, who had not descended from his perch on the table. “He + is very well. It is one of those cases which are interesting as being new, + or at least only partially investigated. We may as well speak in + confidence, Unorna, for we really understand each other. Do you not think + so?” + </p> + <p> + “That depends on what you have to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Not much—nothing that ought to offend you. You must consider, my + dear,” he said, assuming an admirably paternal tone, “that I might be your + father, and that I have your welfare very much at heart, as well as your + happiness. You love this man—no, do not be angry, do not interrupt + me. You could not do better for yourself, nor for him. I knew him years + ago. He is a grand man—the sort of man I would like to be. Good. You + find him suffering from a delusion, or a memory, whichever it be. Not only + is this delusion—let us call it so—ruining his happiness and + undermining his strength, but so long as it endures, it also completely + excludes the possibility of his feeling for you what you feel for him. + Your own interest coincides exactly with the promptings of real, human + charity. And yours is in reality a charitable nature, dear Unorna, though + you are sometimes a little hasty with poor old Keyork. Good again. You, + being moved by a desire for this man’s welfare, most kindly and wisely + take steps to cure him of his madness. The delusion is strong, but your + will is stronger. The delusion yields after a violent struggle during + which it has even impressed itself upon your own senses. The patient is + brought home, properly cared for, and disposed to rest. Then he wakes, + apparently of his own accord, and behold! he is completely cured. + Everything has been successful, everything is perfect, everything has + followed the usual course of such mental cures by means of hypnosis. The + only thing I do not understand is the waking. That is the only thing which + makes me uneasy for the future, until I can see it properly explained. He + had no right to wake without your suggestion, if he was still in the + hypnotic state; and if he had already come out of the hypnotic state by a + natural reaction, it is to be feared that the cure may not be permanent.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna had listened attentively, as she always did when Keyork delivered + himself of a serious opinion upon a psychiatric case. Her eyes gleamed + with satisfaction as he finished. + </p> + <p> + “If that is all that troubles you,” she said, “you may set your mind at + rest. After he had fallen, and while the watchman was getting the + carriage, I repeated my suggestion and ordered him to wake without pain in + an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “Perfect! Splendid!” cried Keyork, clapping his hands loudly together. “I + did you an injustice, my dear Unorna. You are not so nervous as I thought, + since you forgot nothing. What a woman! Ghost-proof, and able to think + connectedly even at such a moment! But tell me, did you not take the + opportunity of suggesting something else?” His eyes twinkled merrily, as + he asked the question. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” inquired Unorna, with sudden coldness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing so serious as you seem to think. I was only wondering whether + a suggestion of reciprocation might not have been wise.” + </p> + <p> + She faced him fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Hold your peace, Keyork Arabian!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” he asked with a bland smile, swinging his little legs and stroking + his long beard. + </p> + <p> + “There is a limit! Must you for ever be trying to suggest, and trying to + guide me in everything I do? It is intolerable! I can hardly call my soul + my own!” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly, considering my recent acquisition of it,” returned Keyork calmly. + </p> + <p> + “That wretched jest is threadbare.” + </p> + <p> + “A jest! Wretched? And threadbare, too? Poor Keyork! His wit is failing at + last.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head in mock melancholy over his supposed intellectual + dotage. Unorna turned away, this time with the determination to leave him. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry if I have offended you,” he said, very meekly. “Was what I + said so very unpardonable?” + </p> + <p> + “If ignorance is unpardonable, as you always say, then your speech is past + forgiveness,” said Unorna, relenting by force of habit, but gathering her + fur around her. “If you know anything of women—” + </p> + <p> + “Which I do not,” observed the gnome in a low-toned interruption. + </p> + <p> + “Which you do not—you would know how much such love as you advise me + to manufacture by force of suggestion could be worth in a woman’s eyes. + You would know that a woman will be loved for herself, for her beauty, for + her wit, for her virtues, for her faults, for her own love, if you will, + and by a man conscious of all his actions and free of his heart; not by a + mere patient reduced to the proper state of sentiment by a trick of + hypnotism, or psychiatry, or of whatever you choose to call the effect of + this power of mine which neither you, nor I, nor any one can explain. I + will be loved freely, for myself, or not at all.” + </p> + <p> + “I see, I see,” said Keyork thoughtfully, “something in the way Israel + Kafka loves you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “So you are a fatalist, Unorna,” observed her companion, still stroking + and twisting his beard. “It is strange that we should differ upon so many + fundamental questions, you and I, and yet be such good friends. Is it + not?” + </p> + <p> + “The strangest thing of all is that I should submit to your exasperating + ways as I do.” + </p> + <p> + “It does not strike me that it is I who am quarrelling this time,” said + Keyork. + </p> + <p> + “I confess, I would almost prefer that to your imperturbable coolness. + What is this new phase? You used not to be like this. You are planning + some wickedness. I am sure of it.” + </p> + <p> + “And that is all the credit I get for keeping my temper! Did I not say a + while ago that I would never quarrel with you again?” + </p> + <p> + “You said so, but—” + </p> + <p> + “But you did not expect me to keep my word,” said Keyork, slipping from + his seat on the table with considerable agility and suddenly standing + close before her. “And do you not yet know that when I say a thing I do + it, and that when I have got a thing I keep it?” + </p> + <p> + “So far as the latter point is concerned, I have nothing to say. But you + need not be so terribly impressive; and unless you are going to break your + word, by which you seem to set such store, and quarrel with me, you need + not look at me so fiercely.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork suddenly let his voice drop to its deepest and most vibrating key. + </p> + <p> + “I only want you to remember this,” he said. “You are not an ordinary + woman, as I am not an ordinary man, and the experiment we are making + together is an altogether extraordinary one. I have told you the truth. I + care for nothing but my individual self, and I seek nothing but the + prolongation of life. If you endanger the success of the great trial + again, as you did to-day, and if it fails, I will never forgive you. You + will make an enemy of me, and you will regret it while you live, and + longer than that, perhaps. So long as you keep the compact there is + nothing I will not do to help you—nothing within the bounds of your + imagination. And I can do much. Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “I understand that you are afraid of losing my help.” + </p> + <p> + “That is it—of losing your help. I am not afraid of losing you—in + the end.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna smiled rather scornfully at first, as she looked down upon the + little man’s strange face and gazed fearlessly into his eyes. But as she + looked, the smile faded, and the colour slowly sank from her face, until + she was very pale. And as she felt herself losing courage before something + which she could not understand, Keyork’s eyes grew brighter and brighter + till they glowed like drops of molten metal. A sound as of many voices + wailing in agony rose and trembled and quavered in the air. With a wild + cry, Unorna pressed her hands to her ears and fled towards the entrance. + </p> + <p> + “You are very nervous to-night,” observed Keyork, as he opened the door. + </p> + <p> + Then he went silently down the stairs by her side and helped her into the + carriage, which had been waiting since his return. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + A month had passed since the day on which Unorna had first seen the + Wanderer, and since the evening when she had sat so long in conversation + with Keyork Arabian. The snow lay heavily on all the rolling moorland + about Prague, covering everything up to the very gates of the black city; + and within, all things were as hard and dark and frozen as ever. The sun + was still the sun, no doubt, high above the mist and the gloom which he + had no power to pierce, but no man could say that he had seen him in that + month. At long intervals indeed, a faint rose-coloured glow touched the + high walls of the Hradschin and transfigured for an instant the short + spires of the unfinished cathedral, hundreds of feet above the icebound + river and the sepulchral capital; sometimes, in the dim afternoons, a + little gold filtered through the heavy air and tinged the snow-steeples of + the Teyn Kirche, and yellowed the stately tower of the town hall; but that + was all, so far as the moving throngs of silent beings that filled the + streets could see. The very air men breathed seemed to be stiffening with + damp cold. For that is not the glorious winter of our own dear north, + where the whole earth is a jewel of gleaming crystals hung between two + heavens, between the heaven of the day, and the heaven of the night, + beautiful alike in sunshine and in starlight, under the rays of the moon, + at evening and again at dawn; where the pines and hemlocks are as forests + of plumes powdered thick with dust of silver; where the black ice rings + like a deep-toned bell beneath the heel of the sweeping skate—the + ice that you may follow a hundred miles if you have breath and strength; + where the harshest voice rings musically among the icicles and the + snow-laden boughs; where the quick jingle of sleigh bells far off on the + smooth, deep track brings to the listener the vision of our own merry + Father Christmas, with snowy beard, and apple cheeks, and peaked fur cap, + and mighty gauntlets, and hampers and sacks full of toys and good things + and true northern jollity; where all is young and fresh and free; where + eyes are bright and cheeks are red, and hands are strong and hearts are + brave; where children laugh and tumble in the diamond dust of the dry, + driven snow; where men and women know what happiness can mean; where the + old are as the giant pines, green, silver-crowned landmarks in the human + forest, rather than as dried, twisted, sapless trees fit only to be cut + down and burned, in that dear north to which our hearts and memories still + turn for refreshment, under the Indian suns, and out of the hot splendour + of calm southern seas. The winter of the black city that spans the frozen + Moldau is the winter of the grave, dim as a perpetual afternoon in a land + where no lotus ever grew, cold with the unspeakable frigidness of a + reeking air that thickens as oil but will not be frozen, melancholy as a + stony island of death in a lifeless sea. + </p> + <p> + A month had gone by, and in that time the love that had so suddenly taken + root in Unorna’s heart had grown to great proportions as love will when, + being strong and real, it is thwarted and repulsed at every turn. For she + was not loved. She had destroyed the idol and rooted out the memory of it, + but she could not take its place. She had spoken the truth when she had + told Keyork that she would be loved for herself, or not at all, and that + she would use neither her secret arts nor her rare gifts to manufacture a + semblance when she longed for a reality. + </p> + <p> + Almost daily she saw him. As in a dream he came to her and sat by her + side, hour after hour, talking of many things, calm, apparently, and + satisfied in her society, but strangely apathetic and indifferent. Never + once in those many days had she seen his pale face light up with pleasure, + nor his deep eyes show a gleam of interest; never had the tone of his + voice been disturbed in its even monotony; never had the touch of his + hand, when they met and parted, felt the communication of the thrill that + ran through hers. + </p> + <p> + It was very bitter, for Unorna was proud with the scarcely reasoning pride + of a lawless, highly gifted nature, accustomed to be obeyed and little + used to bending under any influence. She brought all the skill she could + command to her assistance; she talked to him, she told him of herself, she + sought his confidence, she consulted him on every matter, she attempted to + fascinate his imagination with tales of a life which even he could never + have seen; she even sang to him old songs and snatches of wonderful + melodies which, in her childhood, had still survived the advancing wave of + silence that has overwhelmed the Bohemian people within the memory of + living man, bringing a change into the daily life and temperament of a + whole nation which is perhaps unparalleled in any history. He listened, he + smiled, he showed a faint pleasure and a great understanding in all these + things, and he came back day after day to talk and listen again. But that + was all. She felt that she could amuse him without charming him. + </p> + <p> + And Unorna suffered terribly. Her cheek grew thinner and her eyes gleamed + with sudden fires. She was restless, and her beautiful hands, from seeming + to be carved in white marble, began to look as though they were chiselled + out of delicate transparent alabaster. She slept little and thought much, + and if she did not shed tears, it was because she was too strong to weep + for pain and too proud to weep from anger and disappointment. And yet her + resolution remained firm, for it was part and parcel of her inmost self, + and was guarded by pride on the one hand and an unalterable belief in fate + on the other. + </p> + <p> + To-day they sat together, as they had so often sat, among the flowers and + the trees in the vast conservatory, she in her tall, carved chair and he + upon a lower seat before her. They had been silent for some minutes. It + was not yet noon, but it might have been early morning in a southern + island, so soft was the light, so freshly scented the air, so peaceful the + tinkle of the tiny fountain. Unorna’s expression was sad, as she gazed in + silence at the man she loved. There was something gone from his face, she + thought, since she had first seen him, and it was to bring that something + back that she would give her life and her soul if she could. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly her lips moved and a sad melody trembled in the air. Unorna sang, + almost as though singing to herself. The Wanderer’s deep eyes met hers and + he listened. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “When in life’s heaviest hour + Grief crowds upon the heart + One wondrous prayer + My memory repeats. + + “The harmony of the living words + Is full of strength to heal, + There breathes in them a holy charm + Past understanding. + + “Then, as a burden from my soul, + Doubt rolls away, + And I believe—believe in tears, + And all is light—so light!” + </pre> + <p> + She ceased, and his eyes were still upon her, calm, thoughtful, + dispassionate. The colour began to rise in her cheek. She looked down and + tapped upon the carved arm of the chair with an impatient gesture familiar + to her. + </p> + <p> + “And what is that one prayer?” asked the Wanderer. “I knew the song long + ago, but I have never guessed what that magic prayer can be like.” + </p> + <p> + “It must be a woman’s prayer; I cannot tell you what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “And are you so sad to-day, Unorna? What makes you sing that song?” + </p> + <p> + “Sad? No, I am not sad,” she answered with an effort. “But the words rose + to my lips and so I sang.” + </p> + <p> + “They are pretty words,” said her companion, almost indifferently. “And + you have a very beautiful voice,” he added thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Have I? I have been told so, sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am little enough to—those who know me,” said Unorna, growing + pale, and drawing a quick breath. + </p> + <p> + “You cannot say that. You are not little to me.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence. He gazed at the plants, and his glance wandered + from one to the other, as though he did not see them, being lost in + meditation. The voice had been calm and clear as ever, but it was the + first time he had ever said so much, and Unorna’s heart stood still, half + fire and half ice. She could not speak. + </p> + <p> + “You are very much to me,” he said again, at last. “Since I have been in + this place a change has come over me. I seem to myself to be a man without + an object, without so much as a real thought. Keyork tells me that there + is something wanting, that the something is woman, and that I ought to + love. I cannot tell. I do not know what love is, and I never knew. Perhaps + it is the absence of it that makes me what I am—a body and an + intelligence without a soul. Even the intelligence I begin to doubt. What + sense has there ever been in all my wanderings? Why have I been in every + place, in every city? What went I forth to see? Not even a reed shaken by + the wind! I have spoken all languages, read thousands of books, known men + in every land—and for what? It is as though I had once had an object + in it all, though I know that there was none. But I have realised the + worthlessness of my life since I have been here. Perhaps you have shown it + to me, or helped me to see it. I cannot tell. I ask myself again and again + what it was all for, and I ask in vain. I am lonely, indeed, in the world, + but it has been my own choice. I remember that I had friends once, when I + was younger, but I cannot tell what has become of one of them. They + wearied me, perhaps, in those days, and the weariness drove me from my own + home. For I have a home, Unorna, and I fancy that when old age gets me at + last I shall go there to die, in one of those old towers by the northern + sea. I was born there, and there my mother died and my father, before I + knew them; it is a sad place! Meanwhile, I may have thirty years, or + forty, or even more to live. Shall I go on living this wandering, aimless + life? And if not what shall I do? Love, says Keyork Arabian—who + never loved anything but himself, but to whom that suffices, for it passes + the love of woman!” + </p> + <p> + “That is true, indeed,” said Unorna in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “And what he says might be true also, if I were capable of loving. But I + feel that I am not. I am as incapable of that as of anything else. I ought + to despise myself, and yet I do not. I am perfectly contented, and if I am + not happy I at least do not realise what unhappiness means. Am I not + always of the same even temper?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed you are.” She tried not to speak bitterly, but something in her + tone struck him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I never meant that,” cried Unorna with sudden heat. “Even if I had, what + right have I to make myself the judge of your life?” + </p> + <p> + “The right of friendship,” answered the Wanderer very quietly. “You are my + best friend, Unorna.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna’s anger rose within her. She remembered how in that very place, and + but a month earlier, she had offered Israel Kafka her friendship, and it + was as though a heavy retribution were now meted out to her for her + cruelty on that day. She remembered his wrath and his passionate + denunciations of friendship, his scornful refusal, his savage attempt to + conquer her will, his failure and his defeat. She remembered how she had + taken her revenge, delivering him over in his sleep to Keyork Arabian’s + will. She wished that, like him, she could escape from the wound of the + word in a senseless lethargy of body and mind. She knew now what he had + suffered, for she suffered it all herself. He, at least, had been free to + speak his mind, to rage and storm and struggle. She must sit still and + hide her agony, at the risk of losing all. She bit her white lips and + turned her head away, and was silent. + </p> + <p> + “You are my best friend,” the Wanderer repeated in his calm voice, and + every syllable pierced her like a glowing needle. “And does not friendship + give rights which ought to be used? If, as I think, Unorna, you look upon + me as an idler, as a worthless being, as a man without as much as the + shadow of a purpose in the world, it is but natural that you should + despise me a little, even though you may be very fond of me. Do you not + see that?” + </p> + <p> + Unorna stared at him with an odd expression for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I am fond of you!” she exclaimed, almost harshly. Then she + laughed. He seemed not to notice her tone. + </p> + <p> + “I never knew what friendship was before,” he went on. “Of course, as I + said, I had friends when I was little more than a boy, boys and young men + like myself, and our friendship came to this, that we laughed, and feasted + and hunted together, and sometimes even quarrelled, and caring little, + thought even less. But in those days there seemed to be nothing between + that and love, and love I never understood, that I can remember. But + friendship like ours, Unorna, was never dreamed of among us. Such + friendship as this, when I often think that I receive all and give nothing + in return.” + </p> + <p> + Again Unorna laughed, so strangely that the sound of her own voice + startled her. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you laugh like that?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Because what you say is so unjust to yourself,” she answered, nervously + and scarcely seeing him where he sat. “You seem to think it is all on your + side. And yet, I just told you that I was fond of you.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is a fondness greater than friendship that we feel for each + other,” he said, presently, thrusting the probe of a new hope into the + tortured wound. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” she spoke faintly, with averted face. + </p> + <p> + “Something more—a stronger tie, a closer bond. Unorna, do you + believe in the migration of the soul throughout ages, from one body to + another?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes,” she succeeded in saying. + </p> + <p> + “I do not believe in it,” he continued. “But I see well enough how men + may, since I have known you. We have grown so intimate in these few weeks, + we seem to understand each other so wholly, with so little effort, we + spend such happy, peaceful hours together every day, that I can almost + fancy our two selves having been together through a whole lifetime in some + former state, living together, thinking together, inseparable from birth, + and full of an instinctive, mutual understanding. I do not know whether + that seems an exaggeration to you or not. Has the same idea ever crossed + your mind?” + </p> + <p> + She said something, or tried to say something, but the words were + inaudible; he interpreted them as expressive of assent, and went on, in a + musing tone, as though talking quite as much to himself as to her. + </p> + <p> + “And that is the reason why it seems as though we must be more than + friends, though we have known each other so short a time. Perhaps it is + too much to say.” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated, and paused. Unorna breathed hard, not daring to think of + what might be coming next. He talked so calmly, in such an easy tone, it + was impossible that he could be making love. She remembered the vibrations + in his voice when, a month ago, he had told her his story. She remembered + the inflection of the passionate cry he had uttered when he had seen the + shadow of Beatrice stealing between them, she knew the ring of his speech + when he loved, for she had heard it. It was not there now. And yet, the + effort not to believe would have been too great for her strength. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing that you could say would be—” she stopped herself—“would + pain me,” she added, desperately, in the attempt to complete the sentence. + </p> + <p> + He looked somewhat surprised, and then smiled. + </p> + <p> + “No. I shall never say anything, nor do anything, which could give you + pain. What I meant was this. I feel towards you, and with you, as I can + fancy a man might feel to a dear sister. Can you understand that?” + </p> + <p> + In spite of herself she started. He had but just said that he would never + give her pain. He did not guess what cruel wounds he was inflicting now. + </p> + <p> + “You are surprised,” he said, with intolerable self-possession. “I cannot + wonder. I remember to have very often thought that there are few forms of + sentimentality more absurd than that which deceives a man into the idea + that he can with impunity play at being a brother to a young and beautiful + woman. I have always thought so, and I suppose that in whatever remains of + my indolent intelligence I think so still. But intelligence is not always + so reliable as instinct. I am not young enough nor foolish enough either, + to propose that we should swear eternal brother-and-sisterhood—or + perhaps I am not old enough, who can tell? Yet I feel how perfectly safe + it would be for either of us.” + </p> + <p> + The steel had been thrust home, and could go no farther. Unorna’s unquiet + temper rose at his quiet declaration of his absolute security. The colour + came again to her cheek, a little hotly, and though there was a slight + tremor in her voice when she spoke, yet her eyes flashed beneath the + drooping lids. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure it would be safe?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “For you, of course there can be no danger possible,” he said, in perfect + simplicity of good faith. “For me—well, I have said it. I cannot + imagine love coming near me in any shape, by degrees or unawares. It is a + strange defect in my nature, but I am glad of it since it makes this + pleasant life possible.” + </p> + <p> + “And why should you suppose that there is no danger for me?” asked Unorna, + with a quick glance and a silvery laugh. She was recovering her + self-possession. + </p> + <p> + “For you? Why should there be? How could there be? No woman ever loved me, + then why should you? Besides—there are a thousand reasons, one + better than the other.” + </p> + <p> + “I confess I would be glad to hear a few of them, my friend. You were good + enough just now to call me young and beautiful. You are young too, and + certainly not repulsive in appearance. You are gifted, you have led an + interesting life—indeed, I cannot help laughing when I think how + many reasons there are for my falling in love with you. But you are very + reassuring, you tell me there is no danger. I am willing to believe.” + </p> + <p> + “It is safe to do that,” answered the Wanderer with a smile, “unless you + can find at least one reason far stronger than those you give. Young and + passably good-looking men are not rare, and as for men of genius who have + led interesting lives, many thousands have been pointed out to me. Then + why, by any conceivable chance, should your choice fall on me?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps because I am so fond of you already,” said Unorna, looking away + lest her eyes should betray what was so far beyond fondness. “They say + that the most enduring passions are either born in a single instant, or + are the result of a treacherously increasing liking. Take the latter case. + Why is it impossible, for you or for me? We are slipping from mere liking + into friendship, and for all I know we may some day fall headlong from + friendship into love. It would be very foolish no doubt, but it seems to + me quite possible. Do you not see it?” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer laughed lightly. It was years since he had laughed, until + this friendship had begun. + </p> + <p> + “What can I say?” he asked. “If you, the woman, acknowledge yourself + vulnerable, how can I, the man, be so discourteous as to assure you that I + am proof? And yet, I feel that there is no danger for either of us.” + </p> + <p> + “You are still sure?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “To me, it would not,” said Unorna, looking down at her clasped hands. + “But to you—what would the world say, if it learned that you were in + love with Unorna, that you were married to the Witch?” + </p> + <p> + “The world? What is the world to me, or what am I to it? What is my world? + If it is anything, it consists of a score of men and women who chance to + be spending their allotted time on earth in that corner of the globe in + which I was born, who saw me grow to manhood, and who most inconsequently + arrogate to themselves the privilege of criticising my actions, as they + criticise each other’s; who say loudly that this is right and that is + wrong, and who will be gathered in due time to their insignificant fathers + with their own insignificance thick upon them, as is meet and just. If + that is the world I am not afraid of its judgments in the very improbable + case of my falling in love with you.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna shook her head. There was a momentary relief in discussing the + consequences of a love not yet born in him. + </p> + <p> + “That would not be all,” she said. “You have a country, you have a home, + you have obligations—you have all those things which I have not.” + </p> + <p> + “And not one of those which you have.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at him again, for there was a truth in the words which hurt + her. Love, at least, was hers in abundance, and he had it not. + </p> + <p> + “How foolish it is to talk like this!” she exclaimed. “After all, when + people love, they care very little what the world says. If I loved any + one”—she tried to laugh carelessly—“I am sure I should be + indifferent to everything or every one else.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure you would be,” assented the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” She turned rather suddenly upon him. “Why are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + “In the first place because you say so, and secondly because you have the + kind of nature which is above common opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “And what kind of nature may that be?” + </p> + <p> + “Enthusiastic, passionate, brave.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I so many good qualities?” + </p> + <p> + “I am always telling you so.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it give you pleasure to tell me what you think of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Does it pain you to hear it?” asked the Wanderer, somewhat surprised at + the uncertainty of her temper, and involuntarily curious as to the cause + of the disturbance. + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes it does,” Unorna answered. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I have grown awkward and tactless in my lonely life. You must + forgive me if I do not understand my mistake. But since I have annoyed + you, I am sorry for it. Perhaps you do not like such speeches because you + think I am flattering you and turning compliments. You are wrong if you + think that. I am sincerely attached to you, and I admire you very much. + May I not say as much as that?” + </p> + <p> + “Does it do any good to say it?” + </p> + <p> + “If I may speak of you at all I may express myself with pleasant truths.” + </p> + <p> + “Truths are not always pleasant. Better not to speak of me at any time.” + </p> + <p> + “As you will,” answered the Wanderer bending his head as though in + submission to her commands. But he did not continue the conversation, and + a long silence ensued. + </p> + <p> + He wandered what was passing in her mind, and his reflections led to no + very definite result. Even if the idea of her loving him had presented + itself to his intelligence he would have scouted it, partly on the ground + of its apparent improbability, and partly, perhaps, because he had of late + grown really indolent, and would have resented any occurrence which + threatened to disturb the peaceful, objectless course of his days. He put + down her quick changes of mood to sudden caprice, which he excused readily + enough. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you so silent?” Unorna asked, after a time. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of you,” he answered, with a smile. “And since you forbade + me to speak of you, I said nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “How literal you are!” she exclaimed impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “I could see no figurative application of your words,” he retorted, + beginning to be annoyed at her prolonged ill humour. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps there was none.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do not argue! I detest argument in all shapes, and most of all when I + am expected to answer it. You cannot understand me—you never will—” + She broke off suddenly and looked at him. + </p> + <p> + She was angry with him, with herself, with everything, and in her anger + she loved him tenfold better than before. Had he not been blinded by his + own absolute coldness he must have read her heart in the look she gave + him, for his eyes met hers. But he saw nothing. The glance had been + involuntary, but Unorna was too thoroughly a woman not to know all that it + had expressed and would have conveyed to the mind of any one not utterly + incapable of love, all that it might have betrayed even to this man who + was her friend and talked of being her brother. She realised with terrible + vividness the extent of her own passion and the appalling indifference of + its objet. A wave of despair rose and swept over her heart. Her sight grew + dim and she was conscious of sharp physical pain. She did not even attempt + to speak, for she had no thoughts which could take the shape of words. She + leaned back in her chair, and tried to draw her breath, closing her eyes, + and wishing she were alone. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter?” asked the Wanderer, watching her in surprise. + </p> + <p> + She did not answer. He rose and stood beside her, and lightly touched her + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Are you ill?” he asked again. + </p> + <p> + She pushed him away, almost roughly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered shortly. + </p> + <p> + Then, all at once, as though repenting of her gesture, her hand sought his + again, pressed it hard for a moment, and let it fall. + </p> + <p> + “It is nothing,” she said. “It will pass. Forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + “Did anything I said——” he began. + </p> + <p> + “No, no; how absurd!” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go. Yes, you would rather be alone——” he hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “No—yes—yes, go away and come back later. It is the heat + perhaps; is it not hot here?” + </p> + <p> + “I daresay,” he answered absently. + </p> + <p> + He took her hand and then left her, wondering exceedingly over a matter + which was of the simplest. + </p> + <p> + It was some time before Unorna realised that he was gone. She had suffered + a severe shock, not to be explained by any word or words which he had + spoken, as much as by the revelation of her own utter powerlessness, of + her total failure to touch his heart, but most directly of all the + consequence of a sincere passion which was assuming dangerous proportions + and which threatened to sweep away even her pride in its irresistible + course. + </p> + <p> + She grew calmer when she found herself alone, but in a manner she grew + also more desperate. A resolution began to form itself in her mind which + she would have despised and driven out of her thoughts a few hours + earlier; a resolution destined to lead to strange results. She began to + think of resorting once more to a means other than natural in order to + influence the man she loved. + </p> + <p> + In the first moments she had felt sure of herself, and the certainty that + the Wanderer had forgotten Beatrice as completely as though she had never + existed had seemed to Unorna a complete triumph. With little or no common + vanity she had nevertheless felt sure that the man must love her for her + own sake. She knew, when she thought of it, that she was beautiful, unlike + other women, and born to charm all living things. She compared in her mind + the powers she controlled at will, and the influence she exercised without + effort over every one who came near her. It had always seemed to her + enough to wish in order to see the realisation of her wishes. But she had + herself never understood how closely the wish was allied with the despotic + power of suggestion which she possessed. But in her love she had put a + watch over her mysterious strength and had controlled it, saying that she + would be loved for herself or not at all. She had been jealous of every + glance, lest it should produce a result not natural. She had waited to be + won, instead of trying to win. She had failed, and passion could be + restrained no longer. + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter how, if only he is mine!” she exclaimed fiercely, as + she rose from her carved chair an hour after he had left her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + Israel Kafka found himself seated in the corner of a comfortable carriage + with Keyork Arabian at his side. He opened his eyes quite naturally, and + after looking out of the window stretched himself as far as the limits of + the space would allow. He felt very weak and very tired. The bright colour + had left his olive cheeks, his lips were pale and his eyes heavy. + </p> + <p> + “Travelling is very tiring,” he said, glancing at Keyork’s face. + </p> + <p> + The old man rubbed his hands briskly and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I am as fresh as ever,” he answered. “It is true that I have the happy + faculty of sleeping when I get a chance and that no preoccupation disturbs + my appetite.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork Arabian was in a very cheerful frame of mind. He was conscious of + having made a great stride towards the successful realisation of his + dream. Israel Kafka’s ignorance, too, amused him, and gave him a fresh and + encouraging proof of Unorna’s amazing powers. + </p> + <p> + By a mere exercise of superior will this man, in the very prime of youth + and strength, had been deprived of a month of his life. Thirty days were + gone, as in the flash of a second, and with them was gone also something + less easily replaced, or at least more certainly missed. In Kafka’s mind + the passage of time was accounted for in a way which would have seemed + supernatural twenty years ago, but which at the present day is understood + in practice if not in theory. For thirty days he had been stationary in + one place, almost motionless, an instrument in Keyork’s skilful hands, a + mere reservoir of vitality upon which the sage had ruthlessly drawn to the + fullest extent of its capacities. He had been fed and tended in his + unconsciousness, he had, unknown to himself, opened his eyes at regular + intervals, and had absorbed through his ears a series of vivid impressions + destined to disarm his suspicions, when he was at last allowed to wake and + move about the world again. With unfailing forethought Keyork had planned + the details of a whole series of artificial reminiscences, and at the + moment when Kafka came to himself in the carriage the machinery of memory + began to work as Keyork had intended that it should. + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka leaned back against the cushions and reviewed his life during + the past month. He remembered very well the afternoon when, after a stormy + interview with Unorna, he had been persuaded by Keyork to accompany the + latter upon a rapid southward journey. He remembered how he had hastily + packed together a few necessaries for the expedition, while Keyork stood + at his elbow advising him what to take and what to leave, with the sound + good sense of an experienced traveller, and he could almost repeat the + words of the message he had scrawled on a sheet of paper at the last + minute to explain his sudden absence from his lodging—for the people + of the house had all been away when he was packing his belongings. Then + the hurry of the departure recalled itself to him, the crowds of people at + the Franz Josef station, the sense of rest in finding himself alone with + Keyork in a compartment of the express train; after that he had slept + during most of the journey, waking to find himself in a city of the + snow-driven Tyrol. With tolerable distinctness he remembered the sights he + had seen, and fragments of conversation—then another departure, + still southward, the crossing of the Alps, Italy, Venice—a dream of + water and sun and beautiful buildings, in which the varied conversational + powers of his companion found constant material. As a matter of fact the + conversation was what was most clearly impressed upon Kafka’s mind, as he + recalled the rapid passage from one city to another, and realised how many + places he had visited in one short month. From Venice southwards, again, + Florence, Rome, Naples, Sicily, by sea to Athens and on to Constantinople, + familiar to him already from former visits—up the Bosphorus, by the + Black Sea to Varna, and then, again, a long period of restful sleep during + the endless railway journey—Pesth, Vienna, rapidly revisited and + back at last to Prague, to the cold and the gray snow and the black sky. + It was not strange, he thought, that his recollections of so many cities + should be a little confused. A man would need a fine memory to catalogue + the myriad sights which such a trip offers to the eye, the innumerable + sounds, familiar and unfamiliar, which strike the ear, the countless + sensations of comfort, discomfort, pleasure, annoyance and admiration, + which occupy the nerves without intermission. There was something not + wholly disagreeable in the hazy character of the retrospect, especially to + a nature such as Kafka’s, full of undeveloped artistic instincts and of a + passionate love of all sensuous beauty, animate and inanimate. The + gorgeous pictures rose one after the other in his imagination, and + satisfied a longing of which he felt that he had been vaguely aware before + beginning the journey. None of these lacked reality, any more than Keyork + himself, thought it seemed strange to the young man that he should + actually have seen so much in so short a time. + </p> + <p> + 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. It had taken place in Palermo. The heat had + seemed intense by contrast with the bitter north he had left behind. + Keyork had gone out and he had been alone in a strange hotel. His head + swam in the stifling scirocco. He had sent for a local physician, and the + old-fashioned doctor had then and there taken blood from his arm. He had + lost so much that he had fainted. The doctor had been gone when Keyork + returned, and the sage had been very angry, abusing in most violent terms + the ignorance which could still apply such methods. Israel Kafka knew that + the lancet had left a wound on his arm and that the scar was still + visible. He remembered, too, that he had often felt tired since, and that + Keyork had invariably reminded him of the circumstances, attributing to it + the weariness from which he suffered, and indulging each time in fresh + abuse of the benighted doctor. + </p> + <p> + Very skilfully had the whole story been put together in all its minutest + details, carefully thought out and written down in the form of a journal + before it had been impressed upon his sleeping mind with all the tyrannic + force of Unorna’s strong will. And there was but little probability that + Israel Kafka would ever learn what had actually been happening to him + while he fancied that he had been travelling swiftly from place to place. + He could still wonder, indeed, that he should have yielded so easily to + Keyork’s pressing invitation to accompany the latter upon such an + extraordinary flight, but he remembered then his last interview with + Unorna and it seemed almost natural that in his despair he should have + chosen to go away. Not that his passion for the woman was dead. + Intentionally, or by an oversight, Unorna had not touched upon the + question of his love for her, in the course of her otherwise + well-considered suggestions. Possibly she had believed that the statement + she had forced from his lips was enough and that he would forget her + without any further action on her part. Possibly, too, Unorna was + indifferent and was content to let him suffer, believing that his devotion + might still be turned to some practical use. However that may be, when + Israel Kafka opened his eyes in the carriage he still loved her, though he + was conscious that in his manner of loving a change had taken place, of + which he was destined to realise the consequences before another day had + passed. + </p> + <p> + When Keyork answered his first remark, he turned and looked at the old + man. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you are tougher than I,” he said, languidly. “You will hardly + believe it, but I have been dozing already, here, in the carriage, since + we left the station.” + </p> + <p> + “No harm in that. Sleep is a great restorative,” laughed Keyork. + </p> + <p> + “Are you so glad to be in Prague again?” asked Kafka. “It is a melancholy + place. But you laugh as though you actually liked the sight of the black + houses and the gray snow and the silent people.” + </p> + <p> + “How can a place be melancholy? The seat of melancholy is the liver. + Imagine a city with a liver—of brick and mortar, or stone and + cement, a huge mass of masonry buried in its centre, like an enormous + fetish, exercising a mysterious influence over the city’s health—then + you may imagine a city as suffering from melancholy.” + </p> + <p> + “How absurd!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy, I rarely say absurd things,” answered Keyork imperturbably. + “Besides, as a matter of fact, there is nothing absurd. But you suggested + rather a fantastic idea to my imagination. The brick liver is not a bad + conception. Far down in the bowels of the earth, in a black cavern + hollowed beneath the lowest foundations of the oldest church, the brick + liver was built by the cunning magicians of old, to last for ever, to + purify the city’s blood, to regulate the city’s life, and in a measure to + control its destinies by means of its passions. A few wise men have handed + down the knowledge of the brick liver to each other from generation to + generation, but the rest of the inhabitants are ignorant of its existence. + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand you,” said Kafka, wearily. + </p> + <p> + “It is a very practical idea,” continued Keyork, amused with his own + fancies, “and it will yet be carried out. The great cities of the next + century will each have a liver of brick and mortar and iron and machinery, + a huge mechanical purifier. You smile! Ah, my dear boy, truth and phantasm + are very much the same to you! You are too young. How can you be expected + to care for the great problem of problems, for the mighty question of + prolonging life?” + </p> + <p> + Keyork laughed again, with a meaning in his laughter which escaped his + companion altogether. + </p> + <p> + “How can you be expected to care?” he repeated. “And yet men used to say + that it was the duty of strong youth to support the trembling weakness of + feeble old age.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes twinkled with a diabolical mirth. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Kafka. “I do not care. Life is meant to be short. Life is meant + to be storm, broken with gleams of love’s sunshine. Why prolong it? If it + is unhappy you would only draw out the unhappiness to greater lengths, and + such joy as it has is joy only because it is quick, sudden, violent. I + would concentrate a lifetime into an instant, if I could, and then die + content in having suffered everything, enjoyed everything, dared + everything in the flash of a great lightning between two total darknesses. + But to drag on through slow sorrows, or to crawl through a century of + contentment—never! Better be mad, or asleep, and unconscious of the + time.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a very desperate person!” exclaimed Keyork. “If you had the + management of this unstable world you would make it a very convulsive and + nervous place. We should all turn into flaming ephemerides, fluttering + about the crater of a perpetually active volcano. I prefer the system of + the brick liver. There is more durability in it.” + </p> + <p> + The carriage stopped before the door of Kafka’s dwelling. Keyork got out + with him and stood upon the pavement while the porter took the slender + luggage into the house. He smiled as he glanced at the leathern + portmanteau which was supposed to have made such a long journey while it + had in reality lain a whole month in a corner of Keyork’s great room + behind a group of specimens. He had opened it once or twice in that time, + had disturbed the contents and had thrown in a few objects from his + heterogeneous collection, as reminiscences of the places visited in + imagination by Kafka, and of the acquisition of which the latter was only + assured in his sleeping state. They would constitute a tangible proof of + the journey’s reality in case the suggestion proved less thoroughly + successful than was hoped, and Keyork prided himself upon this supreme + touch. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” he said, taking Kafka’s hand, “I would advise you to rest as + long as you can. I suppose that it must have been a fatiguing trip for + you, though I myself am as fresh as a May morning. There is nothing wrong + with you, but you are tired. Repose, my dear boy, repose, and plenty of + it. That infernal Sicilian doctor! I shall never forgive him for bleeding + you as he did. There is nothing so weakening. Good-bye—I shall + hardly see you again to-day, I fancy.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell,” answered the young man absently. “But let me thank you,” + he added, with a sudden consciousness of obligation, “for your pleasant + company, and for making me go with you. I daresay it has done me good, + though I feel unaccountably tired—I feel almost old.” + </p> + <p> + His tired eyes and haggard face showed that this at least was no illusion. + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He will not die this time,” remarked Keyork Arabian to himself, as he + sent the carriage away and began to walk towards his own home. “Not this + time. But it was a sharp strain, and it would not be safe to try it + again.” + </p> + <p> + He thrust his gloved hands into the pockets of his fur coat, so that the + stick he held stood upright against his shoulder in a rather military + fashion. The fur cap sat a little to one side on his strange head, his + eyes twinkled, his long white beard waved in the cold wind, and his whole + appearance was that of a jaunty gnome-king, well satisfied with the + inspection of his treasure chamber. + </p> + <p> + And he had cause for satisfaction, as he knew well enough when he thought + of the decided progress made in the great experiment. The cost at which + that progress had been obtained was nothing. Had Israel Kafka perished + altogether under the treatment he had received, Keyork Arabian would have + bestowed no more attention upon the catastrophe than would have been + barely necessary in order to conceal it and to protect himself and Unorna + from the consequences of the crime. In the duel with death, the life of + one man was of small consequence, and Keyork would have sacrificed + thousands to his purposes with equal indifference to their intrinsic value + and with a proportionately greater interest in the result to be attained. + There was a terrible logic in his mental process. Life was a treasure + literally inestimable in value. Death was the destroyer of this treasure, + devised by the Supreme Power as a sure means of limiting man’s activity + and intelligence. To conquer Death on his own ground was to win the great + victory over that Power, and to drive back to an indefinite distance the + boundaries of human supremacy. + </p> + <p> + It was assuredly not for the sake of benefiting mankind at large that he + pursued his researches at all sacrifices and at all costs. The prime + object of all his consideration was himself, as he unhesitatingly admitted + on all occasions, conceiving perhaps that it was easier to defend such a + position than to disclaim it. There could be no doubt that in the man’s + enormous self-estimation, the Supreme Power occupied a place secondary to + Keyork Arabian’s personality, and hostile to it. And he had taken up arms, + as Lucifer, assuming his individual right to live in spite of God, Man and + Nature, convinced that the secret could be discovered and determined to + find it and to use it, no matter at what price. In him there was neither + ambition, nor pride, nor vanity in the ordinary meaning of these words. + For passion ceases with the cessation of comparison between man and his + fellows, and Keyork Arabian acknowledged no ground for such a comparison + in his own case. He had matched himself in a struggle with the Supreme + Power, and, directly, with that Power’s only active representative on + earth, with death. It was well said of him that he had no beliefs, for he + knew of no intermediate position between total suspension of judgment, and + the certainty of direct knowledge. And it was equally true that he was no + atheist, as he had sanctimoniously declared of himself. He admitted the + existence of the Power; he claimed the right to assail it, and he grappled + with the greatest, the most terrible, the most universal and the most + stupendous of Facts, which is the Fact that all men die. Unless he + conquered, he must die also. He was past theories, as he was beyond most + other human weaknesses, and facts had for him the enormous value they + acquire in the minds of men cut off from all that is ideal. + </p> + <p> + In Unorna he had found the instrument he had sought throughout half a + lifetime. With her he had tried the great experiment and pushed it to the + very end; and when he conducted Israel Kafka to his home, he already knew + that the experiment had succeeded. His plan was a simple one. He would + wait a few months longer for the final result, he would select his victim, + and with Unorna’s help he would himself grow young again. + </p> + <p> + “And who can tell,” he asked himself, “whether the life restored by such + means may not be more resisting and stronger against deathly influences + than before? Is it not true that the older we grow the more slowly we grow + old? Is not the gulf which divides the infant from the man of twenty years + far wider than that which lies between the twentieth and the fortieth + years, and that again more full of rapid change than the third score? + Take, too, the wisdom of my old age as against the folly of a scarce grown + boy, shall not my knowledge and care and forethought avail to make the + same material last longer on the second trial than on the first?” + </p> + <p> + No doubt of that, he thought, as he walked briskly along the pavement and + entered his own house. In his great room he sat down by the table and fell + into a long meditation upon the most immediate consequences of his success + in the difficult undertaking he had so skilfully brought to a conclusion. + His eyes wandered about the room from one specimen to another, and from + time to time a short, scornful laugh made his white beard quiver. As he + had said once to Unorna, the dead things reminded him of many failures; + but he had never before been able to laugh at them and at the unsuccessful + efforts they represented. It was different to-day. Without lifting his + head he turned up his bright eyes, under the thick, finely-wrinkled lids, + as though looking upward toward that Power against which he strove. The + glance was malignant and defiant, human and yet half-devilish. Then he + looked down again, and again fell into deep thought. + </p> + <p> + “And if it is to be so,” he said at last, rising suddenly and letting his + open hand fall upon the table, “even then, I am provided. She cannot free + herself from that bargain, at all events.” + </p> + <p> + Then he wrapped his furs around him and went out again. Scarce a hundred + paces from Unorna’s door he met the Wanderer. He looked up into the cold, + calm face, and put out his hand, with a greeting. + </p> + <p> + “You look as though you were in a very peaceful frame of mind,” observed + Keyork. + </p> + <p> + “Why should I be anything but peaceful?” asked the other, “I have nothing + to disturb me.” + </p> + <p> + “True, true. You possess a very fine organisation. I envy you your + magnificent constitution, my dear friend. I would like to have some of it, + and grow young again.” + </p> + <p> + “On your principle of embalming the living, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” answered the sage with a deep, rolling laugh. “By the bye, have + you been with our friend Unorna? I suppose that is a legitimate question, + though you always tell me I am tactless.” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly legitimate, my dear Keyork. Yes, I have just left her. It is + like a breath of spring morning to go there in these days.” + </p> + <p> + “You find it refreshing?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. There is something about her that I could describe as soothing, if I + were aware of ever being irritable, which I am not.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork smiled and looked down, trying to dislodge a bit of ice from the + pavement with the point of his stick. + </p> + <p> + “Soothing—yes. That is just the expression. Not exactly the quality + most young and beautiful women covet, eh? But a good quality in its way, + and at the right time. How is she to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “She seemed to have a headache—or she was oppressed by the heat. + Nothing serious, I fancy, but I came away, as I fancied I was tiring her.” + </p> + <p> + “Not likely,” observed Keyork. “Do you know Israel Kafka?” he asked + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Israel Kafka,” repeated the Wanderer thoughtfully, as though searching in + his memory. + </p> + <p> + “Then you do not,” said Keyork. “You could only have seen him since you + have been here. He is one of Unorna’s most interesting patients, and mine + as well. He is a little odd.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork tapped his ivory forehead significantly with one finger. + </p> + <p> + “Mad,” suggested the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + “Mad, if you prefer the term. He has fixed ideas. In the first place, he + imagines that he has just been travelling with me in Italy, and is always + talking of our experiences. Humour him, if you meet him. He is in danger + of being worse if contradicted.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I likely to meet him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He is often here. His other fixed idea is that he loves Unorna to + distraction. He has been dangerously ill during the last few weeks but is + better now, and he may appear at any moment. Humour him a little if he + wearies you with his stories. That is all I ask. Both Unorna and I are + interested in the case.” + </p> + <p> + “And does not Unorna care for him at all?” inquired the other + indifferently. + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed. On the contrary, she is annoyed at his insistance, but sees + that it is a phase of insanity and hopes to cure it before long.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. What is he like? I suppose he is an Israelite.” + </p> + <p> + “From Moravia—yes. The wreck of a handsome boy,” said Keyork + carelessly. “This insanity is an enemy of good looks. The nerves give way—then + the vitality—the complexion goes—men of five and twenty years + look old under it. But you will see for yourself before long. Good-bye. I + will go in and see what is the matter with Unorna.” + </p> + <p> + They parted, the Wanderer continuing on his way along the street with the + same calm, cold, peaceful expression which had elicited Keyork’s + admiration, and Keyork himself going forward to Unorna’s door. His face + was very grave. He entered the house by a small side door and ascended by + a winding staircase directly to the room from which, an hour or two + earlier, he had carried the still unconscious Israel Kafka. Everything was + as he had left it, and he was glad to be certified that Unorna had not + disturbed the aged sleeper in his absence. Instead of going to her at once + he busied himself in making a few observations and in putting in order + certain of his instruments and appliances. Then at last he went and found + Unorna. She was walking up and down among the plants and he saw at a + glance that something had happened. Indeed the few words spoken by the + Wanderer had suggested to him the possibility of a crisis, and he had + purposely lingered in the inner apartment, in order to give her time to + recover her self-possession. She started slightly when he entered, and her + brows contracted, but she immediately guessed from his expression that he + was not in one of his aggressive moods. + </p> + <p> + “I have just rectified a mistake which might have had rather serious + consequences,” he said, stopping before her and speaking earnestly and + quietly. + </p> + <p> + “A mistake?” + </p> + <p> + “We remembered everything, except that our wandering friend and Kafka were + very likely to meet, and that Kafka would in all probability refer to his + delightful journey to the south in my company.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true!” exclaimed Unorna with an anxious glance. “Well? What have + you done?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That was wise,” said Unorna, still pale. “How came we to be so imprudent! + One word, and he might have suspected—” + </p> + <p> + “He could not have suspected all,” answered Keyork. “No man could suspect + that.” + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless, I suppose what we have done is not exactly—justifiable.” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly. It is true that criminal law has not yet adjusted itself to meet + questions of suggestion and psychic influence, but it draws the line, most + certainly, somewhere between these questions and the extremity to which we + have gone. Happily the law is at an immeasurable distance from science, + and here, as usual in such experiments, no one could prove anything, owing + to the complete unconsciousness of the principal witnesses.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not like to think that we have been near to such trouble,” said + Unorna. + </p> + <p> + “Nor I. It was fortunate that I met the Wanderer when I did.” + </p> + <p> + “And the other? Did he wake as I ordered him to do? Is all right? Is there + no danger of his suspecting anything?” + </p> + <p> + It seemed as though Unorna had momentarily forgotten that such a + contingency might be possible, and her anxiety returned with the + recollection. Keyork’s rolling laughter reverberated among the plants and + filled the whole wide hall with echoes. + </p> + <p> + “No danger there,” he answered. “Your witchcraft is above criticism. + Nothing of that kind that you have ever undertaken has failed.” + </p> + <p> + “Except against you,” said Unorna, thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Except against me, of course. How could you ever expect anything of the + kind to succeed against me, my dear lady?” + </p> + <p> + “And why not? After all, in spite of our jesting, you are not a + supernatural being.” + </p> + <p> + “That depends entirely on the interpretation you give to the word + supernatural. But, my dear friend and colleague, let us not deceive each + other, though we are able between us to deceive other people into + believing almost anything. There is nothing in all this witchcraft of + yours but a very powerful moral influence at work—I mean apart from + the mere faculty of clairvoyance which is possessed by hundreds of common + somnambulists, and which, in you, is a mere accident. The rest, this + hypnotism, this suggestion, this direction of others’ wills, is a moral + affair, a matter of direct impression produced by words. Mental suggestion + may in rare cases succeed, when the person to be influenced is himself a + natural clairvoyant. But these cases are not worth taking into + consideration. Your influence is a direct one, chiefly exercised by means + of your words and through the impression of power which you know how to + convey in them. It is marvellous, I admit. But the very definition puts me + beyond your power.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because there is not a human being alive, and I do not believe that a + human being ever lived, who had the sense of independent individuality + which I have. Let a man have the very smallest doubt concerning his own + independence—let that doubt be ever so transitory and produced by + any accident whatsoever—and he is at your mercy.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are sure that no accident could shake your faith in yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “My consciousness of myself, you mean. No. I am not sure. But, my dear + Unorna, I am very careful in guarding against accidents of all sorts, for + I have attempted to resuscitate a great many dead people and I have never + succeeded, and I know that a false step on a slippery staircase may be + quite as fatal as a teaspoonful of prussic acid—or an unrequited + passion. I avoid all these things and many others. If I did not, and if + you had any object in getting me under your influence, you would succeed + sooner or later. Perhaps the day is not far distant when I will + voluntarily sleep under your hand.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna glanced quickly at him. + </p> + <p> + “And in that case,” he added, “I am sure you could make me believe + anything you pleased.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you trying to make me understand?” she asked, suspiciously, for + he had never before spoken of such a possibility. + </p> + <p> + “You look anxious and weary,” he said in a tone of sympathy in which + Unorna could not detect the least false modulation, though she fancied + from his fixed gaze that he meant her to understand something which he + could not say. “You look tired,” he continued, “though it is becoming to + your beauty to be pale—I always said so. I will not weary you. I was + only going to say that if I were under your influence—you might + easily make me believe that you were not yourself, but another woman—for + the rest of my life.” + </p> + <p> + They stood looking at each other in silence during several seconds. Then + Unorna seemed to understand what he meant. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really believe that is possible?” she asked earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “I know it. I know of a case in which it succeeded very well.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” she said, thoughtfully. “Let us go and look at him.” + </p> + <p> + She moved in the direction of the aged sleeper’s room and they both left + the hall together. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + Unorna was superstitious, as Keyork Arabian had once told her. She did not + thoroughly understand herself and she had very little real comprehension + of the method by which she produced such remarkable results. She was + gifted with a sensitive and active imagination, which supplied her with + semi-mystic formulae of thought and speech in place of reasoned + explanations, and she undoubtedly attributed much of her own power to + supernatural influences. In this respect, at least, she was no farther + advanced than the witches of older days, and if her inmost convictions + took a shape which would have seemed incomprehensible to those + predecessors of hers, this was to be attributed in part to the innate + superiority of her nature, and partly, also, to the high degree of + cultivation in which her mental faculties had reached development. + </p> + <p> + Keyork Arabian might spend hours in giving her learned explanations of + what she did, but he never convinced her. Possibly he was not convinced + himself, and he still hesitated, perhaps, between the two great theories + advanced to explain the phenomena of hypnotism. He had told her that he + considered her influence to be purely a moral one, exerted by means of + language and supported by her extraordinary concentrated will. But it did + not follow that he believed what he told her, and it was not improbable + that he might have his own doubts on the subject—doubts which Unorna + was not slow to suspect, and which destroyed for her the whole force of + his reasoning. She fell back upon a sort of grossly unreasonable + mysticism, combined with a blind belief in those hidden natural forces and + secret virtues of privileged objects, which formed the nucleus of + mediaeval scientific research. The field is a fertile one for the + imagination and possesses a strange attraction for certain minds. There + are men alive in our own time to whom the transmutation of metals does not + seem an impossibility, nor the brewing of the elixir of life a matter to + be scoffed at as a matter of course. The world is full of people who, in + their inmost selves, put faith in the latent qualities of precious stones + and amulets, who believe their fortunes, their happiness, and their lives + to be directly influenced by some trifling object which they have always + upon them. We do not know enough to state with assurance that the constant + handling of any particular metal, or gem, may not produce a real and + invariable corresponding effect upon the nerves. But we do know most + positively that, when the belief in such talismans is once firmly + established, the moral influence they exert upon men through the + imagination is enormous. From this condition of mind to that in which + auguries are drawn from outward and apparently accidental circumstances, + is but a step. If Keyork Arabian inclined to the psychic rather than to + the physical school in his view of Unorna’s witchcraft and in his study of + hypnotism in general, his opinion resulted naturally from his great + knowledge of mankind, and of the unacknowledged, often unsuspected, + convictions which in reality direct mankind’s activity. It was this + experience, too, and the certainty to which it had led him, that put him + beyond the reach of Unorna’s power so long as he chose not to yield + himself to her will. Her position was in reality diametrically opposed to + his, and although he repeated his reasonings to her from time to time, he + was quite indifferent to the nature of her views, and never gave himself + any real trouble to make her change them. The important point was that she + should not lose anything of the gifts she possessed, and Keyork was wise + enough to see that the exercise of them depended in a great measure upon + her own conviction regarding their exceptional nature. + </p> + <p> + Unorna herself believed in everything which strengthened and developed + that conviction, and especially in the influences of time and place. It + appeared to her a fortunate circumstance, when she at last determined to + overcome her pride, that the resolution should have formed itself exactly + a month after she had so successfully banished the memory of Beatrice from + the mind of the man she loved. She felt sure of producing a result as + effectual if, this time, she could work the second change in the same + place and under the same circumstances as the first. And to this end + everything was in her favour. She needed not to close her eyes to fancy + that thirty days had not really passed between then and now, as she left + her house in the afternoon with the Wanderer by her side. + </p> + <p> + He had come back and had found her once more herself, calm, collected, + conscious of her own powers. No suspicion of the real cause of the + disturbance he had witnessed crossed his mind, still less could he guess + what thing she meditated as she directed their walk towards that lonely + place by the river which had been the scene of her first great effort. She + talked lightly as they went, and he, in that strange humour of peaceful, + well-satisfied indifference which possessed him, answered her in the same + strain. It was yet barely afternoon, but there was already a foretaste of + coming evening in the chilly air. + </p> + <p> + “I have been thinking of what you said this morning,” she said, suddenly + changing the current of the conversation. “Did I thank you for your + kindness?” She smiled as she laid her hand gently upon his arm, to cross a + crowded street, and she looked up into his quiet face. + </p> + <p> + “Thank me? For what? On the contrary—I fancied that I had annoyed + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I did not quite understand it all at first,” she answered + thoughtfully. “It is hard for a woman like me to realise what it would be + to have a brother—or a sister, or any one belonging to me. I needed + to think of the idea. Do you know that I am quite alone in the world?” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer had accepted her as he found her, strangely alone, indeed, + and strangely independent of the world, a beautiful, singularly + interesting woman, doing good, so far as he knew, in her own way, + separated from ordinary existence by some unusual circumstances, and + elevated above ordinary dangers by the strength and the pride of her own + character. And yet, indolent and indifferent as he had grown of late, he + was conscious of a vague curiosity in regard to her story. Keyork either + really knew nothing, or pretended to know nothing of her origin. + </p> + <p> + “I see that you are alone,” said the Wanderer. “Have you always been so?” + </p> + <p> + “Always. I have had an odd life. You could not understand it, if I told + you of it.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet I have been lonely too—and I believe I was once unhappy, + though I cannot think of any reason for it.” + </p> + <p> + “You have been lonely—yes. But yours was another loneliness more + limited, less fatal, more voluntary. It must seem strange to you—I + do not even positively know of what nation I was born.” + </p> + <p> + Her companion looked at her in surprise, and his curiosity increased. + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing of myself,” she continued. “I remember neither father nor + mother. I grew up in the forest, among people who did not love me, but who + taught me, and respected me as though I were their superior, and who + sometimes feared me. When I look back, I am amazed at their learning and + their wisdom—and ashamed of having learned so little.” + </p> + <p> + “You are unjust to yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna laughed. + </p> + <p> + “No one ever accused me of that,” she said. “Will you believe it? I do not + even know where that place was. I cannot tell you even the name of the + kingdom in which it lay. I learned a name for it and for the forest, but + those names are in no map that has ever fallen into my hands. I sometimes + feel that I would go to the place if I could find it.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very strange. And how came you here?” + </p> + <p> + “I was told the time had come. We started at night. It was a long journey, + and I remember feeling tired as I was never tired before or since. They + brought me here, they left me in a religious house among nuns. Then I was + told that I was rich and free. My fortune was brought with me. That, at + least, I know. But those who received it and who take care of it for me, + know no more of its origin than I myself. Gold tells no tales, and the + secret has been well kept. I would give much to know the truth—when + I am in the humour.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed, and then laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “You see why it is that I find the idea of a brother so hard to + understand,” she added, and then was silent. + </p> + <p> + “You have all the more need of understanding it, my dear friend,” the + Wanderer answered, looking at her thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—perhaps so. I can see what friendship is. I can almost guess + what it would be to have a brother.” + </p> + <p> + “And have you never thought of more than that?” He asked the question in + his calmest and most friendly tone, somewhat deferentially as though + fearing lest it should seem tactless and be unwelcome. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have thought of love also,” she answered, in a low voice. But she + said nothing more, and they walked on for some time in silence. + </p> + <p> + They came out upon the open place by the river which she remembered so + well. Unorna glanced about her and her face fell. The place was the same, + but the solitude was disturbed. It was not Sunday as it had been on that + day a month ago. All about the huge blocks of stone, groups of workmen + were busy with great chisels and heavy hammers, hewing and chipping and + fashioning the material that it might be ready for use in the early + spring. Even the river was changed. Men were standing upon the ice, + cutting it into long symmetrical strips, to be hauled ashore. Some of the + great pieces were already separated from the main ice, and sturdy fellows, + clad in dark woollen, were poling them over the dark water to the foot of + the gently sloping road where heavy carts stood ready to receive the load + when cut up into blocks. The dark city was taking in a great provision of + its own coldness against the summer months. + </p> + <p> + Unorna looked about her. Everywhere there were people at work, and she was + more disappointed than she would own to herself at the invasion of the + solitude. The Wanderer looked from the stone-cutters to the ice-men with a + show of curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “I have not seen so much life in Prague for many a day,” he observed. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go,” answered Unorna, nervously. “I do not like it. I cannot bear + the sight of people to-day.” + </p> + <p> + They turned in a new direction, Unorna guiding her companion by a gesture. + They were near to the Jewish quarter, and presently were threading their + way through narrow and filthy streets thronged with eager Hebrew faces, + and filled with the hum of low-pitched voices chattering together, not in + the language of the country, but in a base dialect of German. They were in + the heart of Prague, in that dim quarter which is one of the strongholds + of the Israelite, whence he directs great enterprises and sets in motion + huge financial schemes, in which Israel sits, as a great spider in the + midst of a dark web, dominating the whole capital with his eagle’s glance + and weaving the destiny of the Bohemian people to suit his intricate + speculations. For throughout the length and breadth of Slavonic and German + Austria the Jew rules, and rules alone. + </p> + <p> + Unorna gathered her furs more closely about her, in evident disgust at her + surroundings, but still she kept on her way. Her companion, scarcely less + familiar with the sights of Prague than she herself, walked by her side, + glancing carelessly at the passing people, at the Hebrew signs, at the + dark entrances that lead to courts within courts and into labyrinths of + dismal lanes and passages, looking at everything with the same serene + indifference, and idly wondering what made Unorna choose to walk that way. + Then he saw that she was going towards the cemetery. They reached the + door, were admitted and found themselves alone in the vast wilderness. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of the city lies the ancient burial ground, now long disused + but still undisturbed, many acres of uneven land, covered so thickly with + graves, and planted so closely with granite and sandstone slabs, that the + paths will scarce allow two persons to walk side by side. The stones stand + and lie in all conceivable positions, erect, slanting at every angle, + prostrate upon the earth or upon others already fallen before them—two, + three, and even four upon a grave, where generations of men have been + buried one upon the other—stones large and small, covered with + deep-cut inscriptions in the Hebrew character, bearing the sculpture of + two uplifted hands, wherever the Kohns, the children of the tribe of + Aaron, are laid to rest, or the gracefully chiselled ewer of the Levites. + Here they lie, thousands upon thousands of dead Jews, great and small, + rich and poor, wise and ignorant, neglected individually, but guarded as a + whole with all the tenacious determination of the race to hold its own, + and to preserve the sacredness of its dead. In the dim light of the + winter’s afternoon it is as though a great army of men had fallen fighting + there, and had been turned to stone as they fell. Rank upon rank they lie, + with that irregularity which comes of symmetry destroyed, like columns and + files of soldiers shot down in the act of advancing. And in winter, the + gray light falling upon the untrodden snow throws a pale reflection + upwards against each stone, as though from the myriad sepulchres a faintly + luminous vapour were rising to the outer air. Over all, the rugged + brushwood and the stunted trees intertwine their leafless branches and + twigs in a thin, ghostly network of gray, that clouds the view of the + farther distance without interrupting it, a forest of shadowy skeletons + clasping fleshless, bony hands one with another, from grave to grave, as + far as the eye can see. + </p> + <p> + The stillness in the place is intense. Not a murmur of distant life from + the surrounding city disturbs the silence. At rare intervals a strong + breath of icy wind stirs the dead branches and makes them crack and rattle + against the gravestones and against each other as in a dance of death. It + is a wild and dreary place. In the summer, indeed, the thick leafage lends + it a transitory colour and softness, but in the depth of winter, when + there is nothing to hide the nakedness of truth, when the snow lies thick + upon the ground and the twined twigs and twisted trunks scarce cast a + tracery of shadow under the sunless sky, the utter desolation and + loneliness of the spot have a horror of their own, not to be described, + but never to be forgotten. + </p> + <p> + Unorna walked forward in silence, choosing a path so narrow that her + companion found himself obliged to drop behind and follow in her + footsteps. In the wildest part of this wilderness of death there is a + little rising of the ground. Here both the gravestones and the stunted + trees are thickest, and the solitude is, if possible, even more complete + than elsewhere. As she reached the highest point Unorna stood still, + turned quickly towards the Wanderer and held out both her hands towards + him. + </p> + <p> + “I have chosen this place, because it is quiet,” she said, with a soft + smile. + </p> + <p> + Hardly knowing why he did so, he laid his hands in hers and looked kindly + down to her upturned face. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he asked, meeting her eyes. + </p> + <p> + She was silent, and her fingers did not unclasp themselves. He looked at + her, and saw for the hundredth time that she was very beautiful. There was + a faint colour in her cheeks, and her full lips were just parted as though + a loving word had escaped them which she would not willingly recall. + Against the background of broken neutral tints, her figure stood out, an + incarnation of youth and vitality. If she had often looked weary and pale + of late, her strength and freshness had returned to her now in all their + abundance. The Wanderer knew that he was watching her, and knew that he + was thinking of her beauty and realising the whole extent of it more fully + than ever before, but beyond this point his thoughts could not go. He was + aware that he was becoming fascinated by her eyes, and he felt that with + every moment it was growing harder for him to close his own, or to look + away from her, and then, an instant later, he knew that it would be + impossible. Yet he made no effort. He was passive, indifferent, will-less, + and her gaze charmed him more and more. He was already in a dream, and he + fancied that the beautiful figure shone with a soft, rosy light of its own + in the midst of the gloomy waste. Looking into her sunlike eyes, he saw + there twin images of himself, that drew him softly and surely into + themselves until he was absorbed by them and felt that he was no longer a + reality but a reflection. Then a deep unconsciousness stole over all his + senses and he slept, or passed into that state which seems to lie between + sleep and trance. + </p> + <p> + Unorna needed not to question him this time, for she saw that he was + completely under her influence. Yet she hesitated at the supreme moment, + and then, though to all real intents she was quite alone, a burning flush + of shame rose to her face, and her heart sank within her. She felt that + she could not do it. + </p> + <p> + She dropped his hands. They fell to his sides as though they had been of + lead. Then she turned from him and pressed her aching forehead against a + tall weather-worn stone that rose higher than her own height from the + midst of the hillock. + </p> + <p> + Her woman’s nature rebelled against the trick. It was the truest thing in + her and perhaps the best, which protested so violently against the thing + she meant to do; it was the simple longing to be loved for her own sake, + and of the man’s own free will, to be loved by him with the love she had + despised in Israel Kafka. But would this be love at all, this artificial + creation of her suggestion reacting upon his mind? Would it last? Would it + be true, faithful, tender? Above all, would it be real, even for a moment? + She asked herself a thousand questions in a second of time. + </p> + <p> + Then the ready excuse flashed upon her—the pretext which the heart + will always find when it must have its way. Was it not possible, after + all, that he was beginning to love her even now? Might not that outburst + of friendship which had surprised her and wounded her so deeply, be the + herald of a stronger passion? She looked up quickly and met his vacant + stare. + </p> + <p> + “Do you love me?” she asked, almost before she knew what she was going to + say. + </p> + <p> + “No.” The answer came in the far-off voice that told of his + unconsciousness, a mere toneless monosyllable breathed upon the murky air. + But it stabbed her like the thrust of a jagged knife. A long silence + followed, and Unorna leaned against the great slab of carved sandstone. + </p> + <p> + Even to her there was something awful in his powerless, motionless + presence. The noble face, pale and set as under a mask, the thoughtful + brow, the dominating features, were not those of a man born to be a + plaything to the will of a woman. The commanding figure towered in the + grim surroundings like a dark statue, erect, unmoving, and in no way weak. + And yet she knew that she had but to speak and the figure would move, the + lips would form words, the voice would reach her ear. He would raise this + hand or that, step forwards or backwards, at her command, affirm what she + bid him affirm, and deny whatever she chose to hear denied. For a moment + she wished that he had been as Keyork Arabian, stronger than she; then, + with the half-conscious comparison the passion for the man himself surged + up and drowned every other thought. She almost forgot that for the time he + was not to be counted among the living. She went to him, and clasped her + hands upon his shoulder, and looked up into his scarce-seeing eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You must love me,” she said, “you must love me because I love you so. + Will you not love me, dear? I have waited so long for you!” + </p> + <p> + The soft words vibrated in his sleeping ear but drew forth neither + acknowledgment nor response. Like a marble statue he stood still, and she + leaned upon his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Do you not hear me?” she cried in a more passionate tone. “Do you not + understand me? Why is it that your love is so hard to win? Look at me! + Might not any man be proud to love me? Am I not beautiful enough for you? + And yet I know that I am fair. Or are you ashamed because people call me a + witch? Why then I will never be one again, for your sake! What do I care + for it all? Can it be anything to me—can anything have worth that + stands between me and you? Ah, love—be not so very hard!” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer did not move. His face was as calm as a sculptured stone. + </p> + <p> + “Do you despise me for loving you?” she asked again, with a sudden flush. + </p> + <p> + “No. I do not despise you.” Something in her tone had pierced through his + stupor and had found an answer. She started at the sound of his voice. It + was as though he had been awake and had known the weight of what she had + been saying, and her anger rose at the cold reply. + </p> + <p> + “No—you do not despise me, and you never shall!” she exclaimed + passionately. “You shall love me, as I love you—I will it, with all + my will! We are created to be all, one to the other, and you shall not + break through the destiny of love. Love me, as I love you—love me + with all your heart, love me with all your mind, love me with all your + soul, love me as man never loved woman since the world began! I will it, I + command it—it shall be as I say—you dare not disobey me—you + cannot if you would.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, but this time no answer came. There was not even a contraction + of the stony features. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear all I say?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I hear.” + </p> + <p> + “Then understand and answer me,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand. I cannot answer.” + </p> + <p> + “You must. You shall. I will have it so. You cannot resist my will, and I + will it with all my might. You have no will—you are mine, your body, + your soul, and your thoughts, and you must love me with them all from now + until you die—until you die,” she repeated fiercely. + </p> + <p> + Again he was silent. She felt that she had no hold upon his heart or mind, + seeing that he was not even disturbed by her repeated efforts. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a stone, that you do not know what love is?” she cried, grasping + his hand in hers and looking with desperate eyes into his face. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know what love is,” he answered, slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Then I will tell you what love is,” she said, and she took his hand and + pressed it upon her own brow. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer started at the touch, as though he would have drawn back. But + she held him fast, and so far, at least, he was utterly subject to her. + His brow contracted darkly, and his face grew paler. + </p> + <p> + “Read it there,” she cried. “Enter into my soul and read what love is, in + his own great writing. Read how he steals suddenly into the sacred place, + and makes it his, and tears down the old gods and sets up his dear image + in their stead—read how he sighs, and speaks, and weeps, and loves—and + forgives not, but will be revenged at the last. Are you indeed of stone, + and have you a stone for a heart? Love can melt even stones, being set in + man as the great central fire in the earth to burn the hardest things to + streams of liquid flame! And see, again, how very soft and gentle he can + be! See how I love you—see how sweet it is—how very lovely a + thing it is to love as woman can. There—have you felt it now? Have + you seen into the depths of my soul and into the hiding-places of my + heart? Let it be so in your own, then, and let it be so for ever. You + understand now. You know what it all is—how wild, how passionate, + how gentle and how great! Take to yourself this love of mine—is it + not all yours? Take it, and plant it with strong roots and seeds of + undying life in your own sleeping breast, and let it grow, and grow, till + it is even greater than it was in me, till it takes us both into itself, + together, fast bound in its immortal bonds, to be two in one, in life and + beyond life, for ever and ever and ever to the end of ends!” + </p> + <p> + She ceased and she saw that his face was no longer expressionless and + cold. A strange light was upon his features, the passing radiance of a + supreme happiness seen in the vision of a dream. Again she laid her hands + upon his shoulder clasped together, as she had done at first. She knew + that her words had touched him and she was confident of the result, + confident as one who loves beyond reason. Already in imagination she + fancied him returning to consciousness, not knowing that he had slept, but + waking with a gentle word just trembling upon his lips, the words she + longed to hear. + </p> + <p> + One moment more, she thought. It was good to see that light upon his face, + to fancy how that first word would sound, to feel that the struggle was + past and that there was nothing but happiness in the future, full, + overflowing, overwhelming, reaching from earth to heaven and through time + to eternity. One moment, only, before she let him wake—it was such + glory to be loved at last! Still the light was there, still that exquisite + smile was on his lips. And they would be always there now, she thought. + </p> + <p> + At last she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Then love, since you are mine, and I am yours, wake from the dream to + life itself—wake, not knowing that you have slept, knowing only that + you love me now and always—wake, love wake!” + </p> + <p> + She waved her delicate hand before his eyes and still resting the other + upon his shoulder, watched the returning brightness in the dark pupils + that had been glazed and fixed a moment before. And as she looked, her own + beauty grew radiant in the splendour of a joy even greater than she had + dreamed of. As it had seemed to him when he had lost himself in her gaze, + so now she also fancied that the grim, gray wilderness was full of a soft + rosy light. The place of the dead was become the place of life; the great + solitude was peopled as the whole world could never be for her; the + crumbling gravestones were turned to polished pillars in the temple of an + immortal love, and the ghostly, leafless trees blossomed with the undying + flowers of the earthly paradise. + </p> + <p> + One moment only, and then all was gone. The change came, sure, swift and + cruel. As she looked, it came, gradual, in that it passed through every + degree, but sudden also, as the fall of a fair and mighty building, which + being undermined in its foundations passes in one short minute through the + change from perfect completeness to hopeless and utter ruin. + </p> + <p> + All the radiance, all the light, all the glory were gone in an instant. + Her own supremely loving look had not vanished, her lips still parted + sweetly, as forming the word that was to answer his, and the calm + indifferent face of the waking man was already before her. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he asked, in his kind and passionless voice. “What were you + going to ask me, Unorna?” + </p> + <p> + It was gone. The terribly earnest appeal had been in vain. Not a trace of + that short vision of love remained impressed upon his brain. + </p> + <p> + With a smothered cry of agony Unorna leaned against the great slab of + stone behind her and covered her eyes. The darkness of night descended + upon her, and with it the fire of a burning shame. + </p> + <p> + Then a loud and cruel laugh rang through the chilly air, such a laugh as + the devils in hell bestow upon the shame of a proud soul that knows its + own infinite bitterness. Unorna started and uncovered her eyes, her + suffering changed in a single instant to ungovernable and destroying + anger. She made a step forwards and then stopped short, breathing hard. + The Wanderer, too, had turned, more quickly than she. Between two tall + gravestones, not a dozen paces away, stood a man with haggard face and + eyes on fire, his keen, worn features contorted by a smile in which + unspeakable satisfaction struggled for expression with a profound despair. + </p> + <p> + The man was Israel Kafka. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + The Wanderer looked from Unorna to Kafka with profound surprise. He had + never seen the man and had no means of knowing who he was, still less of + guessing what had brought him to the lonely place, or why he had broken + into a laugh, of which the harsh, wild tones still echoed through the wide + cemetery. Totally unconscious of all that had happened to himself during + the preceding quarter of an hour, the Wanderer was deprived of the key to + the situation. He only understood that the stranger was for some reason or + other deeply incensed against Unorna, and he realised that the intruder + had, on the moment of appearance, no control over himself. + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka remained where he stood, between the two tall stones, one + hand resting on each, his body inclined a little forward, his dark, sunken + eyes, bloodshot and full of a turbid, angry brightness, bent intently upon + Unorna’s face. He looked as though he were about to move suddenly + forwards, but it was impossible to foresee that he might not as suddenly + retreat, as a lean and hungry tiger crouches for a moment in uncertainty + whether to fight or fly, when after tracking down his man he finds him not + alone and defenceless as he had anticipated, but well-armed and in + company. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer’s indolence was only mental, and was moreover transitory and + artificial. When he saw Unorna advance, he quickly placed himself between + her and Israel Kafka, and looked from one to the other. + </p> + <p> + “Who is this man?” he asked. “And what does he want of you?” + </p> + <p> + Unorna made as though she would pass him. But he laid his hand upon her + arm with a gesture that betrayed his anxiety for her safety. At his touch, + her face changed for a moment and a faint blush dyed her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “You may well ask who I am,” said the Moravian, speaking in a voice + half-choked with passion and anger. “She will tell you she does not know + me—she will deny my existence to my face. But she knows me very + well. I am Israel Kafka.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer looked at him more curiously. He remembered what he had heard + but a few hours earlier from Keyork concerning the young fellow’s madness. + The situation now partially explained itself. + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” he said, looking at Unorna. “He seems to be dangerous. + What shall I do with him?” + </p> + <p> + He asked the question as calmly as though it had referred to the disposal + of an inanimate object, instead of to the taking into custody of a madman. + </p> + <p> + “Do with me?” cried Kafka, advancing suddenly a step forwards from between + the slabs. “Do with me? Do you speak of me as though I were a dog—a + dumb animal—but I will——” + </p> + <p> + He choked and coughed, and could not finish the sentence. There was a + hectic flush in his cheek and his thin, graceful frame shook violently + from head to foot. Unable to speak for the moment, he waved his hand in a + menacing gesture. The Wanderer shook his head rather sadly. + </p> + <p> + “He seems very ill,” he said, in a tone of compassion. + </p> + <p> + 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. + Her anger was terrible. She had suffered enough secret shame already in + stooping to the use of her arts in such a course. It had cost her one of + the greatest struggles of her life, and her disappointment at the result + had been proportionately bitter. In that alone she had endured almost as + much pain as she could bear. But to find suddenly that her humiliation, + her hot speech, her failure, the look which she knew had been on her face + until the moment when the Wanderer awoke, that all this had been seen and + heard by Israel Kafka was intolerable. Even Keyork’s unexpected appearance + could not have so fired her wrath. Keyork might have laughed at her + afterwards, but her failure would have been no triumph to him. Was not + Keyork enlisted on her side, ready to help her at all times, by word or + deed, in accordance with the terms of their agreement? But of all men + Kafka, whom she had so wronged, was the one man who should have been + ignorant of her defeat and miserable shame. + </p> + <p> + “Go!” she cried, with a gesture of command. Her eyes flashed and her + extended hand trembled. + </p> + <p> + There was such concentrated fury in a single word that the Wanderer + started in surprise, ignorant as he was of the true state of things. + </p> + <p> + “You are uselessly unkind,” he said gravely. “The poor man is mad. Let me + take him away.” + </p> + <p> + “Leave him to me,” she answered imperiously. “He will obey me.” + </p> + <p> + But Israel Kafka did not turn. He rested one hand upon the slab and faced + her. As when many different forces act together at one point, producing + after the first shock a resultant little expected, so the many passions + that were at work in his face finally twisted his lips into a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, in a low tone, which did not express submission. “Leave me + to her! Leave me to the Witch and to her mercy. It will be the end this + time. She is drunk with her love of you and mad with her hatred of me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Be silent!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “And if I speak, what then?” asked the Moravian with his evil smile. + </p> + <p> + “I will silence you,” answered the Wanderer coldly. “Your madness excuses + you, perhaps, but it does not justify me in allowing you to insult a + woman.” + </p> + <p> + Kafka’s anger took a new direction. Even madmen are often calmed by the + quiet opposition of a strong and self-possessed man. And Kafka was not + mad. He was no coward either, but the subtlety of his race was in him. As + oil dropped by the board in a wild tempest does not calm the waves, but + momentarily prevents their angry crests from breaking, so the Israelite’s + quick tact veiled the rough face of his dangerous humour. + </p> + <p> + “I insult no one,” he said, almost deferentially. “Least of all her whom I + have worshipped long and lost at last. You accuse me unjustly of that, and + though my speech may have been somewhat rude, yet may I be forgiven for + the sake of what I have suffered. For I have suffered much.” + </p> + <p> + Seeing that he was taking a more courteous tone, the Wanderer folded his + arms and left Unorna free to move, awaiting her commands, or the further + development of events. He saw in her face that her anger was not + subsiding, and he wondered less at it after hearing Kafka’s insulting + speech. It was a pity, he thought, that any one should take so seriously a + maniac’s words, but he was nevertheless resolved that they should not be + repeated. After all, it would be an easy matter, if the man again + overstepped the bounds of gentle speech, to take him bodily away from + Unorna’s presence. + </p> + <p> + “And are you going to charm our ears with a story of your sufferings?” + Unorna asked, in a tone so cruel, that the Wanderer expected a quick + outburst of anger from Kafka, in reply. But he was disappointed in this. + The smile still lingered on the Moravian’s face, when he answered, and his + expressive voice, no longer choking with passion, grew very soft and + musical. + </p> + <p> + “It is not mine to charm,” he said. “It is not given to me to make slaves + of all living things with hand and eye and word. Such power Nature does + not give to all, she has given none to me. I have no spell to win Unorna’s + love—and if I had, I cannot say that I would take a love thus + earned.” + </p> + <p> + He paused a moment and Unorna grew paler. She started, but then did not + move again. His words had power to wound her, but she trembled lest the + Wanderer should understand their hidden meaning, and she was silent, + biding her time and curbing her passion. + </p> + <p> + “No,” continued Kafka, “I was not thus favoured in my nativity. The star + of love was not in the ascendant, the lord of magic charms was not + trembling upon my horizon, the sun of earthly happiness was not enthroned + in my mid-heaven. How could it be? She had it all, this Unorna here, and + Nature, generous in one mad moment, lavished upon her all there was to + give. For she has all, and we have nothing, as I have learned and you will + learn before you die.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at the Wanderer as he spoke. His hollow eyes seemed calm enough, + and in his dejected attitude and subdued tone there was nothing that gave + warning of a coming storm. The Wanderer listened, half-interested and yet + half-annoyed by his persistence. Unorna herself was silent still. + </p> + <p> + “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. Heaven had put on all its glories—across its + silent breast was bound the milk-white ribband, its crest was crowned with + God’s crown-jewels, the great northern stars, its mighty form was robed in + the mantle of majesty set with the diamonds of suns and worlds, great and + small, far and near—not one tiny spark of all the myriad million + gems was darkened by a breath of wind-blown mist. The earth was very + still, all wrapped in peace and lulled in love. The great trees pointed + their dark spires upwards from the temple of the forest to the firmament + of the greater temple on high. In the starlight the year’s first roses + breathed out the perfume gathered from the departed sun, and every dewdrop + in the short, sweet grass caught in its little self the reflection of + heaven’s vast glory. Only, in the universal stillness, the nightingale + sang the song of songs, and bound the angel of love with the chains of her + linked melody and made him captive in bonds stronger than his own.” + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka spoke dreamily, resting against the stone beside him, + seemingly little conscious of the words that fell in oriental imagery from + his lips. In other days Unorna had heard him speak like this to her, and + she had loved the speech, though not the man, and sometimes for its sake + she had wished her heart could find its fellow in his. And even now, the + tone and the words had a momentary effect upon her. What would have + sounded as folly, overwrought, sentimental, almost laughable, perhaps, to + other women, found an echo in her own childish memories and a sympathy in + her belief in her own mysterious nature. The Wanderer had heard men talk + as Israel Kafka talked, in other lands, where speech is prized by men and + women not for its tough strength but for its wealth of flowers. + </p> + <p> + “And love was her first captive,” said the Moravian, “and her first slave. + Yes, I will tell you the story of Unorna’s life. She is angry with me now. + Well, let it be. It is my fault—or hers. What matter? She cannot + quite forget me out of mind—and I? Has Lucifer forgotten God?” + </p> + <p> + He sighed, and a momentary light flashed in his eyes. Something in the + blasphemous strength of the words attracted the Wanderer’s attention. + Utterly indifferent himself, he saw that there was something more than + madness in the man before him. He found himself wondering what + encouragement Unorna had given the seed of passion that it should have + grown to such strength, and he traced the madness back to the love, + instead of referring the love to the madness. But he said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “So she was born,” continued Kafka, dreaming on. “She was born amid the + perfume of the roses, under the starlight, when the nightingale was + singing. And all things that lived, loved her, and submitted to her voice + and hand, and to her eyes and to her unspoken will, as running water + follows the course men give it, winding and gliding, falling and rushing, + full often of a roar of resistance that covers the deep, quick-moving + stream, flowing in spite of itself through the channel that is dug for it + to the determined end. And nothing resisted her. Neither man nor woman nor + child had any strength to oppose against her magic. The wolf hounds licked + her feet, the wolves themselves crouched fawning in her path. For she is + without fear—as she is without mercy. Is that strange? What fear can + there be for her who has the magic charm, who holds sleep in the one hand + and death in the other, and between whose brows is set the knowledge of + what shall be hereafter? Can any one harm her? Has any one the strength to + harm her? Is there anything on earth which she covets and which shall not + be hers?” + </p> + <p> + Though his voice was almost as soft as before, the evil smile flickered + again about his drawn lips as he looked into Unorna’s face. He wondered + why she did not face him and crush him and force him to sleep with her + eyes as he knew she could do. But he himself was past fear. He had + suffered too much and cared not what chanced to him now. But she should + know that he knew all, if he told her so with his latest breath. Despair + had given him a strange control of his anger and of his words, and + jealousy had taught him the art of wounding swiftly, surely and with a + light touch. Sooner or later she would turn upon him and annihilate him in + a dream of unconsciousness; he knew that, and he knew that such faint + power of resisting her as he had ever possessed was gone. But so long as + she was willing to listen to him, so long would he torture her with the + sting of her own shame, and when her patience ended, or her caprice + changed, he would find some bitter word to cast at her in the moment + before losing his consciousness of thought and his power to speak. This + one chance of wounding was given to him and he would use it to the utmost, + with all subtlety, with all cruelty, with all determination to torture. + </p> + <p> + “Whatsoever she covets is hers to take. No one escapes the spell in the + end, no one resists the charm. And yet it is written in the book of her + fate that she shall one day taste the fruit of ashes, and drink of the + bitter water. It is written that whosoever slays with the sword shall die + by the sword also. She has killed with love, and by love she shall perish. + I loved her once. I know what I am saying.” + </p> + <p> + Again he paused, lingering thoughtfully upon the words. The Wanderer + glanced at Unorna as though asking her whether he should not put a sudden + end to the strange monologue. She was pale and her eyes were bright; but + she shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 then you will make an end of me. I see. I accept the + offer. I can even thank you for your patience. You are kind to-day—I + have known you harder. Well, then, I will speak out. I will tell my story, + not that any one may judge between you and me. There is neither judge nor + justice for those who love in vain. So I loved you. That is the whole + story. Do you understand me, sir? I loved this woman, but she would not + love me. That is all. And what of it, and what then? Look at her, and look + at me—the beginning and the end.” + </p> + <p> + In a manner familiar to Orientals the unhappy man laid one finger upon his + own breast, and with the other hand pointed at Unorna’s fair young face. + The Wanderer’s eyes obeyed the guiding gesture, and he looked from one to + the other, and again the belief crossed his thoughts that there was less + of madness about Israel Kafka than Keyork would have had him think. Trying + to read the truth from Unorna’s eyes, he saw that they avoided his, and he + fancied he detected symptoms of distress in her pallor and contracted + lips. 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. + </p> + <p> + “I loved her. There is a history in those three words which neither the + eloquent tongue nor the skilled pen can tell. See how coldly I speak. I + command my speech, I may pick and choose among ten thousand words and + phrases, and describe love at my leisure. She grants me time; she is very + merciful to-day. What would you have me say? You know what love is. Think + of such love as yours can have been, and take twice that, and three times + over, and a hundred thousand times, and cram it, burning, flaming, melting + into your bursting heart—then you would know a tenth of what I have + known. Love, indeed! Who can have known love but me? I stand alone. Since + the dull, unlovely world first jarred and trembled and began to move, + there has not been another of my kind, nor has man suffered as I have + suffered, and been crushed and torn and thrown aside to die, without even + the mercy of a death-wound. Describe it? Tell it? Look at me! I am both + love’s description and the epitaph on his gravestone. In me he lived, me + he tortured, with me he dies never to live again as he has lived this + once. There is no justice and no mercy! Think not that it is enough to + love and that you will be loved in return. Do not think that—do not + dream that. Do you not know that the fiercest drought is as a spring rain + to the rocks, which thirst not and need no refreshment?” + </p> + <p> + Again he fixed his eyes on Unorna’s face and faintly smiled. Apparently + she was displeased. + </p> + <p> + “What is it that you would say?” she asked coldly. “What is this that you + tell us of rocks and rain, and death-wounds, and the rest? You say you + loved me once—that was a madness. You say that I never loved you—that, + at least, is truth. Is that your story? It is indeed short enough, and I + marvel at the many words in which you have put so little!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Laugh, laugh, Unorna!” he cried. “You do not laugh alone. And yet—I + love you still, I love you so well in spite of all that I cannot laugh at + you as I would, even though I were to see you again clinging to the rock + and imploring it to take pity on your thirst. And he who dies for you, + Unorna—of him you ask nothing, save that he will crawl away and die + alone, and not disturb your delicate life with such an unseemly sight.” + </p> + <p> + “You talk of death!” exclaimed Unorna scornfully. “You talk of dying for + me because you are ill to-day. To-morrow, Keyork Arabian will have cured + you, and then, for aught I know, you will talk of killing me instead. This + is child’s talk, boy’s talk. If we are to listen to you, you must be more + eloquent. You must give us such a tale of woe as shall draw tears from our + eyes and sobs from our breasts—then we will applaud you and let you + go. That shall be your reward.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer glanced at her in surprise. There was a bitterness in her + tone of which he had not believed her soft voice capable. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you hate him so if he is mad?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “The reason is not far to seek,” said Kafka. “This woman here—God + made her crooked-hearted! Love her, and she will hate you as only she has + learned how to hate. Show her that cold face of yours, and she will love + you so that she will make a carpet of her pride for you to walk on—ay, + or spit on either, if you deign to be so kind. She has a wonderful kind of + heart, for it freezes when you burn it, and melts when you freeze it.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you mad, indeed?” asked the Wanderer, suddenly planting himself in + front of Kafka. “They told me so—I can almost believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What did she do?” The Wanderer turned quickly as he stood, and looked at + Unorna. + </p> + <p> + “Do not listen to his ravings,” she said. The words seemed weak and poorly + chosen, and there was a strange look in her face as though she were either + afraid or desperate, or both. + </p> + <p> + “She loves you,” said Israel Kafka calmly. “And you do not know it. She + has power over you, as she has over me, but the power to make you love her + she has not. She will destroy you, and your state will be no better than + mine to-day. We shall have moved on a step, for I shall be dead and you + will be the madman, and she will have found another to love and to + torture. The world is full of them. Her altar will never lack sacrifices.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer’s face was grave. + </p> + <p> + “You may be mad or not,” he said. “I cannot tell. But you say monstrous + things, and you shall not repeat them.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she not say that I might speak?” asked Kafka with a bitter laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I will keep my word,” said Unorna. “You seek your own destruction. Find + it in your own way. It will not be the less sure. Speak—say what you + will. You shall not be interrupted.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer drew back, not understanding what was passing, nor why Unorna + was so long-suffering. + </p> + <p> + “Say all you have to say,” she repeated, coming forward so that she stood + directly in front of Israel Kafka. “And you,” she added, speaking to the + Wanderer, “leave him to me. He is quite right—I can protect myself + if I need any protection.” + </p> + <p> + “You remember how we parted, Unorna?” said Kafka. “It is a month to-day. I + did not expect a greeting of you when I came back, or, if I did expect it, + I was foolish and unthinking. I should have known you better. I should + have known that there is one half of your word which you never break—the + cruel half, and one thing which you cannot forgive, and which is my love + for you. And yet that is the very thing which I cannot forget. I have come + back to tell you so. You may as well know it.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna’s expression grew cold, as she saw that he abandoned the strain of + reproach and spoke once more of his love for her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I see what you mean,” he said, very quietly. “You mean to show me by + your face that you give me no hope. I should have known that by other + things I have seen here. God knows, I have seen enough! But I meant to + find you alone. I went to your home, I saw you go out, I followed you, I + entered here—I heard all—and I understood, for I know your + power, as this man cannot know it. Do you wonder that I followed you? Do + you despise me? Do you think I still care, because you do? Love is + stronger than the woman loved and for her we do deeds of baseness, + unblushingly, which she would forbid our doing, and for which she despises + us when she hates us, and loves us the more dearly when she loves us at + all. You hate me—then despise me, too, if you will. It is too late + to care. I followed you like a spy, I saw what I expected to see, I have + suffered what I knew I should suffer. You know that I have been away + during this whole month, and that I have travelled thousands of leagues in + the hope of forgetting you.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet I fancied I had seen you within the month,” Unorna said, with a + cruel smile. + </p> + <p> + “They say that ghosts haunt the places they have loved,” answered Kafka + unmoved. “If that be true I may have troubled your dreams and you may have + seen me. I have come back broken in body and in heart. I think I have come + back to die here. The life is going out of me, but before it is quite gone + I can say two things. I can tell you that I know you at last, and that, in + spite of the horror of knowing what you are, I love you still.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I so very horrible?” she asked scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “You know what you are, better than I can tell you, but not better than I + know. I know even the secret meaning of your moods and caprices. I know + why you are willing to listen to me, this last time, so patiently, with + only now and then a sneer and a cutting laugh.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “In order to make me suffer the more. You will never forgive me now, for + you know that I know, and that alone is a sin past all forgiveness, and + over and above that I am guilty of the crime of loving when you have no + love for me.” + </p> + <p> + “And as a last resource you come to me and recapitulate your misdeeds. The + plan is certainly original, though it lacks wit.” + </p> + <p> + “There is least wit where there is most love, Unorna. I take no account of + the height of my folly when I see the depth of my love, which has + swallowed up myself and all my life. In the last hour I have known its + depth and breadth and strength, for I have seen what it can bear. And why + should I complain of it? Have I not many times said that I would die for + you willingly—and is it not dying for you to die of love for you? To + prove my faith it were too easy a death. When I look into your face I know + that there is in me the heart that made true Christian martyrs——” + </p> + <p> + Unorna laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Would you be a martyr?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nor for your Faith—but for the faith I once had in you, and for the + love that no martyrdom could kill. Ay—to prove that love I would die + a hundred deaths—and to gain yours I would die the death eternal.” + </p> + <p> + “And you would have deserved it. Have you not deserved enough already, + enough of martyrdom, for tracking me to-day, following me stealthily, like + a thief and a spy, to find out my ends and my doings?” + </p> + <p> + “I love you, Unorna.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Foolish? Yes, and mad, too! And my madness is all you have left me—take + it—it is yours! You cannot kill my love. Deny my words, deny your + deeds! Let all be false in you—it is but one pain more, and my heart + is not broken yet. It will bear another. Tell me that what I saw had no + reality—that you did not make him sleep—here, on this spot, + before my eyes—that you did not pour your love into his sleeping + ears, that you did not command, implore, entreat—and fail! What is + it all to me, whether you speak truth or not? Tell me it is not true that + I would die a thousand martyrdoms for your sake, as you are, and if you + were a thousand times worse than you are! Your wrong, your right, your + truth, your falsehood, you yourself are swallowed up in the love I bear + you! I love you always, and I will say it, and say it again—ah, your + eyes! I love them, too! Take me into them, Unorna—whether in hate or + love—but in love—yes—love—Unorna—golden + Unorna!” + </p> + <p> + With the cry on his lips—the name he had given her in other days—he + made one mad step forwards, throwing out his arms as though to clasp her + to him. But it was too late. Even while he had been speaking her + mysterious influence had overpowered him, as he had known that it would, + when she so pleased. + </p> + <p> + She caught his two hands in the air, and pressed him back and held him + against the tall slab. The whole pitilessness of her nature gleamed like a + cold light in her white face. + </p> + <p> + “There was a martyr of your race once,” she said in cruel tones. “His name + was Simon Abeles. You talk of martyrdom! You shall know what it means—though + it be too good for you, who spy upon the woman whom you say you love.” + </p> + <p> + The hectic flush of passion sank from Israel Kafka’s cheek. Rigid, with + outstretched arms and bent head, he stood against the ancient gravestone. + Above him, as though raised to heaven in silent supplication, were the + sculptured hands that marked the last resting-place of a Kohn. + </p> + <p> + “You shall know now,” said Unorna. “You shall suffer indeed.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV[*] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [*] The deeds here described were done in Prague on the + twenty-first day of February in the year 1694. Lazarus and + his accomplice Levi Kurtzhandel, or Brevimanus, or “the + short-handed,” were betrayed by their own people. Lazarus + hanged himself in prison, and Levi suffered death by the + wheel—repentant, it is said, and himself baptized. A full + account of the trial, written in Latin, was printed, and a + copy of it may be seen in the State Museum in Prague. The + body of Simon Abeles was exhumed and rests in the Teyn + Kirche, in the chapel on the left of the high altar. The + slight extension of certain scenes not fully described in + the Latin volume will be pardoned in a work of fiction. +</pre> + <p> + Unorna’s voice sank from the tone of anger to a lower pitch. She spoke + quietly and very distinctly as though to impress every word upon the ear + of the man who was in her power. The Wanderer listened, too, scarcely + comprehending at first, but slowly yielding to the influence she exerted + until the vision rose before him also with all its moving scenes, in all + its truth and in all its horror. As in a dream the deeds that had been + passed before him, the desolate burial-ground was peopled with forms and + faces of other days, the gravestones rose from the earth and piled + themselves into gloomy houses and remote courts and dim streets and + venerable churches, the dry and twisted trees shrank down, and broadened + and swung their branches as arms, and drew up their roots out of the + ground as feet under them and moved hither and thither. And the knots and + bosses and gnarls upon them became faces, dark, eagle-like and keen, and + the creaking and crackling of the boughs and twigs under the piercing + blast that swept by, became articulate and like the voices of old men + talking angrily together. There were sudden changes from day to night and + from night to day. 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. He no longer stood with + outstretched arms, his back against a crumbling slab, his filmy eyes fixed + on Unorna’s face. He grew younger; his features were those of a boy of + scarcely thirteen years, pale, earnest and brightened by a soft light + which followed him hither and thither, and he was not alone. He moved with + others through the old familiar streets of the city, clothed in a fashion + of other times, speaking in accents comprehensible but unlike the speech + of to-day, acting in a dim and far-off life that had once been. + </p> + <p> + 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. It was + to him an illusion of which he understood the key and penetrated the + secret, but it was marvellous in its way, and he was held enthralled from + the first moment when it began to unfold itself. He understood further + that Israel Kafka was in a state different from this, that he was + suffering all the reality of another life, which to the Wanderer was but a + dream. For the moment all his faculties had a double perception of things + and sounds, distinguishing clearly between the fact and the mirage that + distorted and obscured it. For the moment he was aware that his reason was + awake though his eyes and his ears might be sleeping. Then the unequal + contest between the senses and the intellect ceased, and while still + retaining the dim consciousness that the source of all he saw and heard + lay in Unorna’s brain, he allowed himself to be led quickly from one scene + to another, absorbed and taken out of himself by the horror of the deeds + done before him. + </p> + <p> + At first, indeed, the vision, though vivid, seemed objectless and of + uncertain meaning. The dark depths of the Jews’ quarter of the city were + opened, and it was towards evening. Throngs of gowned men, crooked, + bearded, filthy, vulture-eyed, crowded upon each other in a narrow public + place, talking in quick, shrill accents, gesticulating, with hands and + arms and heads and bodies, laughing, chuckling, chattering, hook-nosed and + loose-lipped, grasping fat purses in lean fingers, shaking greasy curls + that straggled out under caps of greasy fur, glancing to right and left + with quick, gleaming looks that pierced the gloom like fitful flashes of + lightning, plucking at each other by the sleeve and pointing long fingers + and crooked nails, two, three and four at a time, as markers, in their + ready reckoning, a writhing mass of humanity, intoxicated by the smell of + gold, mad for its possession, half hysteric with the fear of losing it, + timid, yet dangerous, poisoned to the core by the sweet sting of money, + terrible in intelligence, vile in heart, contemptible in body, + irresistible in the unity of their greed—the Jews of Prague, two + hundred years ago. + </p> + <p> + In one corner of the dusky place there was a little light. A boy stood + there, beside a veiled woman, and the light that seemed to cling about him + was not the reflection of gold. He was very young. His pale face had in it + all the lost beauty of the Jewish race, the lips were clearly cut, even, + pure in outline and firm, the forehead broad with thought, the features + noble, aquiline—not vulture-like. Such a face might holy Stephen, + Deacon and Protomartyr, have turned upon the young men who laid their + garments at the fee of the unconverted Saul. + </p> + <p> + He stood there, looking on at the scene in the market-place, not + wondering, for nothing of it was new to him, not scorning, for he felt no + hate, not wrathful, for he dreamed of peace. He would have had it + otherwise—that was all. He would have had the stream flow back upon + its source and take a new channel for itself, he would have seen the + strength of his people wielded in cleaner deeds for nobler aims. The gold + he hated, the race for it he despised, the poison of it he loathed, but he + had neither loathing nor contempt nor hatred for the men themselves. He + looked upon them and he loved to think that the carrion vulture might once + again be purified and lifted on strong wings and become, as in old days, + the eagle of the mountains. + </p> + <p> + For many minutes he gazed in silence. Then he sighed and turned away. He + held certain books in his hand, for he had come from the school of the + synagogue where, throughout the short winter days, the rabbis taught him + and his companions the mysteries of the sacred tongue. The woman by his + side was a servant in his father’s house, and it was her duty to attend + him through the streets, until the day when, being judged a man, he should + be suddenly freed from the bondage of childish things. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go,” he said in a low voice. “The air is full of gold and heavy. I + cannot breathe it.” + </p> + <p> + “Whither?” asked the woman. + </p> + <p> + “Thou knowest,” he answered. And suddenly the faint radiance that was + always about him grew brighter, and spread out arms behind him, to the + right and left, in the figure of a cross. + </p> + <p> + They walked together, side by side, quickly and often glancing behind them + as though to see whether they were followed. And yet it seemed as though + it was not they who moved, but the city about them which changed. The + throng of busy Jews grew shadowy and disappeared, their shrill voices were + lost in the distance. There were other people in the street, of other + features and in different garbs, of prouder bearing and hot, restless + manner, broad-shouldered, erect, manly, with spur on heel and sword at + side. The outline of the old synagogue melted into the murky air and + changed its shape, and stood out again in other and ever-changing forms. + Now they were passing before the walls of a noble palace, now beneath + long, low galleries of arches, now again across the open space of the + Great Ring in the midst of the city—then all at once they were + standing before the richly carved doorway of the Teyn Kirche, the very + doorway out of which the Wanderer had followed the fleeting shadow of + Beatrice’s figure but a month ago. And then they paused, and looked again + to the right and left, and searched the dark corners with piercing + glances. + </p> + <p> + “Thy life is in thine hand,” said the woman, speaking close to the boy’s + ear. “It is yet time. Turn with me and let us go back.” + </p> + <p> + The mysterious radiance lit up the youth’s beautiful face in the dark + street and showed the fearless yet gentle smile that was on his lips. + </p> + <p> + “What is there to fear?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Death,” answered the woman in a trembling tone. “They will kill thee, and + it shall be upon my head.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is Death?” he asked again, and the smile was still upon his face + as he led the way up the steps. + </p> + <p> + The woman bowed her head and drew her veil more closely about her and + followed him. Then they were within the church, darker, more ghostly, less + rich in those days than now. The boy stood beside the hewn stone basin + wherein was the blessed water, and he touched the frozen surface with his + fingers, and held them out to his companion. + </p> + <p> + “Is it thus?” he asked. And the heavenly smile grew more radiant as he + made the sign of the Cross. + </p> + <p> + Again the woman inclined her head. + </p> + <p> + “Be it not upon me!” she exclaimed earnestly. “Though I would it might be + for ever so with thee.” + </p> + <p> + “It is for ever,” the boy answered. + </p> + <p> + He went forward and prostrated himself before the high altar, and the soft + light hovered above him. The woman knelt at a little distance from him, + with clasped hands and upturned eyes. The church was very dark and silent. + </p> + <p> + An old man in a monk’s robe came forward out of the shadow of the choir + and stood behind the marble rails and looked down at the boy’s prostrate + figure, wonderingly. Then the low gateway was opened and he descended the + three steps and bent down to the young head. + </p> + <p> + “What wouldest thou?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Simon Abeles rose until he knelt, and looked up into the old man’s face. + </p> + <p> + “I am a Jew. I would be a Christian. I would be baptized.” + </p> + <p> + “Fearest thou not thy people?” the monk asked. + </p> + <p> + “I fear not death,” answered the boy simply. + </p> + <p> + “Come with me.” + </p> + <p> + Trembling, the woman followed them both, and all were lost in the gloom of + the church. They were not to be seen, and all was still for a space. + Suddenly a clear voice broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ego baptizo te in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.</i>” + </p> + <p> + Then the woman and the boy were standing again without the entrance in the + chilly air, and the ancient monk was upon the threshold under the carved + arch; his thin hands, white in the darkness, were lifted high, and he + blessed them, and they went their way. + </p> + <p> + In the moving vision the radiance was brighter still and illuminated the + streets as they moved on. Then a cloud descended over all, and certain + days and weeks passed, and again the boy was walking swiftly toward the + church. But the woman was not with him, and he believed that he was alone, + though the messengers of evil were upon him. Two dark figures moved in the + shadow, silent, noiseless in their walk, muffled in long garments. He went + on, no longer deigning to look back, beyond fear as he had ever been, and + beyond even the expectation of a danger. He went into the church, and the + two men made gestures, and spoke in low tones, and hid themselves in the + shade of the buttresses outside. + </p> + <p> + The vision grew darker and a terrible stillness was over everything, for + the church was not opened to the sight this time. There was a horror of + long waiting with the certainty of what was to come. The narrow street was + empty to the eye, and yet there was the knowledge of evil presence, of two + strong men waiting in the dark to take their victim to the place of + expiation. And the horror grew in the silence and the emptiness, until it + was unbearable. + </p> + <p> + The door opened and the boy was with the monk under the black arch. The + old man embraced him and blessed him and stood still for a moment watching + him as he went down. Then he, also, turned and went back, and the door was + closed. + </p> + <p> + Swiftly the two men glided from their hiding-place and sped along the + uneven pavement. The boy paused and faced them, for he felt that he was + taken. They grasped him by the arms on each side, Lazarus his father, and + Levi, surnamed the Short-handed, the strongest and the cruellest and the + most relentless of the younger rabbis. Their grip was rough, and the older + man held a coarse woollen cloth in his hand with which to smother the + boy’s cries if he should call out for help. But he was very calm and did + not resist them. + </p> + <p> + “What would you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “And what doest thou in a Christian church?” asked Lazarus in low fierce + tones. + </p> + <p> + “What Christians do, since I am one of them,” answered the youth, unmoved. + </p> + <p> + Lazarus said nothing, but he struck the boy on the mouth with his hard + hand so that the blood ran down. + </p> + <p> + “Not here!” exclaimed Levi, anxiously looking about. + </p> + <p> + And they hurried him away through dark and narrow lanes. He opposed no + resistance to Levi’s rough strength, not only suffering himself to be + dragged along but doing his best to keep pace with the man’s long strides, + nor did he murmur at the blows and thrusts dealt him from time to time by + his father from the other side. During some minutes they were still + traversing the Christian part of the city. A single loud cry for help + would have brought a rescue, a few words to the rescuers would have roused + a mob of fierce men and the two Jews would have paid with their lives for + the deeds they had not yet committed. But Simon Abeles uttered no cry and + offered no resistance. He had said that he feared not death, and he had + spoken the truth, not knowing what manner of death was to be his. Onward + they sped, and in the vision the way they traversed seemed to sweep past + them, so that they remained always in sight though always hurrying on. The + Christian quarter was passed; before them hung the chain of one of those + gates which gave access to the city of the Jews. With a jeer and an oath + the bearded sentry watched them pass—the martyr and his torturers. + One word to him, even then, and the butt of his heavy halberd would have + broken Levi’s arm and laid the boy’s father in the dust. The word was not + spoken. On through the filthy ways, on and on, through narrow courts and + tortuous passages to a dark low doorway. Then, again, the vision showed + but an empty street and there was silence for a space, and a horror of + long waiting in the falling night. + </p> + <p> + Lights moved within the house, and then one window after another was + bolted and barred from within. Still the silence endured until the ear was + grown used to it and could hear sounds very far off, from deep down below + the house itself, but the walls did not open and the scene did not change. + A dull noise, bad to hear, resounded as from beneath a vault, and then + another and another—the sound of cruel blows upon a human body. Then + a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Wilt thou renounce it?” asked the voice of Lazarus. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Kyrie eleison, Christie eleison!</i>” came the answer, brave and + clear. + </p> + <p> + “Lay on, Levi, and let thy arm be strong!” + </p> + <p> + And again the sound of blows, regular, merciless, came up from the bowels + of the earth. + </p> + <p> + “Dost thou repent? Dost thou renounce? Dost thou deny?” + </p> + <p> + “I repent of my sins—I renounce your ways—I believe in the + Lord—” + </p> + <p> + The sacred name was not heard. A smothered groan as of one losing + consciousness in extreme torture was all that came up from below. + </p> + <p> + “Lay on, Levi, lay on!” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” answered the strong rabbi, “the boy will die. Let us leave him here + for this night. Perchance cold and hunger will be more potent than + stripes, when he shall come to himself.” + </p> + <p> + “As though sayest,” answered the father in angry reluctance. + </p> + <p> + Again all was silent. Soon the rays of light ceased to shine through the + crevices of the outer shutters, and sleep descended upon the quarter of + the Jews. Still the scene in the vision changed not. After a long + stillness a clear young voice was heard speaking. + </p> + <p> + “Lord, if it be Thy will that I die, grant that I may bear all in Thy + name, grant that I, unworthy, may endure in this body the punishments due + to me in spirit for my sins. And if it be Thy will that I live, let my + life be used also for Thy glory.” + </p> + <p> + The voice ceased and the cloud of passing time descended upon the vision + and was lifted again and again. And each time the same voice was heard and + the sound of torturing blows, but the voice of the boy was weaker every + night, though it was not less brave. + </p> + <p> + “I believe,” it said, always. “Do what you will, you have power over the + body, but I have the Faith over which you have no power.” + </p> + <p> + So the days and the nights passed, and though the prayer came up in feeble + tones, it was born of a mighty spirit and it rang in the ears of the + tormentors as the voice of an angel which they had no power to silence, + appealing from them to the tribunal of the Throne of God Most High. + </p> + <p> + Day by day, also, the rabbis and the elders began to congregate together + at evening before the house of Lazarus and to talk with him and with each + other, debating how they might break the endurance of his son and bring + him again into the synagogue as one of themselves. Chief among them in + their councils was Levi, the Short-handed, devising new tortures for the + frail body to bear and boasting how he would conquer the stubborn boy by + the might of his hands to hurt. Some of the rabbis shook their heads. + </p> + <p> + “He is possessed of a devil,” they said. “He will die and repent not.” + </p> + <p> + But others nodded approvingly and wagged their filthy heads and said that + when the fool had been chastised the evil spirit would depart from him. + </p> + <p> + Once more the cloud of passing time descended and was lifted. Then the + walls of the house were opened and in a low arched chamber the rabbis sat + about a black table. It was night and a single smoking lamp was lighted, a + mere wick projecting out of a three-cornered vessel of copper which was + full of oil and was hung from the vault with blackened wires. Seven rabbis + sat at the board, and at the head sat Lazarus. Their crooked hands and + claw-like nails moved uneasily and there was a lurid fire in their + vulture’s eyes. They bent forward, speaking to each other in low tones, + and from beneath their greasy caps their anointed side curls dangled and + swung as they moved their heads. But Levi the Short-handed was not among + them. Their muffled talk was interrupted from time to time by the sound of + sharp, loud blows, as of a hammer striking upon nails, and as though a + carpenter were at work not far from the room in which they sat. + </p> + <p> + “He has not repented,” said Lazarus, from his place. “Neither many + stripes, nor cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, have moved him to + righteousness. It is written that he shall be cut off from his people.” + </p> + <p> + “He shall be cut off,” answered the rabbis with one voice. + </p> + <p> + “It is right and just that he should die,” continued the father. “Shall we + give him over to the Christians that he may dwell among them and become + one of them, and be shown before the world to our shame?” + </p> + <p> + “We will not let him go,” said the dark man, and an evil smile flickered + from one face to another as a firefly flutters from tree to tree in the + night—as though the spirit of evil had touched each one in turn. + </p> + <p> + “We will not let him go,” said each again. + </p> + <p> + Lazarus also smiled as though in assent, and bowed his head a little + before he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I am obedient to your judgment. It is yours to command and mine to obey. + If you say that he must die, let him die. He is my son. Take him. Did not + our father Abraham lay Isaac upon the altar and offer him as a burnt + sacrifice before the Lord?” + </p> + <p> + “Let him die,” said the rabbis. + </p> + <p> + “Then let him die,” answered Lazarus. “I am your servant. It is mine to + obey.” + </p> + <p> + “His blood be on our heads,” they said. And again, the evil smile went + round. + </p> + <p> + “It is then expedient that we determine of what manner his death shall + be,” continued the father, inclining his body to signify his submission. + </p> + <p> + “It is not lawful to shed his blood,” said the rabbis. “And we cannot + stone him, lest we be brought to judgment of the Christians. Determine + thou the manner of his death.” + </p> + <p> + “My masters, if you will it, let him be brought once more before us. Let + us all hear with our ears his denial, and if he repent at the last, it is + well, let him live. But if he harden his heart against our entreaties, let + him die. Levi hath brought certain pieces of wood hither to my house, and + is even now at work. If the youth is still stubborn in his unbelief, let + him die even as the Unbeliever died—by the righteous judgment of the + Romans.” + </p> + <p> + “Let it be so. Let him be crucified!” said the rabbis with one voice. + </p> + <p> + Then Lazarus rose and went out, and, in the vision, the rabbis remained + seated, motionless in their places awaiting his return. The noise of + Levi’s hammer echoed through the low vaulted chamber, and at each blow the + smoking lamp quivered a little, casting strange shadows upon the evil + faces beneath its light. At last footsteps, slow and uncertain, were heard + without, the low door opened, and Lazarus entered, holding up the body of + his son before him. + </p> + <p> + “I have brought him before you for the last time,” he said. “Question him + and hear his condemnation out of his own mouth. He repents not, though I + have done my utmost to bring him back to the paths of righteousness. + Question him, my masters, and let us see what he will say.” + </p> + <p> + White and exhausted with long hunger and thirst, his body broken by + torture, scarcely any longer sensible to bodily pain, Simon Abeles would + have fallen to the ground had his father not held him under the arms. His + head hung forward and the pale and noble face was inclined towards the + breast, but the deep, dark eyes were open and gazed calmly upon those who + sat in judgment at the table. A rough piece of linen cloth was wrapped + about the boy’s shoulders and body, but his thin arms were bare. + </p> + <p> + “Hearest thou, Simon, son of Lazarus?” asked the rabbis. “Knowest thou in + whose presence thou standest?” + </p> + <p> + “I hear you and I know you all.” There was no fear in the voice though it + trembled from weakness. + </p> + <p> + “Renounce then thy errors, and having suffered the chastisement of thy + folly, return to the ways of thy father and of thy father’s house and of + all thy people.” + </p> + <p> + “I renounce my sins, and whatsoever is yet left for me to suffer, I will, + by God’s help, so bear it as to be not unworthy of Christ’s mercy.” + </p> + <p> + The rabbis gazed at the brave young face, and smiled and wagged their + beards, talking one with another in low tones. + </p> + <p> + “It is as we feared,” they said. “He is unrepentant and he is worthy of + death. It is not expedient that the young adder should live. There is + poison under his tongue, and he speaks things not lawful for an Israelite + to hear. Let him die, that we may see him no more, and that our children + be not corrupted by his false teachings.” + </p> + <p> + “Hearest thou? Thou shalt die.” It was Lazarus who spoke, while holding up + the boy before the table and hissing the words into his ear. + </p> + <p> + “I hear. I am ready. Lead me forth.” + </p> + <p> + “There is yet time to repent. If thou wilt but deny what thou hast said + these many days, and return to us, thou shalt be forgiven and thy days + shall be long among us, and thy children’s days after thee, and the Lord + shall perchance have mercy and increase thy goods among thy fellows.” + </p> + <p> + “Let him alone,” said the rabbis. “He is unrepentant.” + </p> + <p> + “Lead me forth,” said Simon Abeles. + </p> + <p> + “Lead him forth,” repeated the rabbis. “Perchance, when he sees the manner + of his death before his eyes, he will repent at the last.” + </p> + <p> + The boy’s fearless eyes looked from one to the other. + </p> + <p> + “Whatsoever it be,” he said, “I have but one life. Take it as you will. I + die in the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ, and into His hands I commend my + spirit—which you cannot take.” + </p> + <p> + “Lead him forth! Let him be crucified!” cried the rabbis together. “We + will hear him no longer.” + </p> + <p> + Then Lazarus led his son away from them, and left them talking together + and shaking their heads and wagging their filthy beards. And in the vision + the scene changed. The chamber with its flickering lamp and its black + table and all the men who were in it grew dim and faded away, and in its + place there was a dim inner court between high houses, upon which only the + windows of the house of Lazarus opened. There, upon the ground, stood a + lantern of horn, and the soft yellow light of it fell upon two pieces of + wood, nailed one upon the other to form a small cross—small, indeed, + but yet tall enough and broad enough and strong enough to bear the slight + burden of the boy’s frail body. And beside it stood Lazarus and Levi, the + Short-handed, the strong rabbi, holding Simon Abeles between them. On the + ground lay pieces of cord, ready, wherewith to bind him to the cross, for + they held it unlawful to shed his blood. + </p> + <p> + It was soon done. The two men took up the cross and set it, with the body + hanging thereon, against the wall of the narrow court, over against the + house of Lazarus. + </p> + <p> + “Thou mayest still repent—during this night,” said the father, + holding up the horn lantern and looking into his son’s tortured face. + </p> + <p> + “Ay—there is yet time,” said Levi, brutally. “He will not die so + soon.” + </p> + <p> + “Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,” said the weak voice once more. + </p> + <p> + Then Lazarus raised his hand and struck him once more on the mouth, as he + had done on that first night when he had seized him near the church. But + Levi, the Short-handed, as though in wrath at seeing all his torments + fail, dealt him one heavy blow just where the ear joins the neck, and it + was over at last. A radiant smile of peace flickered over the pale face, + the eyelids quivered and closed, the head fell forward upon the breast and + the martyrdom of Simon Abeles was consummated. + </p> + <p> + Into the dark court came the rabbis one by one from the inner chamber, and + each as he came took up the horn lantern and held it to the dead face and + smiled and spoke a few low words in the Hebrew tongue and then went out + into the street, until only Lazarus and Levi were left alone with the dead + body. Then they debated what they should do, and for a time they went into + the house and refreshed themselves with food and wine, and comforted each + other, well knowing that they had done an evil deed. And they came back + when it was late and wrapped the body in the coarse cloth and carried it + out stealthily and buried it in the Jewish cemetery, and departed again to + their own houses. + </p> + <p> + “And there he lay,” said Unorna, “the boy of your race who was faithful to + death. Have you suffered? Have you for one short hour known the meaning of + such great words as you dared to speak to me? Do you know now what it + means to be a martyr, to suffer for standing on the very spot where he + lay, you have felt in some small degree a part of what he must have felt. + You live. Be warned. If again you anger me, your life shall not be spared + you.” + </p> + <p> + The visions had all vanished. Again the wilderness of gravestones and + lean, crooked trees appeared, wild and desolate as before. The Wanderer + roused himself and saw Unorna standing before Israel Kafka’s prostrate + body. As though suddenly released from a spell he sprang forward and knelt + down, trying to revive the unconscious man by rubbing his hands and + chafing his temples. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + The Wanderer glanced at Unorna’s face and saw the expression of relentless + hatred which had settled upon her features. He neither understood it nor + attempted to account for it. So far as he knew, Israel Kafka was mad, a + man to be pitied, to be cared for, to be controlled perhaps, but assuredly + not to be maltreated. Though the memories of the last half hour were + confused and distorted, the Wanderer began to be aware that the young + Hebrew had been made to suffer almost beyond the bounds of human + endurance. So far as it was possible to judge, Israel Kafka’s fault + consisted in loving a woman who did not return his love, and his worst + misdeed had been his sudden intrusion upon an interview in which the + Wanderer could recall nothing which might not have been repeated to the + whole world with impunity. + </p> + <p> + During the last month he had lived a life of bodily and mental indolence, + in which all his keenest perceptions and strongest instincts had been + lulled into a semi-dormant state. Unknown to himself, the mainspring of + all thought and action had been taken out of his existence together with + the very memory of it. For years he had lived and moved and wandered over + the earth in obedience to one dominant idea. By a magic of which he knew + nothing that idea had been annihilated, temporarily, if not for ever, and + the immediate consequence had been the cessation of all interest and of + all desire for individual action. The suspension of all anxiety, + restlessness and mental suffering had benefited the physical man though it + had reduced the intelligence to a state bordering upon total apathy. + </p> + <p> + But organisations, mental or physical, of great natural strength, are + never reduced to weakness by a period of inactivity. It is those minds and + bodies which have been artificially developed by a long course of training + to a degree of power they were never intended to possess, which lose that + force almost immediately in idleness. The really very strong man has no + need of constant gymnastic exercise; he will be stronger than other men + whatever he does. The strong character needs not be constantly struggling + against terrible odds in the most difficult situations in order to be sure + of its own solidity, nor must the deep intellect be ever plodding through + the mazes of intricate theories and problems that it may feel itself + superior to minds of less compass. There is much natural inborn strength + of body and mind in the world, and on the whole those who possess either + accomplish more than those in whom either is the result of long and + well-regulated training. + </p> + <p> + The belief in a great cruelty and a greater injustice roused the man who + throughout so many days had lived in calm indifference to every aspect of + the humanity around him. Seeing that Israel Kafka could not be immediately + restored to consciousness, he rose to his feet again and stood between the + prostrate victim and Unorna. + </p> + <p> + “You are killing this man instead of saving him,” he said. “His crime, you + say, is that he loves you. Is that a reason for using all your powers to + destroy him in body and mind?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” answered Unorna calmly, though there was still a dangerous + light in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “No. It is no reason,” answered the Wanderer with a decision to which + Unorna was not accustomed. “Keyork tells me that the man is mad. He may + be. But he loves you and deserves mercy of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy!” exclaimed Unorna with a cruel laugh. “You heard what he said—you + were for silencing him yourself. You could not have done it. I have—and + most effectually.” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever your art really may be, you use it badly and cruelly. A moment + ago I was blinded myself. If I had understood clearly while you were + speaking that you were making this poor fellow suffer in himself the + hideous agony you described I would have stopped you. You blinded me, as + you dominated him. But I am not blind now. You shall not torment him any + longer. + </p> + <p> + “And how would you have stopped me? How can you hinder me now?” asked + Unorna. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer gazed at her in silence for some moments. There was an + expression in his face which she had never seen there. Towering above her + he looked down. The massive brows were drawn together, the eyes were cold + and impenetrable, every feature expressed strength. + </p> + <p> + “By force, if need be,” he answered very quietly. + </p> + <p> + The woman before him was not of those who fear or yield. She met his + glance boldly. Scarcely half an hour earlier she had been able to steal + away his senses and make him subject to her. She was ready to renew the + contest, though she realised that a change had taken place in him. + </p> + <p> + “You talk of force to a woman!” she exclaimed, contemptuously. “You are + indeed brave!” + </p> + <p> + “You are not a woman. You are the incarnation of cruelty. I have seen it.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes were cold and his voice was stern. Unorna felt a very sharp pain + and shivered as though she were cold. Whatever else was bad and cruel and + untrue in her wild nature, her love for him was true and passionate and + enduring. And she loved him the more for the strength he was beginning to + show, and for his determined opposition. The words he had spoken had hurt + her as he little guessed they could, not knowing that he alone of men had + power to wound her. + </p> + <p> + “You do not know,” she answered. “How should you?” Her glance fell and her + voice trembled. + </p> + <p> + “I know enough,” he said. He turned coldly from her and knelt again beside + Israel Kafka. + </p> + <p> + He raised the pale head and supported it upon his knee, and gazed + anxiously into the face, raising the lids with his finger as though to + convince himself that the man was not dead. Indeed there seemed to be but + little life left in him as he lay there with outstretched arms and twisted + fingers, scarcely breathing. In such a place, without so much as the + commonest restorative to aid him, the Wanderer saw that he had but little + chance of success. + </p> + <p> + Unorna stood aside, not looking at the two men. It was nothing to her + whether Kafka lived or died. She was suffering herself, more than she had + ever suffered in her life. He had said that she was not a woman—she + whose whole woman’s nature worshiped him. He had said that she was the + incarnation of cruelty—and it was true, though it was her love for + him that made her cruel to the other. Could he know what she had felt, + when she had understood that Israel Kafka had heard her passionate words + and seen her eager face, and had laughed her to scorn? Could any woman at + such a time be less than cruel? Was not her hate for the man who loved her + as great as her love for the man who loved her not? Even if she possessed + instruments of torture for the soul more terrible than those invented in + darker ages to rack the human body, was she not justified in using them + all? Was not Israel Kafka guilty of the greatest of all crimes, of loving + when he was not loved, and of witnessing her shame and discomfiture? She + could not bear to look at him, lest she should lose herself and try to + thrust the Wanderer aside and kill the man with her hands. + </p> + <p> + 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. Then she ran + forward to overtake him, but he, hearing her approach, quickened his + stride, seeming but little hampered in his pace by the burden he bore. But + Unorna, too, was fleet of foot and strong. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” she cried, laying her hand upon his arm. “Stop! Hear me! Do not + leave me so!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” she cried again. “I will save him—I will obey you—I + will be kind to him—he will die in your arms if you do not let me + help you—oh! for the love of Heaven, wait one moment! Only one + moment!” + </p> + <p> + She so thrust herself in the Wanderer’s path, hanging upon him and trying + to tear Kafka from his arms, that he was forced to stand still and face + her. + </p> + <p> + “Let me pass!” he exclaimed, making another effort to advance. But she + clung to him and he could not move. + </p> + <p> + “No,—I will not let you go,” she murmured. “You can do nothing + without me, you will only kill him, as I would have done a moment ago—” + </p> + <p> + “And as you will do now,” he said sternly, “if I let you have your way.” + </p> + <p> + “By all that is Holy in Heaven, I will save him—he shall not even + remember—” + </p> + <p> + “Do not swear. I shall not believe you.” + </p> + <p> + “You will believe when you see—you will forgive me—you will + understand.” + </p> + <p> + Without answering he exerted his strength and clasping the insensible man + more firmly in his arms he made one or two steps forward. Unorna’s foot + slipped on the frozen ground and she would have fallen to the earth, but + she clung to him with desperate energy. Seeing that she was in danger of + some bodily hurt if he used greater force, the Wanderer stopped again, + uncertain how to act; Unorna stood before him, panting a little from the + struggle, her face as white as death. + </p> + <p> + “Unless you kill me,” she said, “you shall not take him away so. Hold him + in your arms, if you will, but let me speak to him.” + </p> + <p> + “And how shall I know that you will not hurt him, you who hate him as you + do?” + </p> + <p> + “Am I not at your mercy?” asked Unorna. “If I deceive you, can you not do + what you will with me, even if I try to resist you, which I will not? Hold + me, if you choose, lest I should escape you, and if Israel Kafka does not + recover his strength and his consciousness, then take me with you and + deliver me up to justice as a witch—as a murderess, if you will.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what she said + was true. She was in his power. + </p> + <p> + “Restore him if you can,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka’s forehead and bending down whispered + into his ear words which were inaudible even to the man who held him. The + mysterious change from sleep to consciousness was almost instantaneous. He + opened his eyes and looked first at Unorna and then at the Wanderer. There + was neither pain nor passion in his face, but only wonder. A moment more + and his limbs regained their strength, he stood upright and passed his + hand over his eyes as though trying to remember what had happened. + </p> + <p> + “How came I here?” he asked in surprise. “What has happened to me?” + </p> + <p> + “You fainted,” said Unorna quietly. “You remember that you were very tired + after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will take you home.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes—I must have fainted. Forgive me—it comes over + me sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the present moment, + when he glanced curiously from the one to the other of his two companions, + as they all three began to walk towards the gate. Unorna avoided his eyes, + and seemed to be looking at the irregular slabs they passed on their way. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer had intended to free himself from her as soon as Kafka + regained his senses, but he had not been prepared for such a sudden + change. He saw, now, that he could not exchange a word with her without + exciting the man’s suspicion, and he was by no means sure that the first + emotion might not produce a sudden and dangerous effect. He did not even + know how great the change might be, which Unorna’s words had brought + about. That Kafka had forgotten at once his own conduct and the fearful + vision which Unorna had imposed upon him was clear, but it did not follow + that he had ceased to love her. Indeed, to one only partially acquainted + with the laws which govern hypnotics, such a transition seemed very far + removed from possibility. He who in one moment had himself been made to + forget utterly the dominant passion and love of his life, was so + completely ignorant of the fact that he could not believe such a thing + possible in any case whatsoever. + </p> + <p> + 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. He supposed, too, that + Unorna realized this as well as he did, and he tried to be prepared for + all events by revolving all the possibilities in his mind. + </p> + <p> + But Unorna was absorbed by very different thoughts. From time to time she + stole a glance at his face, and she saw that it was stern and cold as + ever. She had kept her word, but he did not relent. A terrible anxiety + overwhelmed her. It was possible, even probable, that he would henceforth + avoid her. She had gone too far. She had not reckoned upon such a nature + as his, capable of being roused to implacable anger by mere sympathy for + the suffering of another. Then, understanding it at last, she had thought + it would be enough that those sufferings should be forgotten by him upon + whom they had been inflicted. She could not comprehend the horror he felt + for herself and for her hideous cruelty. She had entered the cemetery in + the consciousness of her strong will and of her mysterious powers certain + of victory, sure that having once sacrificed her pride and stooped so low + as to command what should have come of itself, she should see his face + change and hear the ring of passion in that passionless voice. 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. + </p> + <p> + A Jewish boy, with puffed red lips and curving nostrils, was loitering at + the entrance. The Wanderer told him to find a carriage. + </p> + <p> + “Two carriages,” said Unorna, quickly. The boy ran out. “I will go home + alone,” she added. “You two can drive together.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer inclined his head in assent, but said nothing. Israel Kafka’s + dark eyes rested upon hers for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Why not go together?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Unorna started slightly and turned as though about to make a sharp answer. + But she checked herself, for the Wanderer was looking at her. She spoke to + him instead of answering Kafka. + </p> + <p> + “It is the best arrangement—do you not think so?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Quite the best.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be gratified if you will bring me word of him,” she said, + glancing at Kafka. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer was silent as though he had not heard. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been in pain? Do you feel as though you had been suffering?” she + asked of the younger man, in a tone of sympathy and solicitude. + </p> + <p> + “No. Why do you ask?” + </p> + <p> + Unorna smiled and looked at the Wanderer, with intention. He did not heed + her. At that moment two carriages appeared and drew up at the end of the + narrow alley which leads from the street to the entrance of the cemetery. + All three walked forward together. Kafka went forward and opened the door + of one of the conveyances for Unorna to get in. The Wanderer, still + anxious for the man’s safety, would have taken his place, but Kafka turned + upon him almost defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “Permit me,” he said. “I was before you here.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer stood civilly aside and lifted his hat. Unorna held out her + hand, and he took it coldly, not being able to do otherwise. + </p> + <p> + “You will let me know, will you not?” she said. “I am anxious about him.” + </p> + <p> + He raised his eyebrows a little and dropped her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You shall be informed,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Kafka helped her to get into the carriage. She drew him by the hand so + that his head was inside the door and the other man could not hear her + words. + </p> + <p> + “I am anxious about you,” she said very kindly. “Make him come himself to + me and tell me how you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely—if you have asked him—” + </p> + <p> + “He hates me,” whispered Unorna quickly. “Unless you make him come he will + send no message.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let me come myself—I am perfectly well—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush—no!” she answered hurriedly. “Do as I say—it will be + best for you—and for me. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Your word is my law,” said Kafka, drawing back. His eyes were bright and + his thin cheek was flushed. It was long since she had spoken so kindly to + him. A ray of hope entered his life. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer saw the look and interpreted it rightly. He understood that + in that brief moment Unorna had found time to do some mischief. Her + carriage drove on, and left the two men free to enter the one intended for + them. Kafka gave the driver the address of his lodgings. Then he sank back + into the corner, exhausted and conscious of his extreme weakness. A short + silence followed. + </p> + <p> + “You are in need of rest,” said the Wanderer, watching him curiously. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I am very tired, if not actually ill.” + </p> + <p> + “You have suffered enough to tire the strongest.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” asked Kafka. “I have forgotten what happened. I know that I + followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house, and I saw you + afterwards together. I had not spoken to her since I came back from my + long journey this morning. Tell me what occurred. Did she make me sleep? I + feel as I have felt before when I have fancied that she has hypnotised + me.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. The question was asked as + naturally as though it referred to an everyday occurrence of little or no + weight. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered. “She made you sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have forgotten + it.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer hesitated a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot answer your question,” he said, at length. + </p> + <p> + “Ah—she told me that you hated her,” said Kafka, turning his dark + eyes to his companion. “But, yet,” he added, “that is hardly a reason why + you should not tell me what happened.” + </p> + <p> + “I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I have no + right to say to a stranger—which I could not easily say to a + friend.” + </p> + <p> + “You need not spare me—” + </p> + <p> + “It might save you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then say it—though I do not know from what danger I am to be saved. + But I can guess, perhaps. You would advise me to give up the attempt to + win her.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. I need say no more.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary,” said Kafka with sudden energy, “when a man gives such + advice as that to a stranger he is bound to give also his reasons.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer looked at him calmly as he answered. + </p> + <p> + “One man need hardly give a reason for saving another man’s life. Yours is + in danger.” + </p> + <p> + “I see that you hate her, as she said you did.” + </p> + <p> + “You and she are both mistaken in that. I am not in love with her and I + have ceased to be her friend. As for my interest in you, it does not even + pretend to be friendly—it is that which any man may feel for a + fellow-being, and what any man would feel who had seen what I have seen + this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + The calm bearing and speech of the experienced man of the world carried + weight with it in the eyes of the young Moravian, whose hot blood knew + little of restraint and less of caution; with the keen instinct of his + race in the reading of character he suddenly understood that his companion + was at once generous and disinterested. A burst of confidence followed + close upon the conviction. + </p> + <p> + “If I am to lose her love, I would rather lose my life also, and by her + hand,” he said hotly. “You are warning me against her. I feel that you are + honest and I see that you are in earnest. I thank you. If I am in danger, + do not try to save me. I saw her face a few moments ago, and she spoke to + me. I cannot believe that she is plotting my destruction.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer was silent. He wondered whether it was his duty to do or say + more. Unorna was a changeable woman. She might love the man to-morrow. But + Israel Kafka was too young to let the conversation drop. Boy-like he + expected confidence for confidence, and was surprised at his companion’s + taciturnity. + </p> + <p> + “What did she say to me when I was asleep?” he asked, after a short pause. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever hear the story of Simon Abeles?” the Wanderer inquired by + way of answer. + </p> + <p> + Kafka frowned and looked round sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Simon Abeles? He was a renegade Hebrew boy. His father killed him. He is + buried in the Teyn Kirche. What of him? What has he to do with Unorna, or + with me? I am myself a Jew. The time has gone by when we Jews hid our + heads. I am proud of what I am, and I will never be a Christian. What can + Simon Abeles have to do with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Little enough, now that you are awake.” + </p> + <p> + “And when I was asleep, what then? She made me see him, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + “She made you live his life. She made you suffer all that he suffered—” + </p> + <p> + “What?” cried Israel Kafka in a loud and angry tone. + </p> + <p> + “What I say,” returned the other quietly. + </p> + <p> + “And you did not interfere? You did not stop her? No, of course, I forgot + that you are a Christian.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. It had not struck him that Israel + Kafka might be a man of the deepest religious convictions, a Hebrew of the + Hebrews, and that what he would resent most would be the fact that in his + sleep Unorna had made him play the part and suffer the martyrdom of a + convert to Christianity. This was exactly what took place. He would have + suffered anything at Unorna’s hands, and without complaint, even to bodily + death, but his wrath rose furiously at the thought that she had been + playing with what he held most sacred, that she had forced from his lips + the denial of the faith of his people and the confession of the Christian + belief, perhaps the very words of the hated Creed. The modern Hebrew of + Western Europe might be indifferent in such a case, as though he had + spoken in the delirium of a fever, but the Jew of the less civilised East + is a different being, and in some ways a stronger. Israel Kafka + represented the best type of his race, and his blood boiled at the insult + that had been put upon him. The Wanderer saw, and understood, and at once + began to respect him, as men who believe firmly in opposite creeds have + been known to respect each other even in a life and death struggle. + </p> + <p> + “I would have stopped her if I could,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Were you sleeping, too?” asked Kafka hotly. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell. I was powerless though I was conscious. I saw only Simon + Abeles in it all, though I seemed to be aware that you and he were one + person. I did interfere—so soon as I was free to move. I think I + saved your life. I was carrying you away in my arms when she waked you.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you—I suppose it is as you tell me. You could not move—but + you saw it all, you say. You saw me play the part of the apostate, you + heard me confess the Christian’s faith?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I saw you die in agony, confessing it still.” + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka ground his teeth and turned his face away. The Wanderer was + silent. A few moments later the carriage stopped at the door of Kafka’s + lodging. The latter turned to his companion, who was startled by the + change in the young face. The mouth was now closely set, the features + seemed bolder, the eyes harder and more manly, a look of greater dignity + and strength was in the whole. + </p> + <p> + “You do not love her?” he asked. “Do you give me your word that you do not + love her?” + </p> + <p> + “If you need so much to assure you of it, I give you my word. I do not + love her.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come with me for a few moments? I live here.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer made a gesture of assent. In a few moments they found + themselves in a large room furnished almost in Eastern fashion, with few + objects, but those of great value. Israel Kafka was alone in the world and + was rich. There were two or three divans, a few low, octagonal, inlaid + tables, a dozen or more splendid weapons hung upon the wall, and the + polished wooden floor was partly covered with extremely rich carpets. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what she said to me, when I helped her into the carriage?” + asked Kafka. + </p> + <p> + “No, I did not attempt to hear.” + </p> + <p> + “She did not mean that you should hear her. She made me promise to send + you to her with news of myself. She said that you hated her and would not + go to her unless I begged you to do so. Is that true?” + </p> + <p> + “I have told you that I do not hate her. I hate her cruelty. I will + certainly not go to her of my own choice.” + </p> + <p> + “She said that I had fainted. That was a lie. She invented it as an excuse + to attract you, on the ground of her interest in my condition.” + </p> + <p> + “Evidently.” + </p> + <p> + “She hates me with an extreme hatred. Her real interest lay in showing you + how terrible that hatred could be. It is not possible to conceive of + anything more diabolically bad than what she did to me. She made me her + sport—yours, too, perhaps, or she would at least have wished it. On + that holy ground where my people lie in peace she made me deny my faith, + she made me, in your eyes and her own, personate a renegade of my race, + she made me confess in the Christian creed, she made me seem to die for a + belief I abhor. Can you conceive of anything more devilish? A moment later + she smiles upon me and presses my hand, and is anxious to know of my good + health. And but for you, I should never have known what she had done to + me. I owe you gratitude, though it be for the worst pain I have ever + suffered. But do you think I will forgive her?” + </p> + <p> + “You would be very forgiving if you could,” said the Wanderer, his own + anger rising again at the remembrance of what he had seen. + </p> + <p> + “And do you think that I can love still?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka walked the length of the room and then came back and stood + before the Wanderer and looked into his eyes. His face was very calm and + resolute, the flush had vanished from his thin cheeks, and the features + were set in an expression of irrevocable determination. Then he spoke, + slowly and distinctly. + </p> + <p> + “You are mistaken. I love her with all my heart. I will therefore kill + her.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + But his next words explained even that. + </p> + <p> + “She made me promise to send you to her if you would go,” he said. “Will + you go to her now?” + </p> + <p> + “What shall I tell her? I warn you that since—” + </p> + <p> + “You need not warn me. I know what you would say. But I will be no common + murderer. I will not kill her as she would have killed me. Warn her, not + me. Go to her and say, ‘Israel Kafka has promised before God that he will + take your blood in expiation, and there is no escape from the man who is + himself ready to die.’ Tell her to fly for her life, and that quickly.” + </p> + <p> + “And what will you gain by doing this murder?” asked the Wanderer, calmly. + He was revolving schemes for Unorna’s safety, and half amazed to find + himself forced in common humanity to take her part. + </p> + <p> + “I shall free myself of my shame in loving her, at the price of her blood + and mine. Will you go?” + </p> + <p> + “And what is to prevent me from delivering you over to safe keeping before + you do this deed?” + </p> + <p> + “You have no witness,” answered Kafka with a smile. “You are a stranger in + the city and in this country, and I am rich. I shall easily prove that you + love Unorna, and that you wish to get rid of me out of jealousy.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true,” said the Wanderer, thoughtfully. “I will go.” + </p> + <p> + “Go quickly, then,” said Israel Kafka, “for I shall follow soon.” + </p> + <p> + As the Wanderer left the room he saw the Moravian turn toward the place + where the keen, splendid Eastern weapons hung upon the wall. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <p> + 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. The Wanderer had no time and but little inclination + to blame himself for the part he had played in disclosing to the principal + actor the nature of the scene which had taken place in the cemetery, and + the immediate consequences of that disclosure, though wholly unexpected, + did not seem utterly illogical. Israel Kafka’s nature was eastern, + violently passionate and, at the same time, long-suffering in certain + directions as only the fatalist can be. He could have loved for a lifetime + faithfully, without requital; he would have suffered in patience Unorna’s + anger, scorn, pity or caprice; he had long before now resigned his free + will into the keeping of a passion which was degrading as it enslaved all + his thoughts and actions, but which had something noble in it, inasmuch as + it fitted him for the most heroic self-sacrifice. + </p> + <p> + Unorna’s act had brought the several seemingly contradictory elements of + his character to bear upon one point. He had realised in the same moment + that it was impossible for her to love him; that her changing treatment of + him was not the result of caprice but of a fixed plan of her own, in the + execution of which she would spare him neither falsehood nor insult; that + to love such a woman was the lowest degradation; that he could + nevertheless not destroy that love; and, finally, that the only escape + from his shame lay in her destruction, and that this must in all + probability involve his own death also. At the same time he felt that + there was something solemn in the expiation he was about to exact, + something that accorded well with the fierce traditions of ancient Israel, + and the deed should not be done stealthily or in the dark. Unorna must + know that she was to die by his hand, and why. He had no object in + concealment, for his own life was already ended by the certainty that his + love was hopeless, and on the other hand, fatalist as he was, he believed + that Unorna could not escape him and that no warning could save her. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer understood most of these things as he hastened towards her + house through the darkening streets. Not a carriage was to be seen, and he + was obliged to traverse the distance on foot, as often happens at supreme + moments, when everything might be gained by the saving of a few minutes in + conveying a warning. + </p> + <p> + He saw himself in a very strange position. Half an hour had not elapsed + since he had watched Unorna driving away from the cemetery and had + inwardly determined that he would never, if possible, set eyes on her + again. Scarcely two hours earlier, he had been speaking to her of the + sincere friendship which he felt was growing up for her in his heart. + Since then he had learned, almost beyond the possibility of a doubt, that + she loved him, and he had learned, too, to despise her, he had left her + meaning that the parting should be final, and now he was hurrying to her + house to give her the warning which alone could save her from destruction. + And yet, he found it impossible to detect any inconsistency in his own + conduct. As he had been conscious of doing his utmost to save Israel Kafka + from her, so now he knew that he was doing all he could to save Unorna + from the Moravian, and he recognised the fact that no man with the + commonest feelings of humanity could have done less in either case. But he + was conscious, also, of a change in himself which he did not attempt to + analyse. His indolent, self-satisfied apathy was gone, the strong + interests of human life and death stirred him, mind and body together + acquired their activity and he was at all points once more a man. He was + ignorant, indeed, of what had been taken from him. The memory of Beatrice + was gone, and he fancied himself one who had never loved woman. He looked + back with horror and amazement upon the emptiness of his past life, + wondering how such an existence as he had led, or fancied he had led, + could have been possible. + </p> + <p> + But there was scant time for reflection upon the problem of his own + mission in the world as he hastened towards Unorna’s house. His present + mission was clear enough and simple enough, though by no means easy of + accomplishment. 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. A stranger in the land would have small hope of success against a + man whose antecedents were known, whose fortune was reputed great, and who + had at his back the whole gigantic strength of the Jewish interest in + Prague, if he chose to invoke the assistance of his people. The matter + would end in a few days in the Wanderer being driven from the country, + while Israel Kafka would be left behind to work his will as might seem + best in his own eyes. + </p> + <p> + There was Keyork Arabian. So far as it was possible to believe in the + sincerity of any of the strange persons among whom the Wanderer found + himself, it seemed certain that the sage was attached to Unorna by some + bond of mutual interests which he would be loth to break. Keyork had many + acquaintances and seemed to posses everywhere a certain amount of respect, + whether because he was perhaps a member of some widespread, mysterious + society of which the Wanderer knew nothing, or whether this importance of + his was due to his personal superiority of mind and wide experience of + travel, no one could say. But it seemed certain that if Unorna could be + placed for the time being in a safe refuge, it would be best to apply to + Keyork to insure her further protection. Meanwhile that refuge must be + found and Unorna must be conveyed to it without delay. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer was admitted without question. He found Unorna in her + accustomed place. She had thrown aside her furs and was sitting in an + attitude of deep thought. Her dress was black, and in the soft light of + the shaded lamps she was like a dark, marble statue set in the midst of + thick shrubbery in a garden. Her elbow rested on her knee, her chin upon + her beautiful, heavy hand; only in her hair there was bright colour. + </p> + <p> + She knew the Wanderer’s footstep, but she neither moved her body nor + turned her head. She felt that she grew paler than before, and she could + hear her heart beating strongly. + </p> + <p> + “I come from Israel Kafka,” said the Wanderer, standing still before her. + </p> + <p> + She knew from his tone how hard his face must be, and she would not look + up. + </p> + <p> + “What of him?” she asked in a voice without expression. “Is he well?” + </p> + <p> + “He bids me say to you that he has promised before Heaven to take your + life, and that there is no escape from a man who is ready to lay down his + own.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna turned her head slowly towards him, and a very soft look stole over + her strange face. + </p> + <p> + “And you have brought me his message—this warning—to save me?” + she said. + </p> + <p> + “As I tried to save him from you an hour ago. But there is little time. + The man is desperate, whether mad or sane, I cannot tell. Make haste. + Determine where to go for safety, and I will take you there.” + </p> + <p> + But Unorna did not move. She only looked at him, with an expression he + could no longer misunderstand. He was cold and impassive. + </p> + <p> + “I fancy it will not be safe to hesitate long,” he said. “He is in + earnest.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not fear Israel Kafka, and I fear death less,” answered Unorna + deliberately. “Why does he mean to kill me?” + </p> + <p> + “I think that in his place most every human men would feel as he does, + though religion, or prudence, or fear, or all three together, might + prevent them from doing what they would wish to do.” + </p> + <p> + “You too? And which of the three would prevent you from murdering me?” + </p> + <p> + “None, perhaps—though pity might.” + </p> + <p> + “I want no pity, least of all from you. What I have done, I have done for + you, and for you only.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer’s face showed only a cold disgust. He said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “You do not seem surprised,” said Unorna. “You know that I love you?” + </p> + <p> + “I know it.” + </p> + <p> + A silence followed, during which Unorna returned to her former attitude, + turning her eyes away and resting her chin upon her hand. The Wanderer + began to grow impatient. + </p> + <p> + “I must repeat that, in my opinion, you have not much time to spare,” he + said. “If you are not in a place of safety in half an hour, I cannot + answer for the consequences.” + </p> + <p> + “No time? There is all eternity. What is eternity, or time, or life to me? + I will wait for him here. Why did you tell him what I did, if you wished + me to live?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—since there are to be questions—why did you exercise your + cruelty upon an innocent man who loves you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why? There are reasons enough!” Unorna’s voice trembled slightly. “You do + not know what happened. How should you? You were asleep. You may as well + know, since I may be beyond telling you an hour from now. You may as well + know how I love you, and to what depths I have gone down to win your + love.” + </p> + <p> + “I would rather not receive your confidence,” the Wanderer answered + haughtily. “I came here to save your life, not to hear your confessions.” + </p> + <p> + “And when you have heard, you will no longer wish to save me. If you + choose to leave me here, I will wait for Israel Kafka alone. He may kill + me if he pleases. I do not care. But if you stay you shall hear what I + have to say.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at his face. He folded his arms and stood still. Whatever she + had done, he would not leave her alone at the mercy of the desperate man + whom he expected every moment to enter the room. If she would not save + herself, he might nevertheless disarm Kafka and prevent the deed. As his + long sleeping energy revived in him the thought of a struggle was not + disagreeable. + </p> + <p> + “I loved you from the moment when I first saw you,” said Unorna, trying to + speak calmly. “But you loved another woman. Do you remember her? Her name + was Beatrice, and she was very dark, as I am fair. You had lost her and + you had sought her for years. You entered my house, thinking that she had + gone in before you. Do you remember that morning? It was a month ago + to-day. You told me the story.” + </p> + <p> + “You have dreamed it,” said the Wanderer in cold surprise. “I never loved + any woman yet.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna laughed bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “How perfect it all was at first!” she exclaimed. “How smooth it seemed! + How easy! You slept before me, out there by the river that very afternoon. + And in your sleep I bade you forget. And you forgot wholly, your love, the + woman, her very name, even as Israel Kafka forgot to-day what he had + suffered in the person of the martyr. You told him the story, and he + believes you, because he knows me, and knows what I can do. You can + believe me or not; as you will. I did it.” + </p> + <p> + “You are dreaming,” the Wanderer repeated, wondering whether she were not + out of her mind. + </p> + <p> + “I did it. I said to myself that if I could destroy your old love, root it + out from your heart and from your memory and make you as one who had never + loved at all, then you would love me as you had once loved her, with your + whole free soul. I said that I was beautiful—it is true, is it not? + And young I am, and I loved as no woman ever loved. And I said that it was + enough, and that soon you would love me, too. A month has passed away + since then. You are of ice—of stone—I do not know of what you + are. This morning you hurt me. I thought it was the last hurt and that I + should die then—instead of to-night. Do you remember? You thought I + was ill, and you went away. When you were gone I fought with myself. My + dreams—yes, I had dreamed of all that can make earth Heaven, and you + had waked me. You said that you would be a brother to me—you talked + of friendship. The sting of it! It is no wonder that I grew faint with + pain. Had you struck me in the face, I would have kissed your hand. But + your friendship! Rather be dead than, loving, be held a friend! And I had + dreamed of being dear to you for my own sake, of being dearest, and first, + and alone beloved, since that other was gone and I had burned her memory. + That pride I had still, until that moment. I fancied that it was in my + power, if I would stoop so low, to make you sleep again as you had slept + before, and to make you at my bidding feel all I felt. I fought with + myself. I would not go down to that depth. And then I said that even that + were better than your friendship, even a false semblance of love inspired + by my will, preserved by my suggestion. And so I fell. You came back to me + and I led you to that lonely place, and made you sleep, and then I told + you what was in my heart and poured out the fire of my soul into your + ears. A look came into your face—I shall not forget it. My folly was + upon me, and I thought it was for me. I know the truth now. Sleeping, the + old memory revived in you of her whom waking you will never remember + again. But the look was there, and I bade you awake. My soul rose in my + eyes. I hung upon your lips. The loving word I longed for seemed already + to tremble in the air. Then came the truth. You awoke, and your face was + stone, calm, smiling, indifferent, unloving. And all this Israel Kafka had + seen, hiding like a thief almost beside us. He saw it all, he heard it + all, my words of love, my agony of waiting, my utter humiliation, my + burning shame. Was I cruel to him? He had made me suffer, and he suffered + in his turn. All this you did not know. You know it now. There is nothing + more to tell. Will you wait here until he comes? Will you look on, and be + glad to see me die? Will you remember in the years to come with + satisfaction that you saw the witch killed for her many misdeeds, and for + the chief of them all—for loving you?” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer had listened to her words, but the tale they told was beyond + the power of his belief. He stood still in his place, with folded arms, + debating what he should do to save her. One thing alone was clear. She + loved him to distraction. Possibly, he thought, her story was but an + invention to excuse her cruelty and to win his commiseration. It failed to + do either at first, but yet he would not leave her to her fate. + </p> + <p> + “You shall not die if I can help it,” he said simply. + </p> + <p> + “And if you save me, do you think that I will leave you?” she asked with + sudden agitation, turning and half rising from her seat. “Think what you + will be doing, if you save me. Think well. You say that Israel Kafka is + desperate. I am worse than desperate, worse than mad with my love.” + </p> + <p> + She sank back again and hid her face for a moment. He, on his part, began + to see the terrible reality and strength of her passion, and silently + wondered what the end would be. He, too, was human, and pity for her began + at last to touch his heart. + </p> + <p> + “You shall not die, if I can save you,” he said again. + </p> + <p> + She sprang to her feet very suddenly and stood before him. + </p> + <p> + “You pity me!” she cried. “What lie is that which says that there is a + kinship between pity and love? Think well—beware—be warned. I + have told you much, but you do not know me yet. If you save me, you save + me but to love you more than I do already. Look at me. For me there is + neither God, nor hell, nor pride, nor shame. There is nothing that I will + not do, nothing I shall be ashamed or afraid of doing. If you save me, you + save me that I may follow you as long as I live. I will never leave you. + You shall never escape my presence, your whole life shall be full of me—you + do not love me, and I can threaten you with nothing more intolerable than + myself. Your eyes will weary of the sight of me and your ears at the sound + of my voice. Do you think I have no hope? A moment ago I had none. 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. How can you think that I have no + hope! I have hope—and certainty, for I shall be near you always to + the end—always, always, always! I will cling to you—as I do + now—and say, I love you, I love you—yes, and you will cast me + off, but I will not go—I will clasp your feet, and say again, I love + you, and you may spurn me—man, god, wanderer, devil,—whatever + you are—beloved always! Tread upon me, trample on me, crush me—you + cannot save yourself, you cannot kill my love!” + </p> + <p> + She had tried to take his hand and he had withdrawn his, she had fallen + upon her knees, and as he tried to free himself had fallen almost to her + length upon the marble floor, clinging to his very feet, so that he could + make no step without doing her some hurt. He looked down, amazed and + silent, and as he looked she cast one glance upward to his stern face, the + bright tears streaming like falling gems from her unlike eyes, her face + pale and quivering, her rich hair all loosened and falling about her. + </p> + <p> + And then, neither body, nor heart, nor soul, could bear the enormous + strain that was laid upon them. A low cry broke from her lips, a stormy + sob, another and another, like quick short waves breaking over the bar + when the tide is low and the wind is rising suddenly. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer was in sore straits, for the minutes were passing quickly and + he remembered the last look on Kafka’s face, and how he had left the + Moravian standing before the weapons on the wall. And nothing had been + done yet, not so much as an order given not to admit him if he came to the + house. At any moment he might be upon them. And the storm showed no signs + of being spent. Her wild, convulsive sobbing was painful to hear. If he + tried to move, she dragged herself frantically at his feet so that he + feared lest he should tread upon her hands. He pitied her now most truly, + though he guessed rightly that to show his pity would be but to add fuel + to the blazing flame. + </p> + <p> + Then, in the interval of a second, as she drew breath to weep afresh, he + fancied that he heard sounds below as of the great door being opened and + closed again. With a quick, strong movement, stooping low he put his arms + about her and raised her from the floor. At his touch, her sobbing ceased + for a moment, as though she had wanted only that to soothe her. In spite + of him she let her head rest upon his shoulder, letting him still feel + that if he did not support her weight with his arm she would fall again. + In the midst of the most passionate and real outburst of despairing love + there was no artifice which she would not use to be nearer to him, to + extort even the semblance of a caress. + </p> + <p> + “I heard some one come in below,” he said, hurriedly. “It must be he. + Decide quickly what to do. Either stay or fly—you have not ten + seconds for your choice.” + </p> + <p> + She turned her imploring eyes to his. + </p> + <p> + “Let me stay here and end it all—” + </p> + <p> + “That you shall not!” he exclaimed, dragging her towards the end of the + hall opposite to the usual entrance, and where he knew that there must be + a door behind the screen of plants. His hold tightened upon her yielding + waist. Her head fell back and her full lips parted in an ecstasy of + delight as she felt herself hurried along in his arms, scarcely touching + the floor with her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Ah—now—now! Let it come now!” she sighed. + </p> + <p> + “It must be now—or never,” he said almost roughly. “If you will + leave this house with me now, very well. But leave this room you shall. If + I am to meet that man and stop him, I will meet him alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Leave you alone? Ah no—not that——” + </p> + <p> + They had reached the exit now. At the same instant both heard some one + enter at the other end and rapid footsteps on the marble pavement. + </p> + <p> + “Which is it to be?” asked the Wanderer, pale and calm. He had pushed her + through before him and seemed ready to go back alone. + </p> + <p> + With violent strength she drew him to her, closed the door and slipped the + strong steel bolt across below the lock. There was a dim light in the + passage. + </p> + <p> + “Together, then,” she said. “I shall at least be with you—a little + longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there another way out of the house?” asked the Wanderer anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “More than one. Come with me.” + </p> + <p> + As they disappeared in the corridor, they heard behind them the noise of + the door-lock as some one tried to force it open. Then a heavy sound as + though a man’s shoulder struck against the solid panel. Unorna led the way + through a narrow, winding passage, illuminated here and there by small + lamps with shades of soft colours, blown in Bohemian glass. + </p> + <p> + Pushing aside a curtain they came out into a small room. The Wanderer + uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise as he recognised the + vestibule and saw before him the door of the great conservatory, open as + Israel Kafka had left it. That the latter was still trying to pursue them + through the opposite exit was clear enough, for the blows he was striking + on the panel echoed loudly out into the hall. Swiftly and silently Unorna + closed the entrance and locked it securely. + </p> + <p> + “He is safe for a little while,” she said. “Keyork will find him there + when he comes, an hour hence, and Keyork will perhaps bring him to his + senses.” + </p> + <p> + She had regained control of herself, to all appearances, and she spoke + with perfect calm and self-possession. The Wanderer looked at her in + surprise and with some suspicion. Her hair was all falling about her + shoulders, but saving this sign, there was no trace of the recent storm, + nor the least indication of passion. If she had been acting a part + throughout before an audience, she would have seemed less indifferent when + the curtain fell. The Wanderer, having little cause to trust her, found it + hard to believe that she had not been counterfeiting. It seemed impossible + that she should be the same woman who but a moment earlier had been + dragging herself at his feet, in wild tears and wilder protestations of + her love. + </p> + <p> + “If you are sufficiently rested,” he said with a touch of sarcasm which he + could not restrain, “I would suggest that we do not wait any longer here.” + </p> + <p> + She turned and faced him, and he saw now how very white she was. + </p> + <p> + “So you think that even now I have been deceiving you? That is what you + think. I see it in your face.” + </p> + <p> + Before he could prevent her she had opened the door wide again and was + advancing calmly into the conservatory. + </p> + <p> + “Israel Kafka!” she cried in loud clear tones. “I am here—I am + waiting—come!” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer ran forward. He caught sight in the distance of a pair of + fiery eyes and of something long and thin and sharp-gleaming under the + soft lamps. He knew then that all was deadly earnest. Swift as thought he + caught Unorna and bore her from the hall, locking the door again and + setting his broad shoulders against it, as he put her down. The daring act + she had done appealed to him, in spite of himself. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he said almost deferentially. “I misjudged you.” + </p> + <p> + “It is that,” she answered. “Either I will be with you or I will die, by + his hand, by yours, by my own—it will matter little when it is done. + You need not lean against the door. It is very strong. Your furs are + hanging there, and here are mine. Let us be going.” + </p> + <p> + Quietly, as though nothing unusual had happened, they descended the stairs + together. The porter came forward with all due ceremony, to open the shut + door. Unorna told him that if Keyork Arabian came while she was out, he + was to be shown directly into the conservatory. A moment later she and her + companion were standing together in the small irregular square before the + Clementinum. + </p> + <p> + “Where will you go?” asked the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + “With you,” she answered, laying her hand upon his arm and looking into + his face as though waiting to see what direction he would choose. “Unless + you send me back to him,” she added, glancing quickly at the house and + making as though she would withdraw her hand once more. “If it is to be + that, I will go alone.” + </p> + <p> + There seemed to be no way out of the terrible dilemma, and the Wanderer + stood still in deep thought. He knew that if he could but free himself + from her for half an hour, he could get help from the right quarter and + take Israel Kafka red-handed and armed as he was. For the man was caught + as in a trap and must stay there until he was released, and there would be + little doubt from his manner, when taken, that he was either mad or + consciously attempting some crime. There was no longer any necessity, he + thought, for Unorna to take refuge anywhere for more than an hour. In that + time Israel Kafka would be in safe custody, and she could re-enter her + house with nothing to fear. But he counted without Unorna’s unyielding + obstinacy. She threatened if he left her for a moment to go back to Israel + Kafka. A few minutes earlier she had carried out her threat and the + consequence had been almost fatal. + </p> + <p> + “If you are in your right mind,” he said at last, beginning to walk + towards the corner, “you will see that what you wish to do is utterly + against reason. I will not allow you to run the risk of meeting Israel + Kafka to-night, but I cannot take you with me. No—I will hold you, + if you try to escape me, and I will bring you to a place of safety by + force, if need be.” + </p> + <p> + “And you will leave me there, and I shall never see you again. I will not + go, and you will find it hard to take me anywhere in the crowded city by + force. You are not Israel Kafka, with the whole Jews’ quarter at your + command in which to hide me.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer was perplexed. He saw, however, that if he would yield the + point and give his word to return to her, she might be induced to follow + his advice. + </p> + <p> + “If I promise to come back to you, will you do what I ask?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Will you promise truly?” + </p> + <p> + “I have never broken a promise yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you promise that other woman that you would never love again, I + wonder? If so, you are faithful indeed. But you have forgotten that. Will + you come back to me if I let you take me where I shall be safe to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “I will come back whenever you send for me.” + </p> + <p> + “If you fail, my blood is on your head.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—on my head be it.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I will go to that house where I first stayed when I came here. + Take me there quickly—no—not quickly either—let it be + very long! I shall not see you until to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + A carriage was passing at a foot pace. The Wanderer stopped it, and helped + Unorna to get in. The place was very near, and neither spoke, though he + could feel her hand upon his arm. He made no attempt to shake her off. At + the gate they both got out, and he rang a bell that echoed through vaulted + passages far away in the interior. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow,” said Unorna, touching his hand. + </p> + <p> + He could see even in the dark the look of love she turned upon him. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night,” he said, and in the next moment she had disappeared within. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII + </h2> + <p> + Having made the necessary explanations to account for her sudden + appearance, Unorna found herself installed in two rooms of modest + dimensions, and very simply though comfortably furnished. It was quite a + common thing for ladies to seek retreat and quiet in the convent during + two or three weeks of the year, and there was plenty of available space at + the disposal of those who wished to do so. Such visits were indeed most + commonly made during the lenten season, and on the day when Unorna sought + refuge among the nuns it chanced that there was but one other stranger + within the walls. She was glad to find that this was the case. Her + peculiar position would have made it hard for her to bear with equanimity + the quiet observation of a number of woman, most of whom would probably + have been to some extent acquainted with the story of her life, and some + of whom would certainly have wished out of curiosity to enter into nearer + acquaintance with her while within the convent, while not intending to + prolong their intercourse with her any further. It could not be expected, + indeed, that in a city like Prague such a woman as Unorna could escape + notice, and the fact that little or nothing was known of her true history + had left a very wide field for the imaginations of those who chose to + invent one for her. The common story, and the one which on the whole was + nearest to the truth, told that she was the daughter of a noble of eastern + Bohemia who had died soon after her birth, the last of his family, having + converted his ancestral possessions into money for Unorna’s benefit, in + order to destroy all trace of her relationship to him. The secret must, of + course, have been confided to some one, but it had been kept faithfully, + and Unorna herself was no wiser than those who mused themselves with + fruitless speculations regarding her origin. If from the first, from the + moment when, as a young girl, she left the convent to enter into + possession of her fortune she had chosen to assert some right to a footing + in the most exclusive aristocracy in the world, it is not impossible that + the protection of the Abbess might have helped her to obtain it. The + secret of her birth would, however, have rendered a marriage with a man of + that class all but impossible, and would have entirely excluded her from + the only other position considered dignified for a well-born woman of + fortune, unmarried and wholly without living relations or connections—that + of a lady-canoness on the Crown foundation. Moreover, her wild + bringing-up, and the singular natural gifts she possessed, and which she + could not resist the impulse to exercise, had in a few months placed her + in a position from which no escape was possible so long as she continued + to live in Prague; and against those few—chiefly men—who for + her beauty’s sake, or out of curiosity, would gladly have made her + acquaintance, she raised an impassable barrier of pride and reserve. Nor + was her reputation altogether an evil one. She lived in a strange fashion, + it is true, but the very fact of her extreme seclusion had kept her name + free from stain. If people spoke of her as the Witch, it was more from + habit and half in jest than in earnest. In strong contradiction to the + cruelty which she could exercise ruthlessly when roused to anger, was her + well-known kindness to the poor, and her charities to institutions founded + for their benefit were in reality considerable, and were said to be + boundless. These explanations seem necessary in order to account for the + readiness with which she turned to the convent when she was in danger, and + for the facilities which were then at once offered her for a stay long or + short, as she should please to make it. Some of the more suspicious nuns + looked grave when they heard that she was under their roof; others, again, + had been attached to her during the time she had formerly spent among + them; and there were not lacking those who, disapproving of her presence, + held their peace, in the anticipation that the rich and eccentric lady + would on departing present a gift of value to their order. + </p> + <p> + The rooms which were kept at the disposal of ladies desiring to make a + religious retreat for a short time were situated on the first floor of one + wing of the convent overlooking a garden which was not within the + cloistered precincts, but which was cultivated for the convenience of the + nuns, who themselves never entered it. The windows on this side were not + latticed, and the ladies who occupied the apartments were at liberty to + look out upon the small square of land, their view of the street beyond + being cut off however by a wall in which there was one iron gate for the + convenience of the gardeners, who were thus not obliged to pass through + the main entrance of the convent in order to reach their work. Within the + rooms all opened out upon a broad vaulted corridor, lighted in the + day-time by a huge arched window looking upon an inner court, and at night + by a single lamp suspended in the middle of the passage by a strong iron + chain. The pavement of this passage was of broad stones, once smooth and + even but now worn and made irregular by long use. The rooms for the guests + were carpeted with sober colours and warmed by high stoves built up of + glazed white tiles. The furniture, as has been said, was simple, but + afforded all that was strictly necessary for ordinary comfort, each + apartment consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room, small in lateral + dimensions but relatively very high. The walls were thick and not easily + penetrated by any sounds from without, and, as in many religious houses, + the entrances from the corridor were all closed by double doors, the outer + one of strong oak with a lock and a solid bolt, the inner one of lighter + material, but thickly padded to exclude sound as well as currents of cold + air. Each sitting-room contained a table, a sofa, three or four chairs, a + small book-shelf, and a praying-stool provided with a hard and well-worn + cushion for the knees. Over this a brown wooden crucifix was hung upon the + gray wall. + </p> + <p> + In the majority of convents it is not usual, nor even permissible, for + ladies in retreat to descend to the nuns’ refectory. When there are many + guests they are usually served by lay sisters in a hall set apart for the + purpose; when there are few, their simple meals are brought to them in + their rooms. Moreover they of course put on no religious robe, though they + dress themselves in black. In the church, or chapel, as the case may be, + they do not take places within the latticed choir with the sisters, but + either sit in the body of the building, or occupy a side chapel reserved + for their use, or else perform their devotions kneeling at high windows + above the choir, which communicate within with rooms accessible from the + convent. It is usual for them to attend Mass, Vespers, the Benediction and + Complines, but when there are midnight services they are not expected to + be present. + </p> + <p> + Unorna was familiar with convent life and was aware that the Benediction + was over, and that the hour for the evening meal was approaching. A fire + had been lighted in her sitting-room, but the air was still very cold and + she sat wrapped in her furs as when she had arrived, leaning back in a + corner of the sofa, her head inclined forward, and one white hand resting + on the green baize cloth which covered the table. + </p> + <p> + She was very tired, and the absolute stillness was refreshing and + restoring after the long-drawn-out emotions of the stormy day. Never, in + her short and passionate life, had so many events been crowded into the + space of a few hours. Since the morning she had felt almost everything + that her wild, high-strung nature was capable of feeling—love, + triumph, failure, humiliation—anger, hate, despair, and danger of + sudden death. She was amazed when, looking back, she remembered that at + noon on that day her life and all its interests had been stationary at the + point familiar to her during a whole month, the point that still lay + within the boundaries of hope’s kingdom, the point at which the man she + loved had wounded her by speaking of brotherly affection and sisterly + regard. She could almost believe, when she thought of it all, that some + one had done to her as she had done to others, that she had been cast into + a state of sleep, and had been forced against her will to live through the + storms of years in the lethargy of an hour. And yet, despite all, her + memory was distinct, her faculties were awake, her intellect had lost none + of its clearness, even in the last and worst hour of all. She could recall + each look on the Wanderer’s face, each tone of his cold speech, each + intonation of her own passionate outpourings. Her strong memory had + retained all, and there was not the slightest break in the continuity of + her recollections. But there was little comfort to be derived from the + certainty that she had not been dreaming, and that everything had really + taken place precisely as she remembered it. She would have given all she + possessed, which was much, to return to the hour of noon on that same day. + </p> + <p> + In so far as a very unruly nature can understand itself, Unorna understood + the springs of the actions, she regretted and confessed that in all + likelihood she would do again as she had done at each successive stage. + Indeed, since the last great outbreak of her heart, she realised more than + ever the great proportions which her love had of late assumed; and she saw + that she was indeed ready, as she had said, to dare everything and risk + everything for the sake of obtaining the very least show of passion in + return. It was quite clear to her, since she had failed so totally, that + she should have had patience, that she ought to have accepted gratefully + the man’s offer of brotherly devotion, and trusted in time to bring about + a further and less platonic development. But she was equally sure that she + could never have found the patience, and that if she had restrained + herself to-day she would have given way to-morrow. She possessed all the + blind indifference to consequences which is a chief characteristic of the + Slav nature when dominated by passion. She had shone it in her rash + readiness to face Israel Kafka at the moment of leaving her own home. If + she could not have what she longed for, she cared as little what became of + her as she cared for Kafka’s own fate. She had but one object, one + passion, one desire, and to all else her indifference was supreme. Life + and death, in this world or the next, were less weighty than feathers in a + scale that measures hundreds of tons. The very idea of balance was for the + moment beyond her imagination. For a while indeed the pride of a woman at + once young, beautiful, and accustomed to authority, had kept her firm in + the determination to be loved for herself, as she believed that she + deserved to be loved; and just so long as that remained, she had held her + head high, confidently expecting that the mask of indifference would soon + be shivered, that the eyes she adored would soften with warm light, that + the hand she worshipped would tremble suddenly, as though waking to life + within her own. But that pride was gone, and from its disappearance there + had been but one step to the most utter degradation of soul to which a + woman can descend, and from that again but one step more to a resolution + almost stupid in its hardened obstinacy. But as though to show how + completely she was dominated by the man whom she could not win even her + last determination had yielded under the slightest pressure from his will. + She had left her house beside him with the mad resolve never again to be + parted from him, cost what it might, reputation, fortune, life itself. And + yet ten minutes had not elapsed before she found herself alone, trusting + to a mere word of his for the hope of ever seeing him again. She seemed to + have no individuality left. He had spoken and she had obeyed. He had + commanded and she had done his bidding. She was even more ashamed of this + than of having wept, and sobbed, and dragged herself at his feet. In the + first moment she had submitted, deluding herself with the idea she had + expressed, that he was consigning her to a prison and that her freedom was + dependent on his will. The foolish delusion vanished. She saw that she was + free, when she chose, to descend the steps she had just mounted, to go out + through the gate she had lately entered, and to go whithersoever she + would, at the mere risk of meeting Israel Kafka. And that risk she + heartily despised, being thoroughly brave by nature, and utterly + indifferent to death by force of circumstance. + </p> + <p> + She comforted herself with the thought that the Wanderer would come to + her, once at least, when she was pleased to send for him. She had that + loyal belief inseparable from true love until violently overthrown by + irrefutable evidence, and which sometimes has such power as to return even + then, overthrowing the evidence of the senses themselves. Are there not + men who trust women, and women who trust men, in spite of the vilest + betrayals? Love is indeed often the inspirer of subjective visions, + creating in the beloved object the qualities it admires and the virtues it + adores, powerless to accept what it is not willing to see, dwelling in a + fortress guarded by intangible, and therefore indestructible, fiction and + proof against the artillery of facts. Unorna’s confidence was, however, + not misplaced. The man whose promise she had received had told the truth + when he had said that he had never broken any promise whatsoever. + </p> + <p> + In this, at least, there was therefore comfort. On the morrow she would + see him again. The moment of complete despair had passed when she had + received that assurance from his lips, and as she thought of it, sitting + in the absolute stillness of her room, the proportions of the storm grew + less, and possible dimensions of a future hope greater—just as the + seafarer when his ship lies in a flat calm of the oily harbour thinks half + incredulously of the danger past, despises himself for the anxiety he + felt, and vows that on the morrow he will face the waves again, though the + winds blow ever so fiercely. In Unorna the master passion was as strong as + ever. In a dim vision the wreck of her pride floated still in the stormy + distance, but she turned her eyes away, for it was no longer a part of + her. The spectre of her humiliation rose up and tried to taunt her with + her shame—she almost smiled at the thought that she could still + remember it. He lived, she lived, and he should yet be hers. As her + physical weariness began to disappear in the absolute quiet and rest, her + determination revived. Her power was not all gone yet. On the morrow she + would see him again. She might still fix her eyes on his, and in an + unguarded moment cast him into a deep sleep. She remembered that look on + his face in the old cemetery. She had guessed rightly; it had been for the + faint memory of Beatrice. But she would bring it back again, and it should + be for her, for he should never wake again. Had she not done as much with + the ancient scholar who for long years had lain in her home in that + mysterious state, who obeyed when she commanded him to rise, and walk, to + eat, to speak? Why not the Wanderer, then? To outward eyes he would be + alive and awake, calm, natural, happy. And yet he would be sleeping. In + that condition, at least, she could command his actions, his thoughts, and + his words. How long could it be made to last? She did not know. Nature + might rebel in the end and throw off the yoke of the heavily-imposed will. + An interval might follow, full again of storm and passion and despair; but + it would pass, and he would again fall under her influence. She had read, + and Keyork Arabian had told her, of the marvels done every day by + physicians of common power in the great hospitals and universities of the + Empire, and elsewhere throughout Europe. None of them appeared to be men + of extraordinary natural gifts. Their powers were but weakness compared + with hers. Even with miserable, hysteric women they often had to try again + and again before they could produce the hypnotic sleep for the first time. + When they had got as far as that, indeed, they could bring their learning, + their science, and their experience to bear—and they could make + foolish experiments, familiar to Unorna from her childhood as the sights + and sounds of her daily life. Few, if any of them, had even the power + necessary to hypnotise an ordinarily strong man in health. She, on the + contrary, had never failed in that, and at the first trial, except with + Keyork Arabian, a man of whom she said in her heart, half in jest and half + superstitiously, that he was not a man at all, but a devil or a monster + over whom earthly influences had no control. + </p> + <p> + All her energy returned. The colour came back to her face, her eyes + sparkled, her strong white hands contracted and opened, and closed again, + as though she would grasp something. The room, too, had become warmer and + she had forgotten to lay aside her furs. She longed for more air and, + rising, walked across the room. It occurred to her that the great corridor + would be deserted and as quiet as her own apartment, and she went out and + began to pace the stone flags, her head high, looking straight before her. + </p> + <p> + She wished that she had him there now, and she was angry at the thought + that she had not seen earlier how easily it could all be done. However + strong he might be, having twice been under her influence before he could + not escape it again. In those moments when they had stood together before + the great dark buildings of the Clementinum, it might all have been + accomplished; and now, she must wait until the morning. But her mind was + determined. It mattered not how, it mattered not in what state, he should + be hers. No one would know what she had done. It was nothing to her that + he would be wholly unconscious of his past life—had she not already + made him forget the most important part of it? He would still be himself, + and yet he would love her, and speak lovingly to her, and act as she would + have him act. Everything could be done, and she would risk nothing, for + she would marry him and make him her lawful husband, and they would spend + their lives together, in peace, in the house wherein she had so abased + herself before him, foolishly believing that, as a mere woman, she could + win him. + </p> + <p> + She paced the corridor, passing and repassing beneath the light of the + single lamp that hung in the middle, walking quickly, with a sensation of + pleasure in the movement and in the cold draught that fanned her cheek. + </p> + <p> + Then she heard footsteps distinct from the echo of her own and she stood + still. Two women were coming towards her through the gloom. She waited + near her own door, supposing that they would pass her. As they came near, + she saw that the one was a nun, habited in the plain gray robe and black + and white head-dress of the order. The other was a lady dressed, like + herself, in black. The light burned so badly that as the two stopped and + stood for a moment conversing together, Unorna could not clearly + distinguish their faces. Then the lady entered one of the rooms, the third + or the fourth from Unorna’s, and the nun remained standing outside, + apparently hesitating whether to turn to the right or to the left, or + asking herself in which direction her occupations called her. Unorna made + a movement, and at the sound of her foot the nun came towards her. + </p> + <p> + “Sister Paul!” Unorna exclaimed, recognising her as her face came under + the glare of the lamp, and holding out her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna!” cried the nun, with an intonation of surprise and pleasure. “I + did not know that you were here. What brings you back to us?” + </p> + <p> + “A caprice, Sister Paul—nothing but a caprice. I shall perhaps be + gone to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry,” answered the sister. “One night is but a short retreat from + the world.” She shook her head rather sadly. + </p> + <p> + “Much may happen in a night,” replied Unorna with a smile. “You used to + tell me that the soul knew nothing of time. Have you changed your mind? + Come into my room and let us talk. I have not forgotten your hours. You + can have nothing to do for the moment, unless it is supper-time.” + </p> + <p> + “We have just finished,” said Sister Paul, entering readily enough. “The + other lady who is staying here insisted upon supping in the guests’ + refectory—out of curiosity perhaps, poor thing—and I met her + on the stairs as she was coming up.” + </p> + <p> + “Are she and I the only ones here?” Unorna asked carelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. There is no one else, and she only came this morning. You see it is + still the carnival season in the world. It is in Lent that the great + ladies come to us, and then we have often not a room free.” + </p> + <p> + The nun smiled sadly, shaking her head again, in a way that seemed + habitual with her. + </p> + <p> + “After all,” she added, as Unorna said nothing, “it is better that they + should come then, rather than not at all, though I often think it would be + better still if they spent carnival in the convent and Lent in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “The world you speak of would be a gloomy place if you had the ordering of + it, Sister Paul!” observed Unorna with a little laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well! I daresay it would seem so to you. I know little enough of the + world as you understand it, save for what our guests tell me—and, + indeed, I am glad that I do not know more.” + </p> + <p> + “You know almost as much as I do.” + </p> + <p> + The sister looked long and earnestly into Unorna’s face as though + searching for something. She was a thin, pale woman over forty years of + age. Not a wrinkle marked her waxen skin, and her hair was entirely + concealed under the smooth head-dress, but her age was in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What is your life, Unorna?” she asked suddenly. “We hear strange tales of + it sometimes, though we know also that you do great works of charity. But + we hear strange tales and strange words.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” Unorna suppressed a smile of scorn. “What do people say of me? I + never asked.” + </p> + <p> + “Strange things, strange things,” repeated the nun with a shake of the + head. + </p> + <p> + “What are they? Tell me one of them, as an instance.” + </p> + <p> + “I should fear to offend you—indeed I am sure I should, though we + were good friends once.” + </p> + <p> + “And are still. The more reason why you should tell me what is said. Of + course I am alone in the world, and people will always tell vile tales of + women who have no one to protect them.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” Sister Paul hastened to assure her. “As a woman, no word has + reached us that touches your fair name. On the contrary, I have heard + worldly women say much more that is good of you in that respect than they + will say of each other. But there are other things, Unorna—other + things which fill me with fear for you. They call you by a name that makes + me shudder when I hear it.” + </p> + <p> + “A name?” repeated Unorna in surprise and with considerable curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “A name—a word—what you will—no, I cannot tell you, and + besides, it must be untrue.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna was silent for a moment and then understood. She laughed aloud with + perfect unconcern. + </p> + <p> + “I know!” she cried. “How foolish of me! They call me the Witch—of + course.” + </p> + <p> + Sister Paul’s face grew very grave, and she immediately crossed herself + devoutly, looking askance at Unorna as she did so. But Unorna only laughed + again. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it is very foolish,” said the nun, “but I cannot bear to hear + such a thing said of you.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not said in earnest. Do you know why they call me the Witch? It is + very simple. It is because I can make people sleep—people who are + suffering or mad or in great sorrow, and then they rest. That is all my + magic.” + </p> + <p> + “You can put people to sleep? Anybody?” Sister Paul opened her faded eyes + very wide. “But that is not natural,” she added in a perplexed tone. “And + what is not natural cannot be right.” + </p> + <p> + “And is all right that is natural?” asked Unorna thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “It is not natural,” repeated the other. “How do you do it? Do you use + strange words and herbs and incantations?” + </p> + <p> + Unorna laughed again, but the nun seemed shocked by her levity and she + forced herself to be grave. + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed!” she answered. “I look into their eyes and tell them to sleep—and + they do. Poor Sister Paul! You are behind the age in the dear old convent + here. The thing is done in half of the great hospitals of Europe every + day, and men and women are cured in that way of diseases that paralyse + them in body as well as in mind. Men study to learn how it is done; it is + as common to-day, as a means of healing, as the medicines you know by name + and taste. It is called hypnotism.” + </p> + <p> + Again the sister crossed herself. + </p> + <p> + “I have heard the word, I think,” she said, as though she thought there + might be something diabolical in it. “And do you heal the sick in this way + by means of this—thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes,” Unorna answered. “There is an old man, for instance, whom I + have kept alive for many years by making him sleep—a great deal.” + Unorna smiled a little. + </p> + <p> + “But you have no words with it? Nothing?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. It is my will. That is all.” + </p> + <p> + “But if it is of good, and not of the Evil One, there should be a prayer + with it. Could you not say a prayer with it, Unorna?” + </p> + <p> + “I daresay I could,” replied the other, trying not to laugh. “But that + would be doing two things at once; my will would be weakened.” + </p> + <p> + “It cannot be of good,” said the nun. “It is not natural, and it is not + true that the prayer can distract the will from the performance of a good + deed.” She shook her head more energetically than usual. “And it is not + good either that you should be called a witch, you who have lived here + amongst us.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not my fault!” exclaimed Unorna, somewhat annoyed by her + persistence. “And besides, Sister Paul, even if the devil is in it, it + would be right all the same.” + </p> + <p> + The nun held up her hands in holy horror, and her jaw dropped. + </p> + <p> + “My child! My child! How can you say such things to me!” + </p> + <p> + “It is very true,” Unorna answered, quietly smiling at her amazement. “If + people who are ill are made well, is it not a real good, even if the Evil + One does it? Is it not good to make him do good, if one can, even against + his will?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” cried Sister Paul, in great distress. “Do not talk like that—let + us not talk of it at all! Whatever it is, it is bad, and I do not + understand it, and I am sure that none of us here could, no matter how + well you explained it. But if you will do it, Unorna, my dear child, then + say a prayer each time, against temptation and the devil’s works.” + </p> + <p> + With that the good nun crossed herself a third time, and unconsciously, + from force of habit, began to tell her beads with one hand, mechanically + smoothing her broad, starched collar with the other. Unorna was silent for + a few minutes, plucking at the sable lining of the cloak which lay beside + her upon the sofa where she had dropped it. + </p> + <p> + “Let us talk of other things,” she said at last. “Talk of the other lady + who is here. Who is she? What brings her into retreat at this time of + year?” + </p> + <p> + “Poor thing—yes, she is very unhappy,” answered Sister Paul. “It is + a sad story, so far as I have heard it. Her father is just dead, and she + is alone in the world. The Abbess received a letter yesterday from the + Cardinal Archbishop, requesting that we would receive her, and this + morning she came. His eminence knew her father, it appears. She is only to + be here for a short time, I believe, until her relations come to take her + home to her own country. Her father was taken ill in a country place near + the city, which he had hired for the shooting season, and the poor girl + was left all alone out there. The Cardinal thought she would be safer and + perhaps less unhappy with us while she is waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Unorna, with a faint interest. “How old is she, poor + child?” + </p> + <p> + “She is not a child, she must be five and twenty years old, though perhaps + her sorrow makes her look older than she is.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice. I cannot remember the name of the family.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna started. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX + </h2> + <h3> + “What is it?” asked the nun, noticing Unorna’s sudden movement. + </h3> + <p> + “Nothing; the name of Beatrice is familiar to me, that is all. It + suggested something.” + </p> + <p> + Though Sister Paul was as unworldly as five and twenty years of cloistered + life can make a woman who is naturally simple in mind and devout in + thought, she possessed that faculty of quick observation which is learned + as readily, and exercised perhaps as constantly, in the midst of a small + community, where each member is in some measure dependent upon all the + rest for the daily pittance of ideas, as in wider spheres of life. + </p> + <p> + “You may have seen this lady, or you may have heard of her,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I would like to see her,” Unorna answered thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + She was thinking of all the possibilities in the case. She remembered the + clearness and precision of the Wanderer’s first impression, when he first + told her how he had seen Beatrice in the Teyn Kirche, and she reflected + that the name was a very uncommon one. The Beatrice of his story too had a + father and no other relation, and was supposed to be travelling with him. + By the uncertain light in the corridor Unorna had not been able to + distinguish the lady’s features, but the impression she had received had + been that she was dark, as Beatrice was. There was no reason in the nature + of things why this should not be the woman whom the Wanderer loved. It was + natural enough that, being left alone in a strange city at such a moment, + she should have sought refuge in a convent, and this being admitted it + followed that she would naturally have been advised to retire to the one + in which Unorna found herself, it being the one in which ladies were most + frequently received as guests. Unorna could hardly trust herself to speak. + She was conscious that Sister Paul was watching her, and she turned her + face from the lamp. + </p> + <p> + “There can be no difficulty about your seeing her, or talking with her, if + you wish it,” said the nun. “She told me that she would be at Compline at + nine o’clock. If you will be there yourself you can see her come in, and + watch her when she goes out. Do you think you have ever seen her?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Unorna in an odd tone. “I am sure that I have not.” + </p> + <p> + Sister Paul concluded from Unorna’s manner that she must have reason to + believe that the guest was identical with some one of whom she had heard + very often. Her manner was abstracted and she seemed ill at ease. But that + might be the result of fatigue. + </p> + <p> + “Are you not hungry?” asked the nun. “You have had nothing since you came, + I am sure.” + </p> + <p> + “No—yes—it is true,” answered Unorna. “I had forgotten. It + would be very kind of you to send me something.” + </p> + <p> + Sister Paul rose with alacrity, to Unorna’s great relief. + </p> + <p> + “I will see to it,” she said, holding out her hand. “We shall meet in the + morning. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, dear Sister Paul. Will you say a prayer for me?” She added + the question suddenly, by an impulse of which she was hardly conscious. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I will—with all my heart, my dear child,” answered the nun + looking earnestly into her face. “You are not happy in your life,” she + added, with a slow, sad movement of her head. + </p> + <p> + “No—I am not happy. But I will be.” + </p> + <p> + “I fear not,” said Sister Paul, almost under her breath, as she went out + softly. + </p> + <p> + Unorna was left alone. She could not sit still in her extreme anxiety. It + was agonising to think that the woman she longed to see was so near her, + but that she could not, upon any reasonable pretext, go and knock at her + door and see her and speak to her. She felt also a terrible doubt as to + whether she would recognise her, at first sight, as the same woman whose + shadow had passed between herself and the Wanderer on that eventful day a + month ago. The shadow had been veiled, but she had a prescient + consciousness of the features beneath the veil. Nevertheless, she might be + mistaken. It would be necessary to seek her acquaintance by some excuse + and endeavour to draw from her some portion of her story, enough to + confirm Unorna’s suspicions, or to prove conclusively that they were + unfounded. To do this, Unorna herself needed all her strength and + coolness, and she was glad when a lay sister entered the room bringing her + evening meal. + </p> + <p> + There were moments when Unorna, in favourable circumstances, was able to + sink into the so-called state of second sight, by an act of volition, and + she wished now that she could close her eyes and see the face of the woman + who was only separated from her by two or three walls. But that was not + possible in this case. To be successful she would have needed some sort of + guiding thread, or she must have already known the person she wished to + see. She could not command that inexplicable condition as she could + dispose of her other powers, at all times and in almost all moods. She + felt that if she were at present capable of falling into the trance state + at all, her mind would wander uncontrolled in some other direction. There + was nothing to be done but to have patience. + </p> + <p> + The lay sister went out. Unorna ate mechanically what had been set before + her and waited. She felt that a crisis perhaps more terrible than that + through which she had lately passed was at hand, if the stranger should + prove to be indeed the Beatrice whom the Wanderer loved. Her brain was in + a whirl when she thought of being brought face to face with the woman who + had been before her, and every cruel and ruthless instinct of her nature + rose and took shape in plans for her rival’s destruction. + </p> + <p> + She opened her door, careless of the draught of frozen air that rushed in + from the corridor. She wished to hear the lady’s footstep when she left + her room to go to the church, and she sat down and remained motionless, + fearing lest her own footfall should prevent the sound from reaching her. + The heavy-toned bells began to ring, far off in the night. + </p> + <p> + At last it came, the opening of a door, the slight noise made by a light + tread upon the pavement. She rose quietly and went out, following in the + same direction. She could see nothing but a dark shadow moving before her + towards the opposite end of the passage, farther and farther from the + hanging lamp. Unorna could hear her own heart beating as she followed, + first to the right, then to the left. There was another light at this + point. The lady had noticed that some one was coming behind her and turned + her head to look back. The delicate, dark profile stood out clearly. + Unorna held her breath, walking swiftly forward. But in a moment the lady + went on, and entered the chapel-like room from which a great balconied + window looked down into the church above the choir. 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. + </p> + <p> + Unorna sank upon her knees, compressing her lips to restrain the + incoherent exclamation that almost broke from them in spite of her, + clasping her hands desperately, so that the faint blue veins stood out + upon the marble surface. + </p> + <p> + Below, hundreds of candles blazed upon the altar in the choir and sent + their full yellow radiance up to the faces of the two women, as they knelt + there almost side by side, both young, both beautiful, but utterly unlike. + In a single glance Unorna had understood that it was true. An arm’s length + separated her from the rival whose very existence made her own happiness + an utter impossibility. With unchanging, unwilling gaze she examined every + detail of that beauty which the Wanderer had so loved, that even when + forgotten there was no sight in his eyes for other women. + </p> + <p> + It was indeed such a face as a man would find it hard to forget. Unorna, + seeing the reflection of it in the Wanderer’s mind, had fancied it + otherwise, though she could not but recognise the reality from the + impression she had received. She had imagined it more ethereal, more + faint, more sexless, more angelic, as she had seen it in her thoughts. + Divine it was, but womanly beyond Unorna’s own. Dark, delicately aquiline, + tall and noble, the purity it expressed was of earth and not of heaven. It + was not transparent, for there was life in every feature; it was sad + indeed almost beyond human sadness, but it was sad with the mortal sorrows + of this world, not with the unfathomable melancholy of the suffering + saint. The lips were human, womanly, pure and tender, but not formed for + speech of prayer alone. The drooping lids, not drawn, but darkened with + faint, uneven shadows by the flow of many tears, were slowly lifted now + and again, disclosing a vision of black eyes not meant for endless + weeping, nor made so deep and warm only to strain their sight towards + heaven above, forgetting earth below. Unorna knew that those same eyes + could gleam, and flash, and blaze, with love and hate and anger, that + under the rich, pale skin, the blood could rise and ebb with the changing + tide of the heart, that the warm lips could part with passion and, moving, + form words of love. She saw pride in the wide sensitive nostrils, strength + in the even brow, and queenly dignity in the perfect poise of the head + upon the slender throat. And the clasped hands were womanly, too, neither + full and white and heavy like those of a marble statue, as Unorna’s were, + nor thin and over-sensitive like those of holy women in old pictures, but + real and living, delicate in outline, but not without nervous strength, + hands that might linger in another’s, not wholly passive, but all + responsive to the thrill of a loving touch. + </p> + <p> + It was very hard to bear. A better woman than Unorna might have felt + something evil and cruel and hating in her heart, at the sight of so much + beauty in one who held her place, in the queen of the kingdom where she + longed to reign. Unorna’s cheek grew very pale, and her unlike eyes were + fierce and dangerous. It was well for her that she could not speak to + Beatrice then, for she wore no mask, and the dark beauty would have seen + the danger of death in the face of the fair, and would have turned and + defended herself in time. + </p> + <p> + But the sweet singing of the nuns came softly up from below, echoing to + the groined roof, rising and falling, high and low; and the full radiance + of the many waxen tapers shone steadily from the great altar, gilding and + warming statue and cornice and ancient moulding, and casting deep shadows + into all the places that it could not reach. And still the two women knelt + in their high balcony, the one rapt in fervent prayer, the other wondering + that the presence of such hatred as hers should have no power to kill, and + all the time making a supreme effort to compose her own features into the + expression of friendly sympathy and interest which she knew she would need + so soon as the singing ceased and it was time to leave the church again. + </p> + <p> + The psalms were finished. There was a pause, and then the words of the + ancient hymn floated up to Unorna’s ears, familiar in years gone by. + Almost unconsciously she herself, by force of old habit, joined in the + first verse. Then, suddenly, she stopped, not realising, indeed, the + horrible gulf that lay between the words that passed her lips, and the + thoughts that were at work in her heart, but silenced by the near sound of + a voice less rich and full, but far more exquisite and tender than her + own. Beatrice was singing, too, with joined hands, and parted lips, and + upturned face. + </p> + <p> + “Let dreams be far, and phantasms of the night—bind Thou our Foe,” + sang Beatrice in long, sweet notes. + </p> + <p> + Unorna heard no more. The light dazzled her, and the blood beat in her + heart. It seemed as though no prayer that was ever prayed could be offered + up more directly against herself, and the voice that sang it, though not + loud, had the rare power of carrying every syllable distinctly in its + magic tones, even to a great distance. As she knelt, it was as if Beatrice + had been even nearer, and had breathed the words into her very ear. Afraid + to look round, lest her face should betray her emotion, Unorna glanced + down at the kneeling nuns. She started. Sister Paul, alone of them all, + was looking up, her faded eyes fixed on Unorna’s with a look that implored + and yet despaired, her clasped hands a little raised from the low desk + before her, most evidently offering up the words with the whole fervent + intention of her pure soul, as an intercession for Unorna’s sins. + </p> + <p> + For one moment the strong, cruel heart almost wavered, not through fear, + but under the nameless impression that sometimes takes hold of men and + women. The divine voice beside her seemed to dominate the hundred voices + below; the nun’s despairing look chilled for one instant all her love and + all her hatred, so that she longed to be alone, away from it all, and for + ever. But the hymn ended, the voice was silent, and Sister Paul’s glance + turned again towards the altar. The moment was passed and Unorna was again + what she had been before. + </p> + <p> + Then followed the canticle, the voice of the prioress in the versicles + after that, and the voices of the nuns, no longer singing, as they made + the responses; the Creed, a few more versicles and responses, the short, + final prayers, and all was over. From the church below came up the soft + sound that many women make when they move silently together. The nuns were + passing out in their appointed order. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice remained kneeling a few moments longer, crossed herself and then + rose. At the same moment Unorna was on her feet. The necessity for + immediate action at all costs restored the calm to her face and the + tactful skill to her actions. She reached the door first, and then, half + turning her head, stood aside, as though to give Beatrice precedence in + passing. Beatrice glanced at her face for the first time, and then by a + courteous movement of the head signified that Unorna should go out first. + Unorna appeared to hesitate, Beatrice to protest. Both women smiled a + little, and Unorna, with a gesture of submission, passed through the + doorway. She had managed it so well that it was almost impossible to avoid + speaking as they threaded the long corridors together. Unorna allowed a + moment to pass, as though to let her companion understand the slight + awkwardness of the situation, and then addressed her in a tone of quiet + and natural civility. + </p> + <p> + “We seem to be the only ladies in retreat,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Beatrice answered. Even in that one syllable something of the + quality of her thrilling voice vibrated for an instant. They walked a few + steps farther in silence. + </p> + <p> + “I am not exactly in retreat,” she said presently, either because she felt + that it would be almost rude to say nothing, or because she wished her + position to be clearly understood. “I am waiting here for some one who is + to come for me.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a very quiet place to rest in,” said Unorna. “I am fond of it.” + </p> + <p> + “You often come here, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Not now,” answered Unorna. “But I was here for a long time when I was + very young.” + </p> + <p> + By a common instinct, as they fell into conversation, they began to walk + more slowly, side by side. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed,” said Beatrice, with a slight increase of interest. “Then you + were brought up here by the nuns?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly. It was a sort of refuge for me when I was almost a child. I + was left here alone, until I was thought old enough to take care of + myself.” + </p> + <p> + There was a little bitterness in her tone, intentional, but masterly in + its truth to nature. + </p> + <p> + “Left by your parents?” Beatrice asked. The question seemed almost + inevitable. + </p> + <p> + “I had none. I never knew a father or a mother.” Unorna’s voice grew sad + with each syllable. + </p> + <p> + They had entered the great corridor in which their apartments were + situated, and were approaching Beatrice’s door. They walked more and more + slowly, in silence during the last few moments, after Unorna had spoken. + Unorna sighed. The passing breath traveling on the air of the lonely place + seemed both to invite and to offer sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “My father died last week,” Beatrice said in a very low tone, that was not + quite steady. “I am quite alone—here and in the world.” + </p> + <p> + She laid her hand upon the latch and her deep black eyes rested upon + Unorna’s, as though almost, but not quite, conveying an invitation, hungry + for human comfort, yet too proud to ask it. + </p> + <p> + “I am very lonely, too,” said Unorna. “May I sit with you for a while?” + </p> + <p> + She had but just time to make the bold stroke that was necessary. In + another moment she knew that Beatrice would have disappeared within. Her + heart beat violently until the answer came. She had been successful. + </p> + <p> + “Will you, indeed?” Beatrice exclaimed. “I am poor company, but I shall be + very glad if you will come in.” + </p> + <p> + She opened her door, and Unorna entered. The apartment was almost exactly + like her own in size and shape and furniture, but it already had the air + of being inhabited. There were books upon the table, and a square + jewel-case, and an old silver frame containing a large photograph of a + stern, dark man in middle age—Beatrice’s father, as Unorna at once + understood. Cloaks and furs lay in some confusion upon the chairs, a large + box stood with the lid raised, against the wall, displaying a quantity of + lace, among which lay silks and ribbons of soft colours. + </p> + <p> + “I only came this morning,” Beatrice said, as though to apologise for the + disorder. + </p> + <p> + Unorna sank down in a corner of the sofa, shading her eyes from the bright + lamp with her hand. She could not help looking at Beatrice, but she felt + that she must not let her scrutiny be too apparent, nor her conversation + too eager. Beatrice was proud and strong, and could doubtless be very cold + and forbidding when she chose. + </p> + <p> + “And do you expect to be here long?” Unorna asked, as Beatrice established + herself at the other end of the sofa. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell,” was the answer. “I may be here but a few days, or I may + have to stay a month. + </p> + <p> + “I lived here for years,” said Unorna thoughtfully. “I suppose it would be + impossible now—I should die of apathy and inanition.” She laughed in + a subdued way, as though respecting Beatrice’s mourning. “But I was young + then,” she added, suddenly withdrawing her hand from her eyes, so that the + full light of the lamp fell upon her. + </p> + <p> + She chose to show that she, too, was beautiful, and she knew that Beatrice + had as yet hardly seen her face as they passed through the gloomy + corridors. It was an instinct of vanity, and yet, for her purpose, it was + the right one. The effect was sudden and unexpected, and Beatrice looked + at her almost fixedly, in undisguised admiration. + </p> + <p> + “Young then!” she exclaimed. “You are young now!” + </p> + <p> + “Less young than I was then,” Unorna answered with a little sigh, followed + instantly by a smile. + </p> + <p> + “I am five and twenty,” said Beatrice, woman enough to try and force a + confession from her new acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + “Are you? I would not have thought it—we are nearly of an age—quite, + perhaps, for I am not yet twenty-six. But then, it is not the years—” + She stopped suddenly. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice wondered whether Unorna were married or not. Considering the age + she admitted and her extreme beauty it seemed probable that she must be. + It occurred to her that the acquaintance had been made without any + presentation, and that neither knew the other’s name. + </p> + <p> + “Since I am a little the younger,” she said, “I should tell you who I am.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna made a slight movement. She was on the point of saying that she + knew already—and too well. + </p> + <p> + “I am Beatrice Varanger.” + </p> + <p> + “I am Unorna.” She could not help a sort of cold defiance that sounded in + her tone as she pronounced the only name she could call hers. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna?” Beatrice repeated, courteously enough, but with an air of + surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—that is all. It seems strange to you? They called me so because + I was born in February, in the month we call Unor. Indeed it is strange, + and so is my story—though it would have little interest for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, you are wrong, It would interest me immensely—if you + would tell me a little of it; but I am such a stranger to you——” + </p> + <p> + “I do not feel as though you are that,” Unorna answered with a very gentle + smile. + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind to say so,” said Beatrice quietly. + </p> + <p> + Unorna was perfectly well aware that it must seem strange, to say the + least of it, that she should tell Beatrice the wild story of her life, + when they had as yet exchanged barely a hundred words. But she cared + little what Beatrice thought, provided that she could interest her. She + had a distinct intention in making the time slip by unnoticed, until it + should be late. + </p> + <p> + She related her history, so far as it was known to herself, simply and + graphically, substantially as it has been already set forth, but with an + abundance of anecdote and comment which enhanced the interest and at the + same time extended its limits, interspersing her monologues with remarks + which called for an answer and which served as tests of her companion’s + attention. She hinted but lightly at her possession of unusual power over + animals, and spoke not at all of the influence she could exert upon + people. Beatrice listened eagerly. She could have told, on her part, that + for years her own life had been dull and empty, and that it was long since + she had talked with any one who had so roused her interest. + </p> + <p> + At last Unorna was silent. She had reached the period of her life which + had begun a month before that time, and at that point her story ended. + </p> + <p> + “Then you are not married?” Beatrice’s tone expressed an interrogation and + a certain surprise. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Unorna, “I am not married. And you, if I may ask?” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice started visibly. It had not occurred to her that the question + might seem a natural one for Unorna to ask, although she had said that she + was alone in the world. Unorna might have supposed her to have lost her + husband. But Unorna could see that it was not surprise alone that had + startled her. The question, as she knew it must, had roused a deep and + painful train of thought. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Beatrice, in an altered voice. “I am not married. I shall never + marry.” + </p> + <p> + A short silence followed, during which she turned her face away. + </p> + <p> + “I have pained you,” said Unorna with profound sympathy and regret. + “Forgive me! How could I be so tactless!” + </p> + <p> + “How could you know?” Beatrice asked simply, not attempting to deny the + suggestion. + </p> + <p> + But Unorna was suffering too. She had allowed herself to imagine that in + the long years which had passed Beatrice might perhaps have forgotten. It + had even crossed her mind that she might indeed be married. But in the few + words, and in the tremor that accompanied them, as well as in the + increased pallor of Beatrice’s face, she detected a love not less deep and + constant and unforgotten than the Wanderer’s own. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” Unorna repeated. “I might have guessed. I have loved too.” + </p> + <p> + She knew that here, at least, she could not feign and she could not + control her voice, but with supreme judgment of the effect she allowed + herself to be carried beyond all reserve. In the one short sentence her + whole passion expressed itself, genuine, deep, strong, ruthless. She let + the words come as they would, and Beatrice was startled by the passionate + cry that burst from the heart, so wholly unrestrained. + </p> + <p> + For a long time neither spoke again, and neither looked at the other. To + all appearances Beatrice was the first to regain her self-possession. And + then, all at once the words came to her lips which could be restrained no + longer. For years she had kept silence, for there had been no one to whom + she could speak. For years she had sought him, as best she could, as he + had sought her, fruitlessly and at last hopelessly. And she had known that + her father was seeking him also, everywhere, that he might drag her to the + ends of the earth at the mere suspicion of the Wanderer’s presence in the + same country. It had amounted to a madness with him of the kind not seldom + seen. Beatrice might marry whom she pleased, but not the one man she + loved. Day by day and year by year their two strong wills had been + silently opposed, and neither the one nor the other had ever been + unconscious of the struggle, nor had either yielded a hair’s-breadth. But + Beatrice had been at her father’s mercy, for he could take her whither he + would, and in that she could not resist him. Never in that time had she + lost faith in the devotion of the man she sought, and at last it was only + in the belief that he was dead that she could discover an explanation of + his failure to find her. Still she would not change, and still, through + the years, she loved more and more truly, and passionately, and + unchangingly. + </p> + <p> + The feeling that she was in the presence of a passion as great, as + unhappy, and as masterful as her own, unloosed her tongue. Such things + happen in this strange world. Men and women of deep and strong feedings, + outwardly cold, reserved, taciturn and proud, have been known, once in + their lives, to pour out the secrets of their hearts to a stranger or a + mere acquaintance, as they could never have done to a friend. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice seemed scarcely conscious of what she was saying, or of Unorna’s + presence. The words, long kept back and sternly restrained, fell with a + strange strength from her lips, and there was not one of them from first + to last that did not sheathe itself like a sharp knife in Unorna’s heart. + The enormous jealousy of Beatrice which had been growing within her beside + her love during the last month was reaching the climax of its overwhelming + magnitude. She hardly knew when Beatrice ceased speaking, for the words + were still all ringing in her ears, and clashing madly in her own breast, + and prompting her fierce nature to do some violent deed. But Beatrice + looked for no sympathy and did not see Unorna’s face. She had forgotten + Unorna herself at the last, as she sat staring at the opposite wall. + </p> + <p> + Then she rose quickly, and taking something from the jewel-box, thrust it + into Unorna’s hands. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell why I have told you—but I have. You shall see him + too. What does it matter? We have both loved, we are both unhappy—we + shall never meet again.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” Unorna tried to ask, holding the closed case in her hands. + She knew what was within it well enough, and her self-command was + forsaking her. It was almost more than she could bear. It was as though + Beatrice were wreaking vengeance on her, instead of her destroying her + rival as she had meant to do, sooner or later. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice took the thing from her, opened it, gazed at it a moment, and put + it again into Unorna’s hands. “It was like him,” she said, watching her + companion as though to see what effect the portrait would produce. Then + she shrank back. + </p> + <p> + Unorna was looking at her. Her face was livid and unnaturally drawn, and + the extraordinary contrast in the colour of her two eyes was horribly + apparent. The one seemed to freeze, the other to be on fire. The strongest + and worst passions that can play upon the human soul were all expressed + with awful force in the distorted mask, and not a trace of the magnificent + beauty so lately there was visible. Beatrice shrank back in horror. + </p> + <p> + “You know him!” she cried, half guessing at the truth. + </p> + <p> + “I know him—and I love him,” said Unorna slowly and fiercely, her + eyes fixed on her enemy, and gradually leaning towards her so as to bring + her face nearer and nearer to Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + The dark woman tried to rise, and could not. There was worse than anger, + or hatred, or the intent to kill, in those dreadful eyes. There was a + fascination from which no living thing could escape. She tried to scream, + to shut out the vision, to raise her hand as a screen before it. Nearer + and nearer it came, and she could feel the warm breath of it upon her + cheek. Then her brain reeled, her limbs relaxed, and her head fell back + against the wall. + </p> + <p> + “I know him, and I love him,” were the last words Beatrice heard. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX[*] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [*] The deeds here recounted are not imaginary. Not very + long ago the sacrilege which Unorna attempted was actually + committed at night in a Catholic church in London, under + circumstances that clearly proved the intention of some + person or persons to defile the consecrated wafers. A case + of hypnotic suggestion to the committal of a crime in a + convent occurred in Hungary not many years since, with a + different object, namely, a daring robbery, but precisely as + here described. A complete account of the case will be + found, with authority and evidence, in a pamphlet entitled + <i>Eine experimentale Studie auf dem Gebiete des Hypnotismus</i>, + by Dr. R. von Krafft-Ebing, Professor of Psychiatry and for + nervous diseases, in the University of Gratz. Second + Edition, Stuttgart, Ferdinand Enke, 1889. It is not + possible, in a work of fiction, to quote learned authorities + at every chapter, but it may be said here, and once for all, + that all the most important situations have been taken from + cases which have come under medical observation within the + last few years. +</pre> + <p> + Unorna was hardly conscious of what she had done. She had not had the + intention of making Beatrice sleep, for she had no distinct intention + whatever at that moment. Her words and her look had been but the natural + results of overstrained passion, and she repeated what she had said again + and again, and gazed long and fiercely into Beatrice’s face before she + realised that she had unintentionally thrown her rival and enemy into the + intermediate state. It is rarely that the first stage of hypnotism + produces the same consequences in two different individuals. In Beatrice + it took the form of total unconsciousness, as though she had merely + fainted away. + </p> + <p> + Unorna gradually regained her self-possession. After all, Beatrice had + told her nothing which she did not either wholly know or partly guess, and + her anger was not the result of the revelation but of the way in which the + story had been told. Word after word, phrase after phrase had cut her and + stabbed her to the quick, and when Beatrice had thrust the miniature into + her hands her wrath had risen in spite of herself. But now that she had + returned to a state in which she could think connectedly, and now that she + saw Beatrice asleep before her, she did not regret what she had + unwittingly done. From the first moment when, in the balcony over the + church, she had realised that she was in the presence of the woman she + hated, she had determined to destroy her. To accomplish this she would in + any case have used her especial weapons, and though she had intended to + steal by degrees upon her enemy, lulling her to sleep by a more gentle + fascination, at an hour when the whole convent should be quiet, yet since + the first step had been made unexpectedly and without her will, she did + not regret it. + </p> + <p> + She leaned back and looked at Beatrice during several minutes, smiling to + herself from time to time, scornfully and cruelly. Then she rose and + locked the outer door and closed the inner one carefully. She knew from + long ago that no sound could then find its way to the corridor without. + She came back and sat down again, and again looked at the sleeping face, + and she admitted for the hundredth time that evening, that Beatrice was + very beautiful. + </p> + <p> + “If he could see us now!” she exclaimed aloud. + </p> + <p> + The thought suggested something to her. She would like to see herself + beside this other woman and compare the beauty he loved with the beauty + that could not touch him. It was very easy. She found a small mirror, and + set it up upon the back of the sofa, on a level with Beatrice’s head. Then + she changed the position of the lamp and looked at herself, and touched + her hair, and smoothed her brow, and loosened the black lace about her + white throat. And she looked from herself to Beatrice, and back to herself + again, many times. + </p> + <p> + “It is strange that black should suit us both so well—she so dark + and I so fair!” she said. “She will look well when she is dead.” + </p> + <p> + She gazed again for many seconds at the sleeping woman. + </p> + <p> + “But he will not see her, then,” she added, rising to her feet and laying + the mirror on the table. + </p> + <p> + She began to walk up and down the room as was her habit when in deep + thought, turning over in her mind the deed to be done and the surest and + best way of doing it. It never occurred to her that Beatrice could be + allowed to live beyond that night. If the woman had been but an + unconscious obstacle in her path Unorna would have spared her life, but as + matters stood, she had no inclination to be merciful. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing to prevent the possibility of a meeting between Beatrice + and the Wanderer, if Beatrice remained alive. They were in the same city + together, and their paths might cross at any moment. The Wanderer had + forgotten, but it was not sure that the artificial forgetfulness would be + proof against an actual sight of the woman once so dearly loved. The same + consideration was true of Beatrice. She, too, might be made to forget, + though it was always an experiment of uncertain issue and of more than + uncertain result, even when successful, so far as duration was concerned. + Unorna reasoned coldly with herself, recalling all that Keyork Arabian had + told her and all that she had read. She tried to admit that Beatrice might + be disposed of in some other way, but the difficulties seemed to be + insurmountable. To effect such a disappearance Unorna must find some safe + place in which the wretched woman might drag out her existence + undiscovered. But Beatrice was not like the old beggar who in his + hundredth year had leaned against Unorna’s door, unnoticed and uncared + for, and had been taken in and had never been seen again. The case was + different. The aged scholar, too, had been cared for as he could not have + been cared for elsewhere, and, in the event of an inquiry being made, he + could be produced at any moment, and would even afford a brilliant example + of Unorna’s charitable doings. But Beatrice was a stranger and a person of + some importance in the world. The Cardinal Archbishop himself had directed + the nuns to receive her, and they were responsible for her safety. To + spirit her away in the night would be a dangerous thing. Wherever she was + to be taken, Unorna would have to lead her there alone. Unorna would + herself be missed. Sister Paul already suspected that the name of Witch + was more than a mere appellation. There would be a search made, and + suspicion might easily fall upon Unorna, who would have been obliged, of + course, to conceal her enemy in her own house for lack of any other + convenient place. + </p> + <p> + There was no escape from the deed. Beatrice must die. Unorna could produce + death in a form which could leave no trace, and it would be attributed to + a weakness of the heart. Does any one account otherwise for those sudden + deaths which are no longer unfrequent in the world? A man, a woman, is to + all appearances in perfect health. He or she was last seen by a friend, + who describes the conversation accurately, and expresses astonishment at + the catastrophe which followed so closely upon the visit. He, or she, is + found alone by a servant, or a third person, in a profound lethargy from + which neither restoratives nor violent shocks upon the nerves can produce + any awakening. In one hour, or a few hours, it is over. There is an + examination, and the authorities pronounce an ambiguous verdict—death + from a syncope of the heart. Such things happen, they say, with a shake of + the head. And, indeed, they know that such things really do happen, and + they suspect that they do not happen naturally; but there is no evidence, + not even so much as may be detected in a clever case of vegetable + poisoning. The heart has stopped beating, and death has followed. There + are wise men by the score to-day who do not ask “What made it stop?” but + “Who made it stop?” But they have no evidence to bring, and the new + jurisprudence, which in some countries covers the cases of thefts and + frauds committed under hypnotic suggestion, cannot as yet lay down the law + for cases where a man has been told to die, and dies—from “weakness + of the heart.” And yet it is known, and well known, that by hypnotic + suggestion the pulse can be made to fall to the lowest number of beatings + consistent with life, and that the temperature of the body can be + commanded beforehand to stand at a certain degree and fraction of a degree + at a certain hour, high or low, as may be desired. Let those who do not + believe read the accounts of what is done from day to day in the great + European seats of learning, accounts of which every one bears the name of + some man speaking with authority and responsible to the world of science + for every word he speaks, and doubly so for every word he writes. A few + believe in the antiquated doctrine of electric animal currents, the vast + majority are firm in the belief that the influence is a moral one—all + admit that whatever force, or influence, lies at the root of hypnotism, + the effects it can produce are practically unlimited, terrible in their + comprehensiveness, and almost entirely unprovided for in the scheme of + modern criminal law. + </p> + <p> + Unorna was sure of herself, and of her strength to perform what she + contemplated. There lay the dark beauty in the corner of the sofa, where + she had sat and talked so long, and told her last story, the story of her + life which was now to end. A few determined words spoken in her ear, a + pressure of the hand upon the brow and the heart, and she would never wake + again. She would lie there still, until they found her, hour after hour, + the pulse growing weaker and weaker, the delicate hands colder, the face + more set. At the last, there would be a convulsive shiver of the queenly + form, and that would be the end. The physicians and the authorities would + come and would speak of a weakness of the heart, and there would be masses + sung for her soul, and she would rest in peace. + </p> + <p> + Her soul? In peace? Unorna stood still. Was that to be all her vengeance + upon the woman who stood between her and happiness? Was there to be + nothing but that, nothing but the painless passing of the pure young + spirit from earth to heaven? Was no one to suffer for all Unorna’s pain? + It was not enough. There must be more than that. And yet, what more? That + was the question. What imaginable wealth of agony would be a just + retribution for her existence? Unorna could lead her, as she had led + Israel Kafka, through the life and death of a martyr, through a life of + wretchedness and a death of shame, but then, the moment must come at last, + since this was to be death indeed, and her spotless soul would be beyond + Unorna’s reach forever. No, that was not enough. Since she could not be + allowed to live to be tormented, vengeance must follow her beyond the end + of life. + </p> + <p> + Unorna stood still and an awful light of evil came into her face. A + thought of which the enormity would have terrified a common being had + entered her mind and taken possession of it. Beatrice was in her power. + Beatrice should die in mortal sin, and her soul would be lost for ever. + </p> + <p> + For a long time she did not move, but stood looking down at the calm and + lovely face of her sleeping enemy, devising a crime to be imposed upon her + for her eternal destruction. Unorna was very superstitious, or the hideous + scheme could never have presented itself to her. To her mind the deed was + everything, whatever it was to be, and the intention or the + unconsciousness in doing it could have nothing to do with the consequences + to the soul of the doer. She made no theological distinctions. Beatrice + should commit some terrible crime and should die in committing it. Then + she would be lost, and devils would do in hell the worst torment which + Unorna could not do on earth. A crime—a robbery, a murder—it + must be done in the convent. Unorna hesitated, bending her brows and + poring in imagination over the dark catalogue of all imaginable evil. + </p> + <p> + A momentary and vague terror cast its shadow on her thoughts. By some + accident of connection between two ideas, her mind went back a month, and + reviewed as in a flash of light all that she had thought and done since + that day. She had greatly changed since then. She could think calmly now + of deeds which even she would not have dared then. She thought of the + evening when she had cried aloud that she would give her soul to know the + Wanderer safe, of the quick answer that had followed, and of Keyork + Arabian’s face. Was he a devil, indeed, as she sometimes fancied, and had + there been a reality and a binding meaning in that contract? + </p> + <p> + Keyork Arabian! He, indeed, possessed the key to all evil. What would he + have done with Beatrice? Would he make her rob the church—murder the + abbess in her sleep? Bad, but not bad enough. + </p> + <p> + Unorna started. A deed suggested itself so hellish, so horrible in its + enormity, so far beyond all conceivable human sin, that for one moment her + brain reeled. She shuddered again and again, and groped for support and + leaned against the wall in a bodily weakness of terror. For one moment + she, who feared nothing, was shaken by fear from head to foot, her face + turned white, her knees shook, her sight failed her, her teeth chattered, + her lips moved hysterically. + </p> + <p> + But she was strong still. The thing she had sought had come to her + suddenly. She set her teeth, and thought of it again and again, till she + could face the horror of it without quaking. Is there any limit to the + hardening of the human heart? + </p> + <p> + The distant bells rang out the call to midnight prayer. Unorna stopped and + listened. She had not known how quickly time was passing. But it was + better so. She was glad it was so late, and she said so to herself, but + the evil smile that was sometimes in her face was not there now. She had + thought a thought that left a mark on her forehead. Was there any reality + in that jesting contract with Keyork Arabian? + </p> + <p> + She must wait before she did the deed. The nuns would go down into the + lighted church, and kneel and pray before the altar. It would last some + time, the midnight lessons, the psalms, the prayers—and she must be + sure that all was quiet, for the deed could not be done in the room where + Beatrice was sleeping. + </p> + <p> + She was conscious of the time now, and every minute seemed an hour, and + every second was full of that one deed, done over and over again before + her eyes, until every awful detail of the awful whole was stamped + indelibly upon her brain. She had sat down now, and leaning forwards, was + watching the innocent woman and wondering how she would look when she was + doing it. But she was calm now, as she felt that she had never been in her + life. Her breath came evenly, her heart beat naturally, she thought + connectedly of what she was about to do. But the time seemed endless. + </p> + <p> + The distant clocks chimed the half hour, three-quarters, past midnight. + Still she waited. At the stroke of one she rose from her seat, and + standing beside Beatrice laid her hand upon the dark brow. + </p> + <p> + A few questions, a few answers followed. She must assure herself that her + victim was in the right state to execute minutely all her commands. Then + she opened the door upon the corridor and listened. Not a sound broke the + intense stillness, and all was dark. The hanging lamp had been + extinguished and the nuns had all returned from the midnight service to + their cells. No one would be stirring now until four o’clock, and half an + hour was all that Unorna needed. + </p> + <p> + She took Beatrice’s hand. The dark woman rose with half-closed eyes and + set features. Unorna led her out into the dark passage. + </p> + <p> + “It is light here,” Unorna said. “You can see your way. But I am blind. + Take my hand—so—and now lead me to the church by the nun’s + staircase. Make no noise.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know the staircase,” said the sleeper in drowsy tones. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Go as you went to-day, to the room where the balcony is, but do not enter + it. The staircase is on the right of the door, and leads into the choir. + Go!” + </p> + <p> + Without hesitation Beatrice led her out into the impenetrable gloom, with + swift, noiseless footsteps in the direction commanded, never wavering nor + hesitating whether to turn to the right or the left, but walking as + confidently as though in broad daylight. Unorna counted the turnings and + knew that there was no mistake. Beatrice was leading her unerringly + towards the staircase. They reached it, and began to descend the winding + steps. Unorna, holding her leader by one hand, steadied herself with the + other against the smooth, curved wall, fearing at every moment lest she + should stumble and fall in the total darkness. But Beatrice never + faltered. To her the way was as bright as though the noonday sun had shone + before her. + </p> + <p> + The stairs ended abruptly against a door. Beatrice stood still. She had + received no further commands and the impulse ceased. + </p> + <p> + “Draw back the bolt and take me into the church,” said Unorna, who could + see nothing, but who knew that the nuns fastened the door behind them when + they returned into the convent. Beatrice obeyed without hesitation and led + her forward. + </p> + <p> + They came out between the high carved seats of the choir, behind the high + altar. The church was not quite as dark as the staircase and passages had + been, and Unorna stood still for a moment. In some of the chapels hanging + lamps of silver were lighted, and their tiny flames spread a faint + radiance upwards and sideways, though not downwards, sufficient to break + the total obscurity to eyes accustomed for some minutes to no light at + all. The church stood, too, on a little eminence in the city, where the + air without was less murky and impenetrable with the night mists, and + though there was no moon the high upper windows of the nave were + distinctly visible in the gloomy height like great lancet-shaped patches + of gray upon a black ground. + </p> + <p> + In the dimness, all objects took vast and mysterious proportions. A huge + giant reared his height against one of the pillars, crowned with a high, + pointed crown, stretching out one great shadowy hand into the gloom—the + tall pulpit was there, as Unorna knew, and the hand was the wooden + crucifix standing out in its extended socket. The black confessionals, + too, took shape, like monster nuns, kneeling in their heavy hoods and + veils, with heads inclined, behind the fluted pilasters, just within the + circle of the feeble chapel lights. Within the choir, the deep shadows + seemed to fill the carved stalls with the black ghosts of long dead + sisters, returned to their familiar seats out of the damp crypt below. The + great lectern in the midst of the half circle behind the high altar became + a hideous skeleton, headless, its straight arms folded on its bony breast. + The back of the high altar itself was a great throne whereon sat in + judgment a misty being of awful form, judging the dead women all through + the lonely night. The stillness was appalling. Not a rat stirred. + </p> + <p> + Unorna shuddered, not at what she saw, but at what she felt. She had + reached the place, and the doing of the deed was at hand. Beatrice stood + beside her erect, asleep, motionless, her dark face just outlined in the + surrounding dusk. + </p> + <p> + Unorna took her hand and led her forwards. She could see now, and the + moment had come. She brought Beatrice before the high altar and made her + stand in front of it. Then she herself went back and groped for something + in the dark. It was the pair of small wooden steps upon which the priest + mounts in order to open the golden door of the high tabernacle above the + altar, when it is necessary to take therefrom the Sacred Host for the + Benediction, or other consecrated wafers for the administration of the + Communion. To all Christians, of all denominations whatsoever, the + bread-wafer when once consecrated is a holy thing. To Catholics and + Lutherans there is there, substantially, the Presence of God. No + imaginable act of sacrilege can be more unpardonable than the desecration + of the tabernacle and the wilful defilement and destruction of the Sacred + Host. + </p> + <p> + This was Unorna’s determination. Beatrice should commit this crime against + Heaven, and then die with the whole weight of it upon her soul, and thus + should her soul itself be tormented for ever and ever to ages of ages. + </p> + <p> + Considering what she believed, it is no wonder that she should have + shuddered at the tremendous thought. And yet, in the distortion of her + reasoning, the sin would be upon Beatrice who did the act, and not upon + herself who commanded it. There was no diminution of her own faith in the + sacredness of the place and the holiness of the consecrated object—had + she been one whit less sure of that, her vengeance would have been vain + and her whole scheme meaningless. + </p> + <p> + She came back out of the darkness and set the wooden steps in their place + before the altar at Beatrice’s feet. Then, as though to save herself from + all participation in the guilt of the sacrilege which was to follow, she + withdrew outside the Communion rail, and closed the gate behind her. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice, obedient to her smallest command, and powerless to move or act + without her suggestion, stood still as she had been placed, with her back + to the church and her face to the altar. Above her head the richly wrought + door of the tabernacle caught what little light there was and reflected it + from its own uneven surface. + </p> + <p> + Unorna paused a moment, looked at the shadowy figure, and then glanced + behind her into the body of the church, not out of any ghostly fear, but + to assure herself that she was alone with her victim. She saw that all was + quite ready, and then she calmly knelt down just upon one side of the gate + and rested her folded hands upon the marble railing. A moment of intense + stillness followed. Again the thought of Keyork Arabian flashed across her + mind. Had there been any reality, she vaguely wondered, in that compact + made with him? What was she doing now? But the crime was to be Beatrice’s, + not hers. Her heart beat fast for a moment, and then she grew very calm + again. + </p> + <p> + The clock in the church tower chimed the first quarter past one. She was + able to count the strokes and was glad to find that she had lost no time. + As soon as the long, singing echo of the bells had died away, she spoke, + not loudly, but clearly and distinctly. + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice Varanger, go forward and mount the steps I have placed for you.” + </p> + <p> + The dark figure moved obediently, and Unorna heard the slight sound of + Beatrice’s foot upon the wood. The shadowy form rose higher and higher in + the gloom, and stood upon the altar itself. + </p> + <p> + “Now do as I command you. Open wide the door of the tabernacle.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna watched the black form intently. It seemed to stretch out its hand + as though searching for something, and then the arm fell again to the + side. + </p> + <p> + “Do as I command you,” Unorna repeated with the angry and dominant + intonation that always came into her voice when she was not obeyed. + </p> + <p> + Again the hand was raised for a moment, groped in the darkness and sank + down into the shadow. + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice Varanger, you must do my will. I order you to open the door of + the tabernacle, to take out what is within and to throw it to the ground!” + Her voice rang clearly through the church. “And may the crime be on your + soul for ever and ever,” she added in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + A third time the figure moved. A strange flash of light played for a + moment upon the tabernacle, the effect, Unorna thought, of the golden door + being suddenly opened. + </p> + <p> + But she was wrong. The figure moved, indeed, and stretched out a hand and + moved again. A sudden crash of something very heavy, falling upon stone, + broke the great stillness—the dark form tottered, reeled and fell to + its length upon the great altar. Unorna saw that the golden door was still + closed, and that Beatrice had fallen. Unable to move or act by her own + free judgment, and compelled by Unorna’s determined command, she had made + a desperate effort to obey. Unorna had forgotten that there was a raised + step upon the altar itself, and that there were other obstacles in the + way, including heavy candlesticks and the framed Canon of the Mass, all of + which are usually set aside before the tabernacle is opened by the priest. + In attempting to do as she was told, the sleeping woman had stumbled, had + overbalanced herself, had clutched one of the great silver candlesticks so + that it fell heavily beside her, and then, having no further support, she + had fallen herself. + </p> + <p> + Unorna sprang to her feet and hastily opened the gate of the railing. In a + moment she was standing by the altar at Beatrice’s head. She could see + that the dark eyes were open now. The great shock had recalled her to + consciousness. + </p> + <p> + “Where am I?” she asked in great distress, seeing nothing in the darkness + now, and groping with her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Sleep—be silent and sleep!” said Unorna in low, firm tones, + pressing her palm upon the forehead. + </p> + <p> + “No—no!” cried the startled woman in a voice of horror. “No—I + will not sleep—no, do not touch me! Oh, where am I—help! + Help!” + </p> + <p> + She was not hurt. With one strong, lithe movement, she sprang to the + ground and stood with her back to the altar, her hands stretched out to + defend herself from Unorna. But Unorna knew what extreme danger she was in + if Beatrice left the church awake and conscious of what had happened. She + seized the moving arms and tried to hold them down, pressing her face + forward so as to look into the dark eyes she could but faintly + distinguish. It was no easy matter, however, for Beatrice was young and + strong and active. Then all at once she began to see Unorna’s eyes, as + Unorna could see hers, and she felt the terrible influence stealing over + her again. + </p> + <p> + “No—no—no!” she cried, struggling desperately. “You shall not + make me sleep. I will not—I will not!” + </p> + <p> + There was a flash of light again in the church, this time from behind the + high altar, and the noise of quick footsteps. But neither Unorna nor + Beatrice noticed the light or the sound. Then the full glow of a strong + lamp fell upon the faces of both and dazzled them, and Unorna felt a cool + thin hand upon her own. Sister Paul was beside them, her face very white + and her faded eyes turning from the one to the other. + </p> + <p> + It was very simple. Soon after Compline was over the nun had gone to + Unorna’s room, had knocked and had entered. To her surprise Unorna was not + there, but Sister Paul imagined that she had lingered over her prayers and + would soon return. The good nun had sat down to wait for her, and telling + her beads had fallen asleep. The unaccustomed warmth and comfort of the + guest’s room had been too much for the weariness that constantly oppressed + a constitution broken with ascetic practices. Accustomed by long habit to + awake at midnight to attend the service, her eyes opened of themselves, + indeed, but a full hour later than usual. She heard the clock strike one, + and for a moment could not believe her senses. Then she understood that + she had been asleep, and was amazed to find that Unorna had not come back. + She went out hastily into the corridor. The lay sister had long ago + extinguished the hanging lamp, but Sister Paul saw the light streaming + from Beatrice’s open door. She went in and called aloud. The bed had not + been touched. Beatrice was not there. Sister Paul began to think that both + the ladies must have gone to the midnight service. The corridors were dark + and they might have lost their way. She took the lamp from the table and + went to the balcony at which the guests performed their devotion. It had + been her light that had flashed across the door of the tabernacle. She had + looked down into the choir, and far below her had seen a figure, + unrecognisable from that height in the dusk of the church, but clearly the + figure of a woman standing upon the altar. Visions of horror rose before + her eyes of the sacrilegious practices of witchcraft, for she had thought + of nothing else during the whole evening. Lamp in hand she descended the + stairs to the choir and reached the altar, providentially, just in time to + save Beatrice from falling a victim again to the evil fascination of the + enemy who had planned the destruction of her soul as well as of her body. + </p> + <p> + “What is this? What are you doing in this holy place and at this hour?” + asked Sister Paul, solemnly and sternly. + </p> + <p> + Unorna folded her arms and was silent. No possible explanation of the + struggle presented itself even to her quick intellect. She fixed her eyes + on the nun’s face, concentrating all her will, for she knew that unless + she could control her also, she herself was lost. Beatrice answered the + question, drawing herself up proudly against the great altar and pointing + at Unorna with her outstretched hand, her dark eyes flashing indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “We were talking together, this woman and I. She looked at me—she + was angry—and then I fainted, or fell asleep, I cannot tell which. I + awoke in the dark to find myself lying upon the altar here. Then she took + hold of me and tried to make me sleep again. But I would not. Let her + explain, herself, what she has done, and why she brought me here!” + </p> + <p> + Sister Paul turned to Unorna and met the full glare of the unlike eyes, + with her own calm, half heavenly look of innocence. + </p> + <p> + “What have you done, Unorna? What have you done?” she asked very sadly. + </p> + <p> + But Unorna did not answer. She only looked at the nun more fixedly and + savagely. She felt that she might as well have looked upon some ancient + picture of a saint in heaven, and bid it close its eyes. But she would not + give up the attempt, for her only safety lay in its success. For a long + time Sister Paul returned her gaze steadily. + </p> + <p> + “Sleep!” said Unorna, putting up her hand. “Sleep, I command you!” + </p> + <p> + But Sister Paul’s eyes did not waver. A sad smile played for a moment upon + her waxen features. + </p> + <p> + “You have no power over me—for your power is not of good,” she said, + slowly and softly. + </p> + <p> + Then she quietly turned to Beatrice, and took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Come with me, my daughter,” she said. “I have a light and will take you + to a place where you will be safe. She will not trouble you any more + to-night. Say a prayer, my child, and do not be afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not afraid,” said Beatrice. “But where is she?” she asked suddenly. + </p> + <p> + Unorna had glided away while they were speaking. Sister Paul held the lamp + high and looked in all directions. Then she heard the heavy door of the + sacristy swing upon its hinges and strike with a soft thud against the + small leathern cushion. Both women followed her, but as they opened the + door again a blast of cold air almost extinguished the lamp. The night + wind was blowing in from the street. + </p> + <p> + “She is gone out,” said Sister Paul. “Alone and at this hour—Heaven + help her!” It was as she said, Unorna had escaped. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI + </h2> + <p> + After leaving Unorna at the convent, the Wanderer had not hesitated as to + the course he should pursue. It was quite clear that the only person to + whom he could apply at the present juncture was Keyork Arabian. Had he + been at liberty to act in the most natural and simple way, he would have + applied to the authorities for a sufficient force with which to take + Israel Kafka into custody as a dangerous lunatic. He was well aware, + however, that such a proceeding must lead to an inquiry of a more or less + public nature, of which the consequences might be serious, or at least + extremely annoying, to Unorna. Of the inconvenience to which he might + himself be exposed, he would have taken little account, though his + position would have been as difficult to explain as any situation could + be. The important point was to prevent the possibility of Unorna’s name + being connected with an open scandal. Every present circumstance in the + case was directly or indirectly the result of Unorna’s unreasoning passion + for himself, and it was clearly his duty, as a man of honour, to shield + her from the consequences of her own acts, as far as lay in his power. + </p> + <p> + He did not indeed believe literally all that she had told him in her mad + confession. Much of that, he was convinced, was but a delusion. It might + be possible, indeed, for Unorna to produce forgetfulness of such a dream + as she impressed upon Kafka’s mind in the cemetery that same afternoon, or + even, perhaps, of some real circumstance of merely relative importance in + a man’s life; but the Wanderer could not believe that it was in her power + to destroy the memory of the great passion through which she pretended + that he himself had passed. He smiled at the idea, for he had always + trusted his own senses and his own memory. Unorna’s own mind was clearly + wandering, or else she had invented the story, supposing him credulous + enough to believe it. In either case it did not deserve a moment’s + consideration except as showing to what lengths her foolish and + ill-bestowed love could lead her. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile she was in danger. She had aroused the violent and deadly + resentment of Israel Kafka, a man who, if not positively insane, as Keyork + Arabian had hinted, was by no means in a normal state of mind or body, a + man beside himself with love and anger, and absolutely reckless of life + for the time being, a man who, for the security of all concerned, must be + at least temporarily confined in a place of safety, until a proper + treatment and the lapse of a certain length of time should bring him to + his senses. For the present, he was wholly untractable, being at the mercy + of the most uncontrolled passions and of one of those intermittent phases + of blind fatalism to which the Semitic races are peculiarly subject. + </p> + <p> + There were two reasons which determined the Wanderer to turn to Keyork + Arabian for assistance, besides his wish to see the bad business end + quickly and without publicity. Keyork, so far as the Wanderer was aware, + was himself treating Israel Kafka’s case, and would therefore know what to + do, if any one knew at all. Secondly, it was clear from the message which + Unorna had left with the porter of her own house that she expected Keyork + to come at any moment. He was then in immediate danger of being brought + face to face with Israel Kafka without having received the least warning + of his present condition, and it was impossible to say what the infuriated + youth might do at such a moment. He had been shut up, caught in his own + trap, as it were, for some time, and his anger and madness might + reasonably be supposed to have been aggravated rather than cooled by his + unexpected confinement. It was as likely as not that he would use the + weapon he carried upon the first person with whom he found himself face to + face, especially if that person made any attempt to overpower and disarm + him. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer drove to Keyork Arabian’s house, and leaving his carriage to + wait in case of need, ascended the stairs and knocked at the door. For + some reason or other Keyork would not have a bell in his dwelling, whether + because, like Mahomet, he regarded the bell as the devil’s instrument, or + because he was really nervously sensitive to the sound of one, nobody had + ever discovered. The Wanderer knocked therefore, and Keyork answered the + knock in person. + </p> + <p> + “My dear friend!” he exclaimed in his richest and deepest voice, as he + recognised the Wanderer. “Come in. I am delighted to see you. You will + join me at supper. This is good indeed!” + </p> + <p> + He took his visitor by the arm and led him in. Upon one of the tables + stood a round brass platter covered, so far as it was visible, with Arabic + inscriptions, and highly polished—one of those commonly used all + over the East at the present day for the same purpose. Upon this were + placed at random several silver bowls, mere hemispheres without feet, + remaining in a convenient position by their own weight. One of these + contained snowy rice, in that perfectly dry but tender state dear to the + taste of Orientals, in another there was a savoury, steaming mess of + tender capon, chopped in pieces with spices and aromatic herbs, a third + contained a pure white curd of milk, and a fourth was heaped up with rare + fruits. A flagon of Bohemian glass, clear and bright as rock-crystal, and + covered with very beautiful traceries of black and gold, with a + drinking-vessel of the same design, stood upon the table beside the + platter. + </p> + <p> + “My simple meal,” said Keyork, spreading out his hands, and smiling + pleasantly. “You will share it with me. There will be enough for two.” + </p> + <p> + “So far as I am concerned, I should say so,” the Wanderer answered with a + smile. “But my business is rather urgent.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he saw that there was a third person in the room, and glanced at + Keyork in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I want to speak a few words with you alone,” he said. “I would not + trouble you but——” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least, not in the least, my dear friend!” asseverated Keyork, + motioning him to a chair beside the board. + </p> + <p> + “But we are not alone,” observed the Wanderer, still standing and looking + at the stranger. Keyork saw the glance and understood. He broke into peals + of laughter. + </p> + <p> + “That!” he exclaimed, presently. “That is only the Individual. He will not + disturb us. Pray be seated.” + </p> + <p> + “I assure you that my business is very private—” the Wanderer + objected. + </p> + <p> + “Quite so—of course. But there is nothing to fear. The Individual is + my servant—a most excellent creature who has been with me for many + years. He cooks for me, cleans the specimens, and takes care of me in all + ways. A most reliable man, I assure you.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, if you can answer for his discretion——” + </p> + <p> + The Individual was standing at a little distance from the table observing + the two men intently but respectfully with his keen little black eyes. The + rest of his square, dark face expressed nothing. He had perfectly + straight, jet-black hair which hung evenly all around his head and flat + against his cheeks. He was dressed entirely in a black robe of the nature + of a kaftan, gathered closely round his waist by a black girdle, and + fitting tightly over his stalwart shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “His discretion is beyond all doubt,” Keyork answered, “and for the best + of all reasons. He is totally deaf and dumb and absolutely illiterate. I + brought him years ago in Astrakhan, of a Russian friend. He is very clever + with his fingers. It is he who stole for me the Malayan lady’s head over + there, after she was executed. And now, my dear friend, let us have + supper.” + </p> + <p> + There were neither plates nor knives nor forks upon the table, and at a + sign from Keyork the Individual retired to procure those Western + incumbrances to eating. The Wanderer, acquainted as he had long been with + his host’s eccentricities, showed little surprise, but understood that + whatever he said would not be overheard, any more than if they had been + alone. He hesitated a moment, however, for he had not determined exactly + how far it was necessary to acquaint Keyork with the circumstances, and he + was anxious to avoid all reference to Unorna’s folly in regard to himself. + The Individual returned, bringing, with other things, a drinking-glass for + the Wanderer. Keyork filled it and then filled his own. It was clear that + ascetic practices formed no part of his scheme for the prolongation of + life. As he raised his glass to his lips, his bright eyes twinkled. + </p> + <p> + “To Keyork’s long life and happiness,” he said calmly, and then sipped the + wine. “And now for your story,” he added, brushing the brown drops from + his white moustache with a small damask napkin which the Individual + presented to him and immediately received again, to throw it aside as + unfit for a second use. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly think that we can afford to linger over supper,” the Wanderer + said, noticing Keyork’s coolness with some anxiety. “The case is urgent. + Israel Kafka has lost his head completely. He has sworn to kill Unorna, + and is at the present moment confined in the conservatory in her house.” + </p> + <p> + The effect of the announcement upon Keyork was so extraordinary that the + Wanderer started, not being prepared for any manifestation of what seemed + to be the deepest emotion. The gnome sprang from the table with a cry that + would have been like the roar of a wounded wild beast if it had not + articulated a terrific blasphemy. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna is quite safe,” the Wanderer hastened to say. + </p> + <p> + “Safe—where?” shouted the little man, his hands already on his furs. + The Individual, too, had sprung across the room like a cat and was helping + him. In five seconds Keyork would have been out of the house. + </p> + <p> + “In a convent. I took her there, and saw the gate close behind her.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork dropped his furs and stood still a moment. The Individual, always + unmoved, rearranged the coat and cap neatly in their place, following all + his master’s movements, however, with his small eyes. Then the sage broke + out in a different strain. He flung his arms round the Wanderer’s body and + attempted to embrace him. + </p> + <p> + “You have saved my life!—the curse of the three black angels on you + for not saying so first!” he cried in an agony of ecstasy. “Preserver! + What can I do for you?—Saviour of my existence, how can I repay you! + You shall live forever, as I will; you shall have all my secrets; the gold + spider shall spin her web in your dwelling; the Part of Fortune shall + shine on your path, it shall rain jewels on your roof; and your winter + shall have snows of pearls—you shall—” + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens! Keyork,” interrupted the Wanderer. “Are you mad? What is + the matter with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Mad? The matter? I love you! I worship you! I adore you! You have saved + her life, and you have saved mine; you have almost killed me with fright + and joy in two moments, you have—” + </p> + <p> + “Be sensible, Keyork. Unorna is quite safe, but we must do something about + Kafka and—” + </p> + <p> + The rest of his speech was drowned in another shout from the gnome, ending + in a portentous peal of laughter. He had taken his glass again and was + toasting himself. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The wine seemed to steady him, and he sat down again in his place. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” he said. “Let us eat first. I have an amazing appetite, and Israel + Kafka can wait.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so? Is it safe?” the Wanderer asked. + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly,” returned Keyork, growing quite calm again. “The locks are + very good on those doors. I saw to them myself.” + </p> + <p> + “But some one else—” + </p> + <p> + “There is no some one else,” interrupted the sage sharply. “Only three + persons can enter the house without question—you, I, and Kafka. You + and I are here, and Kafka is there already. When we have eaten we will go + to him, and I flatter myself that the last state of the young man will be + so immeasurably worse than the first, that he will not recognise himself + when I have done with him.” + </p> + <p> + He had helped his friend and began eating. Somewhat reassured the Wanderer + followed his example. Under the circumstances it was as well to take + advantage of the opportunity for refreshment. No one could tell what might + happen before morning. + </p> + <p> + “It just occurs to me,” said Keyork, fixing his keen eyes on his + companion’s face, “that you have told me absolutely nothing, except that + Kafka is mad and that Unorna is safe.” + </p> + <p> + “Those are the most important points,” observed the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. But I am sure that you will not think me indiscreet if I wish + to know a little more. For instance, what was the immediate cause of + Kafka’s extremely theatrical and unreasonable rage? That would interest me + very much. Of course, he is mad, poor boy! But I take delight in following + out the workings of an insane intellect. Now there are no phases of + insanity more curious than those in which the patient is possessed with a + desire to destroy what he loves best. These cases are especially worthy of + study because they happen so often in our day.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer saw that some explanation was necessary and he determined to + give one in as few words as possible. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna and I had strolled into the Jewish Cemetery,” he said. “While we + were talking there, Israel Kafka suddenly came upon us and spoke and acted + very wildly. He is madly in love with her. She became very angry and would + not let me interfere. Then, by way of punishment for his intrusion I + suppose, she hypnotised him and made him believe that he was Simon Abeles, + and brought the whole of the poor boy’s life so vividly before me, as I + listened, that I actually seemed to see the scenes. I was quite unable to + stop her or to move from where I stood, though I was quite awake. But I + realised what was going on and I was disgusted at her cruelty to the + unfortunate man. He fainted at the end, but when he came to himself he + seemed to remember nothing. I took him home and Unorna went away by + herself. Then he questioned me so closely as to what had happened that I + was weak enough to tell him the truth. Of course, as a fervent Hebrew, + which he seems to be, he did not relish the idea of having played the + Christian martyr for Unorna’s amusement, and amidst the graves of his own + people. He there and then impressed me that he intended to take Unorna’s + life without delay, but insisted that I should warn her of her danger, + saying that he would not be a common murderer. Seeing that he was mad and + in earnest I went to her. There was some delay, which proved fortunate, as + it turned out, for we left the conservatory by the small door just as he + was entering from the other end. We locked it behind us, and going round + by the passages locked the other door upon him also, so that he was caught + in a trap. And there he is, unless some one has let him out.” + </p> + <p> + “And then you took Unorna to the convent?” Keyork had listened + attentively. + </p> + <p> + “I took her to the convent, promising to come to her when she should send + for me. Then I saw that I must consult you before doing anything more. It + will not do to make a scandal of the matter.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Keyork thoughtfully. “It will not do.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer had told his story with perfect truth and yet in a way which + entirely concealed the very important part Unorna’s passion for him had + played in the sequence of events. Seeing that Keyork asked no further + questions he felt satisfied that he had accomplished his purpose as he had + intended, and that the sage suspected nothing. He would have been very + much disconcerted had he known that the latter had long been aware of + Unorna’s love, and was quite able to guess at the cause of Kafka’s sudden + appearance and extreme excitement. Indeed, so soon as he had finished the + short narrative, his mind reverted with curiosity to Keyork himself, and + he wondered what the little man had meant by his amazing outburst of + gratitude on hearing of Unorna’s safety. Perhaps he loved her. More + impossible things than that had occurred in the Wanderer’s experience. Or, + possibly, he had an object to gain in exaggerating his thankfulness to + Unorna’s preserver. He knew that Keyork rarely did anything without an + object, and that, although he was occasionally very odd and excitable, he + was always in reality perfectly well aware of what he was doing. He was + roused from his speculations by Keyork’s voice. + </p> + <p> + “There will be no difficulty in securing Kafka,” he said. “The real + question is, what shall we do with him? He is very much in the way at + present, and he must be disposed of at once, or we shall have more + trouble. How infinitely more to the purpose it would have been if he had + wisely determined to cut his own throat instead of Unorna’s! But young men + are so thoughtless!” + </p> + <p> + “I will only say one thing,” said the Wanderer, “and then I will leave the + direction to you. The poor fellow has been driven mad by Unorna’s caprice + and cruelty. I am determined that he shall not be made to suffer + gratuitously anything more.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think that Unorna was intentionally cruel to him?” inquired + Keyork. “I can hardly believe that. She has not a cruel nature.” + </p> + <p> + “You would have changed your mind, if you had seen her this afternoon. But + that is not the question. I will not allow him to be ill-treated.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! of course not!” Keyork answered with eager assent. “But of course + you will understand that we have to deal with a dangerous lunatic, and + that it may be necessary to use whatever means are most sure and certain.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not quarrel with your means,” the Wanderer said quietly, + “provided that there is no unnecessary brutality. If I see anything of the + kind I will take the matter into my own hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, certainly!” said the other, eyeing with curiosity the man who + spoke so confidently of taking out of Keyork Arabian’s grasp whatever had + once found its way into it. + </p> + <p> + “He shall be treated with every consideration,” the Wanderer continued. + “Of course, if he is very violent, we shall have to use force.” + </p> + <p> + “We will take the Individual with us,” said Keyork. “He is very strong. He + has a trick of breaking silver florins with his thumbs and fingers which + is very pretty.” + </p> + <p> + “I fancy that you and I could manage him. It is a pity that neither of us + has the faculty of hypnotising. This would be the proper time to use it.” + </p> + <p> + “A great pity. But there are other things that will do almost as well.” + </p> + <p> + “What, for instance?” + </p> + <p> + “A little ether in a sponge. He would only struggle a moment, and then he + would be much more really unconscious than if he had been hypnotised.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it quite painless?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite, if you give it gradually. If you hurry the thing, the man feels as + though he were being smothered. But the real difficulty is what to do with + him, as I said before.” + </p> + <p> + “Take him home and get a keeper from the lunatic asylum,” the Wanderer + suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Then comes the whole question of an inquiry into his sanity,” objected + Keyork. “We come back to the starting-point. We must settle all this + before we go to him. A lunatic asylum is not a club in this country. There + is a great deal of formality connected with getting into it, and a great + deal more connected with getting out. Now, I could not get a keeper for + Kafka without going to the physician in charge and making a statement, and + demanding an examination, and all the rest of it. And Israel Kafka is a + person of importance among his own people. He comes of great Jews in + Moravia, and we should have the whole Jews’ quarter—which means + nearly the whole of Prague, in a broad sense—about our ears in + twenty-four hours. No, no, my friend. To avoid an enormous scandal things + must be done very quietly indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot see anything to be done, then, unless we bring him here,” said + the Wanderer, falling into the trap from sheer perplexity. Everything that + Keyork had said was undeniably true. + </p> + <p> + “He would be a nuisance in the house,” answered the sage, not wishing, for + reasons of his own, to appear to accept the proposition too eagerly. “Not + but that the Individual would make a capital keeper. He is as gentle as he + is strong, and as quick as a tiger-cat.” + </p> + <p> + “So far as that is concerned,” said the Wanderer coolly, “I could take + charge of him myself, if you did not object to my presence.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not trust me,” said the other, with a sharp glance. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Keyork, we are old acquaintances, and I trust you implicitly to + do whatever you have predetermined to do for the advantage of your + studies, unless some one interferes with you. You have no more respect for + human life or sympathy for human suffering than you have belief in the + importance of anything not conducive to your researches. I am perfectly + well aware that if you thought you could learn something by making + experiments upon the body of Israel Kafka, you would not scruple to make a + living mummy of him, you would do it without the least hesitation. I + should expect to find him with his head cut off, living by means of a + glass heart and thinking through a rabbit’s brain. That is the reason why + I do not trust you. Before I could deliver him into your hands, I would + require of you a contract to give him back unhurt—and a contract of + the kind you would consider binding.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork Arabian wondered whether Unorna, in the recklessness of her + passion, had betrayed the nature of the experiment they had been making + together, but a moment’s reflection told him that he need have no anxiety + on this score. He understood the Wanderer’s nature too well to suspect him + of wishing to convey a covert hint instead of saying openly what was in + his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Taste one of these oranges,” he said, by way of avoiding an answer. “they + have just come from Smyrna.” The Wanderer smiled as he took the proffered + fruit. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork Arabian saw no immediate escape. + </p> + <p> + “My dear friend!” he exclaimed with alacrity. “If you are really in + earnest, I am as really delighted. So far from taking your distrust ill, I + regard it as a providentially fortunate bias of your mind, since it will + keep us together for a time. You will be the only loser. You see how + simply I live.” + </p> + <p> + “There is a simplicity which is the extremest development of refined + sybarism,” the Wanderer said, smiling again. “I know your simplicity of + old. It consists of getting precisely what you want, and in producing + local earthquakes and revolutions when you cannot get it. Moreover you + want what is good—to the taste, at least.” + </p> + <p> + “There is something in that,” answered Keyork with a merry twinkle in his + eye. “Happiness is a matter of speculation. Comfort is a matter of fact. + Most men are uncomfortable, because they do not know what they want. If + you have tastes, study them. If you have intelligence, apply it to the + question of gratifying your tastes. Consult yourself first—and + nobody second. Consider this orange—I am fond of oranges and they + suit my constitution admirably. Consider the difficulty I have had in + procuring it at this time of year—not in the wretched condition in + which they are sold in the market, plucked half green in Spain or Italy + and ripened on the voyage in the fermenting heat of the decay of those + which are already rotten—but ripe from the tree and brought to me + directly by the shortest and quickest means possible. Consider this + orange, I say. Do you vainly imagine that if I had but two or three like + it I would offer you one?” + </p> + <p> + “I would not be so rash as to imagine anything of the kind, my dear + Keyork. I know you very well. If you offer me one it is because you have a + week’s supply at least.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” said Keyork. “And a few to spare, because they will only keep a + week as I like them, and because I would no more run the risk of missing + my orange a week hence for your sake, than I would deprive myself of it + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “And that is your simplicity.” + </p> + <p> + “That is my simplicity. It is indeed a perfectly simple matter, for there + is only one idea in it, and in all things I carry that one idea out to its + ultimate expression. That one idea, as you very well put it, is to have + exactly what I want in this world.” + </p> + <p> + “And will you be getting what you want in having me quartered upon you as + poor Israel Kafka’s keeper?” asked the Wanderer, with an expression of + amusement. But Keyork did not wince. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely,” he answered without hesitation. “In the first place you will + relieve me of much trouble and responsibility, and the Individual will not + be so often called away from his manifold and important household duties. + In the second place I shall have a most agreeable and intelligent + companion with whom I can talk as long as I like. In the third place I + shall undoubtedly satisfy my curiosity.” + </p> + <p> + “In what respect, if you please?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall discover the secret of your wonderful interest in Israel Kafka’s + welfare. I always like to follow the workings of a brain essentially + different from my own, philanthropic, of course. How could it be anything + else? Philanthropy deals with a class of ideas wholly unfamiliar to me. I + shall learn much in your society.” + </p> + <p> + “And possibly I shall learn something from you,” the Wanderer answered. + “There is certainly much to be learnt. I wonder whether your ideas upon + all subjects are as simple as those you hold about oranges.” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. I make no secret of my principles. Everything I do is for my + own advantage.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” observed the Wanderer, “the advantage of Unorna’s life must be an + enormous one to you, to judge by your satisfaction at her safety.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork stared at him a moment and then laughed, but less heartily and + loudly than usual his companion fancied. + </p> + <p> + “Very good!” he exclaimed. “Excellent! I fell into the trap like a rat + into a basin of water. You are indeed an interesting companion, my dear + friend—so interesting that I hope we shall never part again.” There + was a rather savage intonation in the last words. + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other intently, neither wincing nor lowering his gaze. + The Wanderer saw that he had touched upon Keyork’s greatest and most + important secret, and Keyork fancied that his companion knew more than he + actually did. But nothing further was said, for Keyork was far too wise to + enter into explanation, and the Wanderer knew well enough that if he was + to learn anything it must be by observation and not by questioning. Keyork + filled both glasses in silence and both men drank before speaking again. + </p> + <p> + “And now that we have refreshed ourselves,” he said, returning naturally + to his former manner, “we will go and find Israel Kafka. It is as well + that we should have given him a little time to himself. He may have + returned to his senses without any trouble on our part. Shall we take the + Individual?” + </p> + <p> + “As you please,” the Wanderer answered indifferently as he rose from his + place. + </p> + <p> + “It is very well for you not to care,” observed Keyork. “You are big and + strong and young, whereas I am a little man and very old at that. I shall + take him for my own protection. I confess that I value my life very + highly. It is a part of that simplicity which you despise. That devil of a + Jew is armed, you say?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw something like a knife in his hand, as we shut him in,” said the + Wanderer with the same indifference as before. + </p> + <p> + “Then I will take the Individual,” Keyork answered promptly. “A man’s bare + hands must be strong and clever to take a man’s life in a scuffle, and few + men can use a pistol to any purpose. But a knife is a weapon of precision. + I will take the Individual, decidedly.” + </p> + <p> + He made a few rapid signs, and the Individual disappeared, coming back a + moment later attired in a long coat not unlike his master’s except that + the fur of the great collar was of common fox instead of being of sable. + Keyork drew his peaked cape comfortably down over the tips of his ears. + </p> + <p> + “The ether!” he exclaimed. “How forgetful I am growing! Your charming + conversation had almost made me forget the object of our visit!” + </p> + <p> + He went back and took the various things he needed. Then the three men + went out together. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII + </h2> + <p> + More than an hour had elapsed since the Wanderer and Unorna had finally + turned the key upon Israel Kafka, leaving him to his own reflections. + During the first moments he made desperate efforts to get out of the + conservatory, throwing himself with all his weight and strength against + the doors and thrusting the point of his long knife into the small + apertures of the locks. Then, seeing that every attempt was fruitless, he + desisted and sat down, in a state of complete exhaustion. A reaction began + to set in after the furious excitement of the afternoon, and he felt all + at once that it would be impossible for him to make another step or raise + his arm to strike. A man less sound originally in bodily constitution + would have broken down sooner, and it was a proof of Israel Kafka’s + extraordinary vigour and energy that he did not lose his senses in a + delirious fever at the moment when he felt that his strength could bear no + further strain. + </p> + <p> + But his thoughts, such as they were, did not lack clearness. He saw that + his opportunity was gone, and he began to think of the future, wondering + what would take place next. Assuredly when he had come to Unorna’s house + with the fixed determination to take her life, the last thing that he had + expected had been to be taken prisoner and left to his own meditations. It + was clear that the Wanderer’s warning had been conveyed without loss of + time and had saved Unorna from her immediate fate. Nevertheless, he did + not regret having given her the opportunity of defending herself. He had + not meant that there should be any secret about the deed, for he was ready + to sacrifice his own life in executing it. + </p> + <p> + Yet he was not altogether brave. He had neither Unorna’s innate + indifference to physical danger, nor the Wanderer’s calm superiority to + fear. He would not have made a good soldier, and he could not have faced + another man’s pistol at fifteen paces without experiencing a mental and + bodily commotion not unlike terror, which he might or might not have + concealed from others, but which would in any case have been painfully + apparent to himself. + </p> + <p> + It is a noticeable fact in human nature that a man of even ordinary + courage will at any time, when under excitement, risk his life rather than + his happiness. Moreover, an immense number of individuals, naturally far + from brave, destroy their own lives yearly in the moment when all chances + of happiness are temporarily eclipsed. 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. + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka’s case was by no means a rare one. The fact of having been + made to play a part which to him seemed at once blasphemous and ignoble + had indeed turned the scale, but was not the motive. In all things, the + final touch which destroys the balance is commonly mistaken for the force + which has originally produced a state of unstable equilibrium, whereas + there is very often no connection between the one and the other. The + Moravian himself believed that the sacrifice of Unorna, and of himself + afterwards, was to be an expiation of the outrage Unorna had put upon his + faith in his own person. He had merely seized upon the first excuse which + presented itself for ending all, because he was in reality past hope. + </p> + <p> + We have, as yet, no absolute test of sanity, as we have of fever in the + body and of many other unnatural conditions of the human organism. The + only approximately accurate judgments in the patient’s favour are obtained + from examinations into the relative consecutiveness and consistency of + thought in the individual examined, when the whole tendency of that + thought is towards an end conceivably approvable by a majority of men. A + great many philosophers and thinkers have accordingly been pronounced + insane at one period of history and have been held up as models of sanity + at another. The most immediately destructive consequences of individual + reasoning on a limited scale, murder and suicide, have been successively + regarded as heroic acts, as criminal deeds, and as the deplorable but + explicable actions of irresponsible beings in consecutive ages of + violence, strict law and humanitarianism. It seems to be believed that the + combination of murder and suicide is more commonly observed under the last + of the three reigns than it was under the first; it was undoubtedly least + common under the second. In other words it appears probable that the + practice of considering certain crimes as the result of insanity has a + tendency to make those crimes increase in number, as they undoubtedly + increase in barbarity, from year to year. Meanwhile, however, no definite + conclusion has been reached as to the state of mind of a man who murders + the woman he loves and then ends his own life. + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka may therefore be regarded as mad or sane. In favour of the + theory of his madness the total uselessness of the deed he contemplated + may be adduced; on the other hand the extremely consecutive and consistent + nature of his thoughts and actions gives evidence of his sanity. + </p> + <p> + When he found himself a prisoner in Unorna’s conservatory, his intention + underwent no change though his body was broken with fatigue and his nerves + with the long continued strain of a terrible excitement. His determination + was as cool and as fixed as ever. + </p> + <p> + These somewhat dry reflections seem necessary to the understanding of what + followed. + </p> + <p> + The key turned in the lock and the bolt was slipped back. Instantly Israel + Kafka’s energy returned. He rose quickly and hid himself in the shrubbery, + in a position from which he could observe the door. He had seen Unorna + enter before and had of course heard her cry before the Wanderer had + carried her away, and he had believed that she had wished to face him, + either with the intention of throwing herself upon his mercy or in the + hope of dominating him with her eyes as she had so often done before. Of + course, he had no means of knowing that she had already left the house. He + imagined that the Wanderer had gone and that Unorna, being freed from his + restraint, was about to enter the place again. The door opened and the + three men came in. Kafka’s first idea, on seeing himself disappointed, was + that they had come to take him into custody, and his first impulse was to + elude them. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer entered first, tall, stately, indifferent, the quick glance + of his deep eyes alone betraying that he was looking for some one. Next + came Keyork Arabian, muffled still in his furs, turning his head sharply + from side to side in the midst of the sable collar that half buried it, + and evidently nervous. Last of all the Individual, who had divested + himself of his outer coat and whose powerful proportions did not escape + Israel Kafka’s observation. It was clear that if there were a struggle it + could have but one issue. Kafka would be overpowered. His knowledge of the + disposition of the plants and trees offered him a hope of escape. The + three men had entered the conservatory, and if he could reach the door + before they noticed him, he could lock it upon them, as it had been locked + upon himself. He could hear their footsteps on the marble pavement very + near him, and he caught glimpses of their moving figures through the thick + leaves. + </p> + <p> + With cat-like tread he glided along in the shadows of the foliage until he + could see the door. From the entrance an open way was left in a straight + line towards the middle of the hall, down which his pursuers were still + slowly walking. He must cross an open space in the line of their vision in + order to get out, and he calculated the distance to be traversed, while + listening to their movements, until he felt sure that they were so far + from the door as not to be able to reach him. Then he made his attempt, + darting across the smooth pavement with his knife in his hand. There was + no one in the way. + </p> + <p> + Then came a violent shock and he was held as in a vice, so tightly that he + could not believe himself in the arms of a human being. His captors had + anticipated that he would try to escape and has posted the Individual in + the shadow of a tree near the doorway. The deaf and dumb man had received + his instructions by means of a couple of quick signs, and not a whisper + had betrayed the measures taken. Kafka struggled desperately, for he was + within three feet of the door and still believed an escape possible. He + tried to strike behind him with his sharp blade of which a single touch + would have severed muscle and sinew like silk threads, but the bear-like + embrace seemed to confine his whole body, his arms and even his wrists. + Then he felt himself turned round and the Individual pushed him towards + the middle of the hall. The Wanderer was advancing quickly, and Keyork + Arabian, who had again fallen behind, peered at Kafka from behind his tall + companion with a grotesque expression in which bodily fear and a desire to + laugh at the captive were strongly intermingled. + </p> + <p> + “It is of no use to resist,” said the Wanderer quietly. “We are too strong + for you.” + </p> + <p> + Kafka said nothing, but his bloodshot eyes glared up angrily at the tall + man’s face. + </p> + <p> + “He looks dangerous, and he still has that thing in his hand,” said Keyork + Arabian. “I think I will give him ether at once while the Individual holds + him. Perhaps you could do it.” + </p> + <p> + “You will do nothing of the kind,” the Wanderer answered. “What a coward + you are, Keyork!” he added contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + Going to Kafka’s side he took him by the wrist of the hand which held the + knife. But Kafka still clutched it firmly. + </p> + <p> + “You had better give it up,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Kafka shook his head angrily and set his teeth, but the Wanderer unclasped + the fingers by quiet force and took the weapon away. He handed it to + Keyork, who breathed a sigh of relief as he looked at it, smiling at last, + and holding his head on one side. + </p> + <p> + “To think,” he soliloquised, “that an inch of such pretty stuff as + Damascus steel, in the right place, can draw the sharp red line between + time and eternity!” + </p> + <p> + He put the knife tenderly away in the bosom of his fur coat. His whole + manner changed and he came forward with his usual, almost jaunty step. + </p> + <p> + “And now that you are quite harmless, my dear friend,” he said, addressing + Israel Kafka, “I hope to make you see the folly of your ways. I suppose + you know that you are quite mad and that the proper place for you is a + lunatic asylum.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer laid his hand heavily upon Keyork’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Remember what I told you,” he said sternly. “He will be reasonable now. + Make your fellow understand that he is to let him go.” + </p> + <p> + “Better shut the door first,” said Keyork, suiting the action to the word + and then coming back. + </p> + <p> + “Make haste!” said the Wanderer with impatience. “The man is ill, whether + he is mad or not.” + </p> + <p> + Released at last from the Individual’s iron grip, Israel Kafka staggered a + little. The Wanderer took him kindly by the arm, supporting his steps and + leading him to a seat. Kafka glanced suspiciously at him and at the other + two, but seemed unable to make any further effort and sank back with a low + groan. His face grew pale and his eyelids drooped. + </p> + <p> + “Get some wine—something to restore him,” the Wanderer said. + </p> + <p> + Keyork looked at the Moravian critically for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he assented, “he is more exhausted than I thought. He is not very + dangerous now.” Then he went in search of what was needed. The Individual + retired to a distance and stood looking on with folded arms. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear me?” asked the Wanderer, speaking gently. “Do you understand + what I say?” + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka nodded, but said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “You are very ill. This foolish idea that has possessed you this evening + comes from your illness. Will you go away quietly with me, and make no + resistance, so that I may take care of you?” + </p> + <p> + This time there was not even a movement of the head. + </p> + <p> + “This is merely a passing thing,” the Wanderer continued in a tone of + quiet encouragement. “You have been feverish and excited, and I daresay + you have been too much alone of late. If you will come with me, I will + take care of you, and see that all is well.” + </p> + <p> + “I told you that I would kill her—and I will,” said Israel Kafka, + faintly but distinctly. + </p> + <p> + “You will not kill her,” answered his companion. “I will prevent you from + attempting it, and as soon as you are well you will see the absurdity of + the idea.” + </p> + <p> + Israel Kafka made an impatient gesture, feeble but sufficiently + expressive. Then all at once his limbs relaxed, and his head fell forward + upon his breast. The Wanderer started to his feet and moved him into a + more comfortable position. There were one or two quickly drawn breaths and + the breathing ceased altogether. At that moment Keyork returned carrying a + bottle of wine and a glass. + </p> + <p> + “It is too late,” said the Wanderer gravely. “Israel Kafka is dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Dead!” exclaimed Keyork, setting down what he had in his hands, and + hastening to examine the unfortunate man’s face and eyes. “The Individual + squeezed him a little too hard, I suppose,” he added, applying his ear to + the region of the heart, and moving his head about a little as he did so. + </p> + <p> + “I hate men who make statements about things they do not understand,” he + said viciously, looking up as he spoke, but without any expression of + satisfaction. “He is no more dead than you are—the greater pity! It + would have been so convenient. It is nothing but a slight syncope—probably + the result of poorness of blood and an over-excited state of the nervous + system. Help me to lay him on his back. You ought to have known that was + the only thing to do. Put a cushion under his head. There—he will + come to himself presently, but he will not be so dangerous as he was.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer drew a long breath of relief as he helped Keyork to make the + necessary arrangements. + </p> + <p> + “How long will it last?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “How can I tell?” returned Keyork sharply. “Have you never heard of a + syncope? Do you know nothing about anything?” + </p> + <p> + He had produced a bottle containing some very strong salt and was applying + it to the unconscious man’s nostrils. The Wanderer paid no attention to + his irritable temper and stood looking on. A long time passed and yet the + Moravian gave no further signs of consciousness. + </p> + <p> + “It is clear that he cannot stay here if he is to be seriously ill,” the + Wanderer said. + </p> + <p> + “And it is equally clear that he cannot be taken away,” retorted Keyork. + </p> + <p> + “You seem to be in a very combative frame of mind,” the other answered, + sitting down and looking at his watch. “If you cannot revive him, he ought + to be brought to more comfortable quarters for the night.” + </p> + <p> + “In his present condition—of course,” said Keyork with a sneer. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he would be in danger on the way?” + </p> + <p> + “I never think—I know,” snarled the sage. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer showed a slight surprise at the roughness of the answer, but + said nothing, contenting himself with watching the proceedings keenly. He + was by no means past suspecting that Keyork might apply some medicine the + very reverse of reviving, if left to himself. For the present there seemed + to be no danger. The pungent smell of salts of ammonia pervaded the place; + but the Wanderer knew that Keyork had a bottle of ether in the pocket of + his coat, and he rightly judged that a very little of that would put an + end to the life that was hanging in the balance. Nearly half an hour + passed before either spoke again. Then Keyork looked up. This time his + voice was smooth and persuasive. His irritability had all disappeared. + </p> + <p> + “You must be tired,” he said. “Why do you not go home? Or else go to my + house and wait for us. The Individual and I can take care of him very + well.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” replied the Wanderer with a slight smile. “I am not in the least + tired, and I prefer to stay where I am. I am not hindering you, I + believe.” + </p> + <p> + Now Keyork Arabian had no interest in allowing Israel Kafka to die, though + the Wanderer half believed that he had, though he could not imagine what + that interest might be. The little man was in reality on the track of an + experiment, and he knew very well that so long as he was so narrowly + watched it would be quite impossible to try it. In spite of his sneers at + his companion’s ignorance, he was aware that the latter knew enough to + make every effort conducive to reviving the patient if left to himself, + and he submitted with a bad grace to doing what he would rather have left + undone. + </p> + <p> + He would have wished to let the flame of life sink yet lower before making + it brighten again, for he had with him a preparation which he had been + carrying in his pocket for months in the hope of accidentally happening + upon just such a case as the present, and he longed for an opportunity of + trying it. But to give it a fair trial he wished to apply it at the + precise point when, according to all previous experience, the moment of + death was past—the moment when the physician usually puts his watch + in his pocket and looks about for his hat. Possibly if Kafka, being left + without any assistance, had shown no further signs of sinking, Keyork + would have helped him to sink a little lower. To produce this much-desired + result, he had nothing with him but the ether, of which the Wanderer of + course knew the smell and understood the effects. He saw the chances of + making the experiment upon an excellent subject slipping away before his + eyes and he grew more angry in proportion as they seemed farther removed. + </p> + <p> + “He is a little better,” he said discontentedly, after another long + interval of silence. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer bent down and saw that the eyelids were quivering and that + the face was less deathly livid than before. Then the eyes opened and + stared dreamily at the glass roof. + </p> + <p> + “And I will,” said the faint, weak voice, as though completing a sentence. + </p> + <p> + “I think not,” observed Keyork, as though answering. “The people who do + what they mean to do are not always talking about will.” But Kafka had + closed his eyes again. + </p> + <p> + This time, however, his breathing was apparent and he was evidently + returning to a conscious state. The Wanderer arranged the pillow more + comfortably under his head and covered him with his own furs. Keyork, + relinquishing all hopes of trying the experiment at present, poured a + little wine down his throat. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think we can take him home to-night?” inquired the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + He was prepared for an ill-tempered answer, but not for what Keyork + actually said. The little man got upon his feet and coolly buttoned his + coat. + </p> + <p> + “I think not,” he replied. “There is nothing to be done but to keep him + quiet. Good-night. I am tired of all this nonsense, and I do not mean to + lose my night’s rest for all the Israels in Jewry—or all the Jews in + Israel. You can stay with him if you please.” + </p> + <p> + Thereupon he turned on his heel, making a sign to the Individual, who had + not moved from his place since Kafka had lost consciousness, and who + immediately followed his master. + </p> + <p> + “I will come and see to him in the morning,” said Keyork carelessly, as he + disappeared from sight among the plants. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer’s long-suffering temper was roused and his eyes gleamed + angrily as he looked after the departing sage. + </p> + <p> + “Hound!” he exclaimed in a very audible voice. + </p> + <p> + He hardly knew why he was so angry with the man who called himself his + friend. Keyork had behaved no worse than an ordinary doctor, for he had + stayed until the danger was over and had promised to come again in the + morning. It was his cool way of disclaiming all further responsibility and + of avoiding all further trouble which elicited the Wanderer’s resentment, + as well as the unpleasant position in which the latter found himself. + </p> + <p> + He had certainly not anticipated being left in charge of a sick man—and + that sick man Israel Kafka—in Unorna’s house for the whole night, + and he did not enjoy the prospect. The mere detail of having to give some + explanation to the servants, who would doubtless come before long to + extinguish the lights, was far from pleasant. Moreover, though Keyork had + declared the patient out of danger, there seemed no absolute certainty + that a relapse would not take place before morning, and Kafka might + actually lay in the certainty—delusive enough—that Unorna + could not return until the following day. + </p> + <p> + He did not dare to take upon himself the responsibility of calling some + one to help him and of removing the Moravian in his present condition. The + man was still very weak and either altogether unconscious, or sleeping the + sleep of exhaustion. The weather, too, was bitterly cold, and the exposure + to the night air might bring on immediate and fatal consequences. He + examined Kafka closely and came to the conclusion that he was really + asleep. To wake him would be absolutely cruel as well as dangerous. He + looked kindly at the weary face and then began to walk up and down between + the plants, coming back at the end of every turn to look again and assure + himself that no change had taken place. + </p> + <p> + After some time he began to wonder at the total silence in the house, or, + rather, the silence which was carefully provided for in the conservatory + impressed itself upon him for the first time. It was strange, he thought, + that no one came to put out the lamps. He thought of looking out into the + vestibule beyond, to see whether the lights were still burning there. To + his great surprise he found the door securely fastened. Keyork Arabian had + undoubtedly locked him in, and to all intents and purposes he was a + prisoner. He suspected some treachery, but in this he was mistaken. + Keyork’s sole intention had been to insure himself from being disturbed in + the course of the night by a second visit from the Wanderer, accompanied + perhaps by Kafka. It immediately occurred to the Wanderer that he could + ring the bell. But disliking the idea of entering into an explanation, he + reserved that for an emergency. Had he attempted it he would have been + still further surprised to find that it would have produced no result. In + going through the vestibule Keyork had used Kafka’s sharp knife to cut one + of the slender silk-covered copper wires which passed out of the + conservatory on that side, communicating with the servants’ quarters. He + was perfectly acquainted with all such details of the household + arrangement. + </p> + <p> + Keyork’s precautions were in reality useless and they merely illustrate + the ruthlessly selfish character of the man. The Wanderer would in all + probability neither have attempted to leave the house with Kafka that + night, nor to communicate with the servants, even if he had been left free + to do either, and if no one had disturbed him in his watch. He was + disturbed, however, and very unexpectedly, between half-past one and a + quarter to two in the morning. + </p> + <p> + More than once he had remained seated for a long time, but his eyes were + growing heavy and he roused himself and walked again until he was + thoroughly awake. It was certainly true that of all the persons concerned + in the events of the day, except Keyork, he had undergone the least bodily + fatigue and mental excitement. But even to the strongest, the hours of the + night spent in watching by a sick person seem endless when there is no + really strong personal anxiety felt. 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. His position towards Israel Kafka was altogether unexpected, and what + he felt was no more than pity for his sufferings and indignation against + those who had caused them. + </p> + <p> + When the door was suddenly opened, he stood still in his walk and faced + it. He hardly recognised Unorna in the pale, dishevelled woman with + circled eyes who came towards him under the bright light. She, too, stood + still when she saw him, starting suddenly. She seemed to be very cold, for + she shivered visibly and her teeth were chattering. Without the least + protection against the bitter night air she had fled bareheaded and + cloakless through the open streets from the church to her home. + </p> + <p> + “You here!” she exclaimed, in an unsteady voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am still here,” answered the Wanderer. “But I hardly expected you + to come back to-night,” he added. + </p> + <p> + At the sound of his voice a strange smile came into her wan face and + lingered there. She had not thought to hear him speak again, kindly or + unkindly, for she had come with the fixed determination to meet her death + at Israel Kafka’s hands and to let that be the end. Amid all the wild + thoughts that had whirled through her brain as she ran home in the dark, + that one had not once changed. + </p> + <p> + “And Israel Kafka?” she asked, almost timidly. + </p> + <p> + “He is there—asleep.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He is very ill,” she said, almost under her breath. “Tell me what has + happened.” + </p> + <p> + It was like a dream to her. The tremendous excitement of what had happened + in the convent had cut her off from the realisation of what had gone + before. Strange as it seemed even to herself, she scarcely comprehended + the intimate connection between the two series of events, nor the bearing + of the one upon the other. Israel Kafka sank into such insignificance that + she had began to pity his condition, and it was hard to remember that the + Wanderer was the man whom Beatrice had loved, and of whom she had spoken + so long and so passionately. She found, too, an unreasoned joy in being + once more by his side, no matter under what conditions. In that happiness, + one-sided and unshared, she forgot everything else. Beatrice had been a + dream, a vision, an unreal shadow. Kafka was nothing to her, and yet + everything, as she suddenly saw, since he constituted a bond between her + and the man she loved, which would at least outlast the night. In a flash + she saw that the Wanderer would not leave her alone with the Moravian, and + that the latter could not be moved for the present without danger to his + life. They must watch together by his side through the long hours. Who + could tell what the night would bring forth? + </p> + <p> + As the new development of the situation presented itself, the colour rose + again to her cheeks. The warmth of the conservatory, too, dispelled the + chill that had penetrated her, and the familiar odours of the flowers + contributed to restore the lost equilibrium of mind and body. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what has happened,” she said again. + </p> + <p> + In the fewest possible words the Wanderer told her all that had occurred + up to the moment of her coming, not omitting the detail of the locked + door. + </p> + <p> + “And for what reason do you suppose that Keyork shut you in?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” the Wanderer answered. “I do not trust him, though I have + known him so long.” + </p> + <p> + “It was mere selfishness,” said Unorna scornfully. “I know him better than + you do. He was afraid you would disturb him again in the night.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer said nothing, wondering how any man could be so elaborately + thoughtful of his own comfort. + </p> + <p> + “There is no help for it,” Unorna said, “we must watch together.” + </p> + <p> + “I see no other way,” the Wanderer answered indifferently. + </p> + <p> + He placed a chair for her to sit in, within sight of the sick man, and + took one himself, wondering at the strange situation, and yet not caring + to ask Unorna what had brought her back, so breathless and so pale, at + such an hour. He believed, not unnaturally, that her motive had been + either anxiety for himself, or the irresistible longing to see him again, + coupled with a distrust of his promise to return when she should send for + him. It seemed best to accept her appearance without question, lest an + inquiry should lead to a fresh outburst, more unbearable now than before, + since there seemed to be no way of leaving the house without exposing her + to danger. A nervous man like Israel Kafka might spring up at any moment + and do something dangerous. + </p> + <p> + After they had taken their places the silence lasted some moments. + </p> + <p> + “You did not believe all I told you this evening?” said Unorna softly, + with an interrogation in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “No,” the Wanderer answered quietly, “I did not.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad of that—I was mad when I spoke.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII + </h2> + <p> + The Wanderer was not inclined to deny the statement which accorded well + enough with his total disbelief of the story Unorna had told him. But he + did not answer her immediately, for he found himself in a very difficult + position. He would neither do anything in the least discourteous beyond + admitting frankly that he had not believed her, when she taxed him with + incredulity; nor would say anything which might serve her as a + stepping-stone for returning to the original situation. He was, perhaps, + inclined to blame her somewhat less than at first, and her changed manner + in speaking of Kafka somewhat encouraged his leniency. A man will forgive, + or at least condone, much harshness to others when he is thoroughly aware + that it has been exhibited out of love for himself; and a man of the + Wanderer’s character cannot help feeling a sort of chivalrous respect and + delicate forbearance for a woman who loves him sincerely, though against + his will, while he will avoid with an almost exaggerated prudence the + least word which could be interpreted as an expression of reciprocal + tenderness. He runs the risk, at the same time, of being thrust into the + ridiculous position of the man who, though young, assumes the manner and + speech of age and delivers himself of grave, paternal advice to one who + looks upon him, not as an elder, but as her chosen mate. + </p> + <p> + After Unorna had spoken, the Wanderer, therefore, held his peace. He + inclined his head a little, as though to admit that her plea of madness + might not be wholly imaginary; but he said nothing. He sat looking at + Israel Kafka’s sleeping face and outstretched form, inwardly wondering + whether the hours would seem very long before Keyork Arabian returned in + the morning and put an end to the situation. Unorna waited in vain for + some response, and at last spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, “I was mad. You cannot understand it. I daresay you + cannot even understand how I can speak of it now, and yet I cannot help + speaking.” + </p> + <p> + Her manner was more natural and quiet than it had been since the moment of + Kafka’s appearance in the cemetery. The Wanderer noticed the tone. There + was an element of real sadness in it, with a leaven of bitter + disappointment and a savour of heartfelt contrition. She was in earnest + now, as she had been before, but in a different way. He could hardly + refuse her a word in answer. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna,” he said gravely, “remember that you are leaving me no choice. I + cannot leave you alone with that poor fellow, and so, whatever you wish to + say, I must hear. But it would be much better to say nothing about what + has happened this evening—better for you and for me. Neither men nor + women always mean exactly what they say. We are not angels. Is it not best + to let the matter drop?” + </p> + <p> + Unorna listened quietly, her eyes upon his face. + </p> + <p> + “You are not so hard with me as you were,” she said thoughtfully, after a + moment’s hesitation, and there was a touch of gratitude in her voice. As + she felt the dim possibility of a return to her former relations of + friendship with him, Beatrice and the scene in the church seemed to be + very far away. Again the Wanderer found it difficult to answer. + </p> + <p> + “It is not for me to be hard, as you call it,” he said quietly. There was + a scarcely perceptible smile on his face, brought there not by any feeling + of satisfaction, but by his sense of his own almost laughable perplexity. + He saw that he was very near being driven to the ridiculous necessity of + giving her some advice of the paternal kind. “It is not for me, either, to + talk to you of what you have done to Israel Kafka to-day,” he confessed. + “Do not oblige me to say anything about it. It will be much safer. You + know it all better than I do, and you understand your own reasons, as I + never can. If you are sorry for him now, so much the better—you will + not hurt him any more if you can help it. If you will say that much about + the future I shall be very glad, I confess.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think that there is anything which I will not do—if you ask + it?” Unorna asked very earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” the Wanderer answered, trying to seem to ignore the + meaning conveyed by her tone. “Some things are harder to do than others——” + </p> + <p> + “Ask me the hardest!” she exclaimed. “Ask me to tell you the whole truth——” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said firmly, in the hope of checking an outburst of passionate + speech. “What you have thought and done is no concern of mine. If you have + done anything that you are sorry for, without my knowledge, I do not wish + to know of it. I have seen you do many good and kind acts during the last + month, and I would rather leave those memories untouched as far as + possible. You may have had an object in doing them which in itself was + bad. I do not care. The deeds were good. Take credit for them and let me + give you credit for them. That will do neither of us any harm.” + </p> + <p> + “I could tell you—if you would let me—” + </p> + <p> + “Do not tell me,” he interrupted. “I repeat that I do not wish to know. + The one thing that I have seen is bad enough. Let that be all. Do you not + see that? Besides, I am myself the cause of it in a measure—unwilling + enough, Heaven knows!” + </p> + <p> + “The only cause,” said Unorna bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “Then I am in some way responsible. I am not quite without blame—we + men never are in such cases. If I reproach you, I must reproach myself as + well—” + </p> + <p> + “Reproach yourself!—ah no! What can you say against yourself?” she + could not keep the love out of her voice, if she would; her bitterness had + been for herself. + </p> + <p> + “I will not go into that,” he answered. “I am to blame in one way or + another. Let us say no more about it. Will you let the matter rest?” + </p> + <p> + “And let bygones be bygones, and be friends to each other, as we were this + morning?” she asked, with a ray of hope. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer was silent for a few seconds. His difficulties were + increasing. A while ago he had told her, as an excuse for herself, that + men and women did not always mean exactly what they said, and even now he + did not set himself up in his own mind as an exception to the rule. Very + honourable and truthful men do not act upon any set of principles in + regard to truth and honour. Their instinctively brave actions and + naturally noble truthfulness make those principles which are held up to + the unworthy for imitation, by those whose business is the teaching of + what is good. The Wanderer’s only hesitation lay between answering the + question or not answering it. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we be friends again?” Unorna asked a second time, in a low tone. + “Shall we go back to the beginning?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not see how that is possible,” he answered slowly. + </p> + <p> + Unorna was not like him, and did not understand such a nature as his as + she understood Keyork Arabian. She had believed that he would at least + hold out some hope. + </p> + <p> + “You might have spared me that!” she said, turning her face away. There + were tears in her voice. + </p> + <p> + A few hours earlier his answer would have brought fire to her eyes and + anger to her voice. But a real change had come over her, not lasting, + perhaps, but strong in its immediate effects. + </p> + <p> + “Not even a little friendship left?” she said, breaking the silence that + followed. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot change myself,” he answered, almost wishing that he could. “I + ought, perhaps,” he added, as though speaking to himself. “I have done + enough harm as it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Harm? To whom?” She looked round suddenly and he saw the moisture in her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “To him,” he replied, glancing at Kafka, “and to you. You loved him once. + I have ruined his life.” + </p> + <p> + “Loved him? No—I never loved him.” She shook her head, wondering + whether she spoke the truth. + </p> + <p> + “You must have made him think so.” + </p> + <p> + “I? No—he is mad.” But she shrank before his honest look, and + suddenly broke down. “No—I will not lie to you—you are too + true—yes, I loved him, or I thought I did, until you came, and I saw + that there was no one——” + </p> + <p> + But she checked herself, as she felt the blood rising to her cheeks. She + could blush still, and still be ashamed. Even she was not all bad, now + that she was calm and that the change had come over her. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” the Wanderer said gently, “I am to blame for it all.” + </p> + <p> + “For it all? No—not for the thousandth part of it all. What blame + have you in being what you are? Blame God in Heaven—for making such + a man. Blame me for what you know; blame me for all that you will not let + me tell you. Blame Kafka for his mad belief in me and Keyork Arabian for + the rest—but do not blame yourself—oh, no! Not that!” + </p> + <p> + “Do not talk like that, Unorna,” he said. “Be just first.” + </p> + <p> + “What is justice?” she asked. Then she turned her head away again. “If you + knew what justice means for me—you would not ask me to be just. You + would be more merciful.” + </p> + <p> + “You exaggerate——” He spoke kindly, but she interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “No. You do not know, that is all. And you can never guess. There is only + one man living who could imagine such things as I have done—and + tried to do. He is Keyork Arabian. But he would have been wiser than I, + perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + She relapsed into silence. Before her rose the dim altar in the church, + the shadowy figure of Beatrice standing up in the dark, the horrible + sacrilege that was to have been done. Her face grew dark with fear of her + own soul. The Wanderer went so far as to try and distract her from her + gloomy thoughts, out of pure kindness of heart. + </p> + <p> + “I am no theologian,” he said, “but I fancy that in the long reckoning the + intention goes for more than the act.” + </p> + <p> + “The intention!” she cried, looking back with a start. “If that be true——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There is no forgiveness for me in Heaven,” she said. “Shall there be none + on earth! Not even a little, from you to me?” + </p> + <p> + “There is no question of forgiveness between you and me. You have not + injured me, but Israel Kafka. Judge for yourself which of us two, he or I, + has anything to forgive. I am to-day what I was yesterday and may be + to-morrow. He lies there, dying of his love for you, if ever a man died + for love. And as though that were not enough, you have tortured him—well, + I will not speak of it. But that is all. I know nothing of the deeds, or + intentions, of which you accuse yourself. You are tired, overwrought, worn + out with all this—what shall I say? It is natural enough, I suppose—” + </p> + <p> + “You say there is no question of forgiveness,” she said, interrupting him, + but speaking more calmly. “What is it then? What is the real question? If + you have nothing to forgive why can we not be friends as we were before?” + </p> + <p> + “There is something besides that needed. It is not enough that of two + people neither should have injured the other. You have broken something, + destroyed something—I cannot mend it. I wish I could.” + </p> + <p> + “You wish you could?” she repeated earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “I wish that the thing had not been done. I wish that I had not seen what + I saw to-day. We should be where we were this morning—and he perhaps + would not be here.” + </p> + <p> + “It must have come some day,” Unorna said. “He must have seen that I loved—that + I loved you. Is there any use in not speaking plainly now? Then at some + other time, in some other place, he would have done what he did, and I + should have been angry and cruel—for it is my nature to be cruel + when I am angry, and to be angry easily, at that. Men talk so easily of + self-control, and self-command and dignity, and self-respect! They have + not loved—that is all. I am not angry now, nor cruel. I am sorry for + what I did, and I would undo it, if deeds were knots and wishes deeds. I + am sorry, beyond all words to tell you. How poor it sounds now that I have + said it! You do not even believe me.” + </p> + <p> + “You are wrong. I know that you are in earnest.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” she asked bitterly. “Have I never lied to you? If you + believed me, you would forgive me. If you forgave me, your friendship + would come back. I cannot even swear to you that I am telling the truth. + Heaven would not be my witness now if I told a thousand truths, each truer + than the last.” + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing to forgive,” the Wanderer said, almost wearily. “I have + told you so, you have not injured me, but him.” + </p> + <p> + “But if it meant a whole world to me—no, for I am nothing to you—but + if it cost you nothing, but the little breath that can carry the three + words—would you say it? Is it much to say? Is it like saying, I love + you, or, I honour you, respect you? It is so little, and would mean so + much.” + </p> + <p> + “To me it can mean nothing, unless you ask me to forgive you deeds of + which I know nothing. And then it means still less to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you say it, only say the three words once?” + </p> + <p> + “I forgive you,” said the Wanderer quietly. It cost him nothing, and, to + him, meant less. + </p> + <p> + Unorna bent her head and was silent. It was something to have heard him + say it though he could not guess the least of the sins which she made it + include. She herself hardly knew why she had so insisted. Perhaps it was + only the longing to hear words kind in themselves, if not in tone, nor in + his meaning of them. Possibly, too, she felt a dim presentiment of her + coming end, and would take with her that infinitesimal grain of pardon to + the state in which she hoped for no other forgiveness. + </p> + <p> + “It was good of you to say it,” she said at last. + </p> + <p> + A long silence followed during which the thoughts of each went their own + way. Suddenly Israel Kafka stirred in his sleep. The Wanderer went quickly + forward and knelt down beside him and arranged the silken pillow as best + he could. Unorna was on the other side almost as soon. With a tenderness + of expression and touch which nothing can describe she moved the sleeping + head into a comfortable position and smoothed the cushion, and drew up the + furs disturbed by the nervous hands. The Wanderer let her have her way. + When she had finished their eyes met. He could not tell whether she was + asking his approval and a word of encouragement, but he withheld neither. + </p> + <p> + “You are very gentle with him. He would thank you if he could.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you not tell me to be kind to him?” she said. “I am keeping my word. + But he would not thank me. He would kill me if he were awake.” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “He was ill and mad with pain,” he answered. “He did not know what he was + doing. When he wakes, it will be different.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna rose, and the Wanderer followed her. + </p> + <p> + “You cannot believe that I care,” she said, as she resumed her seat. “He + is not you. My soul would not be the nearer to peace for a word of his.” + </p> + <p> + For a long time she sat quite still, her hands lying idly in her lap, her + head bent wearily as though she bore a heavy burden. + </p> + <p> + “Can you not rest?” the Wanderer asked at length. “I can watch alone.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I cannot rest. I shall never rest again.” + </p> + <p> + The words came slowly, as though spoken to herself. + </p> + <p> + “Do you bid me go?” she asked after a time, looking up and seeing his eyes + fixed on her. + </p> + <p> + “Bid you go? In your own house?” The tone was one of ordinary courtesy. + Unorna smiled sadly. + </p> + <p> + “I would rather you struck me than that you spoke to me like that!” she + exclaimed. “You have no need of such civil forbearance with me. If you bid + me go, I will go. If you bid me stay, I will not move. Only speak frankly. + Say which you would prefer.” + </p> + <p> + “Then stay,” said the Wanderer simply. + </p> + <p> + She bowed her head slightly and was silent again. A distant clock chimed + the hour. The morning was slowly drawing near. + </p> + <p> + “And you,” said Unorna, looking up at the sound. “Will you not rest? Why + should you not sleep?” + </p> + <p> + “I am not tired.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not trust me, I think,” she answered sadly. “And yet you might—you + might.” Her voice died away dreamily. + </p> + <p> + “Trust you to watch that poor man? Indeed I do. You were not acting just + now, when you touched him so tenderly. You are in earnest. You will be + kind to him, and I thank you for it.” + </p> + <p> + “And you yourself? Do you fear nothing from me, if you should sleep before + my eyes? Do you not fear that in your unconsciousness I might touch you + and make you more unconscious still and make you dream dreams and see + visions?” + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer looked at her and smiled incredulously, partly out of scorn + for the imaginary danger, and partly because something told him that she + had changed and would not attempt any of her witchcraft upon him. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered. “I am not afraid of that.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right,” she said gravely. “My sins are enough already. The evil + is sufficient. Do as you will. If you can sleep, then sleep in peace. If + you will watch, watch with me.” + </p> + <p> + Then neither spoke again. Unorna bent her head as she had done before. The + Wanderer leaned back resting comfortably against the cushion of the high + carved chair, his eyes directed towards the place where Israel Kafka lay. + The air was warm, the scent of the flowers sweet but not heavy. The + silence was intense, for even the little fountain was still. He had + watched almost all night and his eyelids drooped. He forgot Unorna and + thought only of the sick man, trying to fix his attention on the pale head + as it lay under the bright light. + </p> + <p> + When Unorna looked up at last she saw that he was asleep. At first she was + surprised, in spite of what she had said to him half an hour earlier, for + she herself could not have closed her eyes, and felt that she could never + close them again. Then she sighed. It was but one proof more of his + supreme indifference. He had not even cared to speak to her, and if she + had not constantly spoken to him throughout the hours they had passed + together he would perhaps have been sleeping long before now. + </p> + <p> + And yet she feared to wake him and was almost glad that he was + unconscious. In the solitude she could gaze on him to her heart’s desire, + she could let her eyes look their fill, and no one could say her nay. He + must be very tired, she thought, and she vaguely wondered why she felt no + bodily weariness, when her soul was so heavy. + </p> + <p> + She sat still and watched him. It might be the last time, she thought, for + who could tell what would happen to-morrow? She shuddered as she thought + of it all. What would Beatrice do? What would Sister Paul say? How much + would she tell of what she had seen? How much had she really seen which + she could tell clearly? There were terrible possibilities in the future if + all were known. Such deeds, and even the attempt at such deeds as she had + tried to do, could be judged by the laws of the land, she might be brought + to trial, if she lived, as a common prisoner, and held up to the + execration of the world in all her shame and guilt. But death would be + worse than that. As she thought of that other Judgment, she grew dizzy + with horror as she had been when the idea had first entered her brain. + </p> + <p> + Then she was conscious that she was again looking at the Wanderer as he + lay back asleep in his tall chair. The pale and noble face expressed the + stainless soul and the manly character. She saw in it the peace she had + lost, and yet knew that through him she had lost her peace for ever. + </p> + <p> + It was perhaps the last time. Never again, perhaps, after the morning had + broken, should she look on what she loved best on earth. She would be + gone, ruined, dead perhaps. And he? He would be still himself. He would + remember her half carelessly, half in wonder, as a woman who had once been + almost his friend. That would be all that would be left in him of her, + beyond a memory of the repulsion he had felt for her deeds. + </p> + <p> + She fancied she could have met the worst in the future less hopelessly if + he could have remembered her a little more kindly when all was over. Even + now, it might be in her power to cast a veil upon the pictures in his + mind. But the mere thought was horrible to her, though a few hours before + she had hardly trembled at the doing of a frightful sacrilege. In that + short time the humiliation of failure, the realisation of what she had + almost done, above all the ever-rising tide of a real and passionate love, + had swept away many familiar landmarks in her thoughts, and had turned + much to lead which had once seemed brighter than gold. She hated the very + idea of using again those arts which had so directly wrought her utter + destruction. But she longed to know that in the world whither he would + doubtless go to-morrow he would bear with him one kind memory of her, one + natural friendly thought not grafted upon his mind by her power, but + growing of its own self in his inmost heart. Only a friendly memory—nothing + more than that. + </p> + <p> + She rose noiselessly and came to his side and looked down into his face. + Very long she stood there, motionless as a statue, beautiful as a mourning + angel. + </p> + <p> + It was so little that she asked. It was so little compared with all she + had hoped, or in comparison with all she had demanded, so little in + respect of what she had given. For she had given her soul. And in return + she asked only for one small kindly thought when all should be over. + </p> + <p> + She bent down as she stood and touched his cool forehead with her lips. + </p> + <p> + “Sleep on, my beloved,” she said in a voice that murmured softly and + sadly. + </p> + <p> + She started a little at what she had done, and drew back, half afraid, + like an innocent girl. But as though he had obeyed her words, he seemed to + sleep more deeply still. He must be very tired, she thought, to sleep like + that, but she was thankful that the soft kiss, the first and last, had not + waked him. + </p> + <p> + “Sleep on,” she said again in a whisper scarcely audible to herself. + “Forget Unorna, if you cannot think of her mercifully and kindly. Sleep + on, you have the right to rest, and I can never rest again. You have + forgiven—forget, too, then, unless you can remember better things of + me than I have deserved in your memory. Let her take her kingdom back. It + was never mine—remember what you will, forget at least the wrong I + did, and forgive the wrong you never knew—for you will know it + surely some day. Ah, love—I love you so—dream but one dream, + and let me think I take her place. She never loved you more than I, she + never can. She would not have done what I have done. Dream only that I am + Beatrice for this once. Then when you wake you will not think so cruelly + of me. Oh, that I might be she—and you your loving self—that I + might be she for one day in thought and word, in deed and voice, in face + and soul! Dear love—you would never know it, yet I should know that + you had had one loving thought for me. You would forget. It would not + matter then to you, for you would have only dreamed, and I should have the + certainty—for ever, to take with me always!” + </p> + <p> + As though the words carried a meaning with them to his sleeping senses, a + look of supreme and almost heavenly happiness stole over his sleeping + face. But Unorna could not see it. She had turned suddenly away, burying + her face in her hands upon the back of her own chair. + </p> + <p> + “Are there no miracles left in Heaven?” she moaned, half whispering lest + she should wake him. “Is there no miracle of deeds undone again and of + forgiveness given—for me? God! God! That we should be for ever what + we make ourselves!” + </p> + <p> + There were no tears in her eyes now, as there had been twice that night. + In her despair, that fountain of relief, shallow always and not apt to + overflow, was dried up and scorched with pain. And, for the time at least, + worse things were gone from her, though she suffered more. As though some + portion of her passionate wish had been fulfilled, she felt that she could + never do again what she had done; she felt that she was truthful now as he + was, and that she knew evil from good even as Beatrice knew it. The horror + of her sins took new growth in her changed vision. + </p> + <p> + “Was I lost from the first beginning?” she asked passionately. “Was I born + to be all I am, and fore-destined to do all I have done? Was she born an + angel and I a devil from hell? What is it all? What is this life, and what + is that other beyond it?” + </p> + <p> + Behind her, in his chair, the Wanderer still slept. Still his face wore + the radiant look of joy that had so suddenly come into it as she turned + away. He scarcely breathed, so calmly he slept. But Unorna did not raise + her head nor look at him, and on the carpet near her feet Israel Kafka lay + as still and as deeply unconscious as the Wanderer himself. By a strange + destiny she sat there, between the two men in whom her whole life had been + wrecked, and she alone was waking. + </p> + <p> + When she at last raised her eyes the dawn was breaking. 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. Unorna turned from the one and looked upon the other. For the + first time she saw how he had changed, and wondered. + </p> + <p> + “How peacefully he sleeps!” she thought. “He is dreaming of her.” + </p> + <p> + The dawn came stealing on, not soft and blushing as in southern lands, but + cold, resistless and grim as ancient fate; not the maiden herald of the + sun with rose-tipped fingers and grey, liquid eyes, but hard, cruel, + sullen, and less darkness following upon a greater and going before a + dull, sunless and heavy day. + </p> + <p> + The door opened somewhat noisily and a brisk step fell upon the marble + pavement. Unorna rose noiselessly to her feet and hastening along the open + space came face to face with Keyork Arabian. He stopped and looked up at + her from beneath his heavy brows, with surprise and suspicion. She raised + one finger to her lips. + </p> + <p> + “You here already?” he asked, obeying her gesture and speaking in a low + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Hush! Hush!” she whispered, not satisfied. “They are asleep. You will + wake them.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork came forward. He could move quietly enough when he chose. He + glanced at the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + “He looks comfortable enough,” he whispered, half contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + Then he bent down over Israel Kafka and carefully examined his face. To + him the ghastly pallor meant nothing. It was but the natural result of + excessive exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + “Put him into a lethargy,” said he under his breath, but with authority in + his manner. + </p> + <p> + Unorna shook her head. Keyork’s small eyes brightened angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Do it,” he said. “What is this caprice? Are you mad? I want to take his + temperature without waking him.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna folded her arms. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want him to suffer more?” asked Keyork with a diabolical smile. + “If so I will wake him by all means; I am always at your service, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “Will he suffer, if he wakes naturally?” + </p> + <p> + “Horribly—in the head.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna knelt down and let her hand rest a few seconds on Kafka’s brow. The + features, drawn with pain, immediately relaxed. + </p> + <p> + “You have hypnotised the one,” grumbled Keyork as he bent down again. “I + cannot imagine why you should object to doing the same for the other.” + </p> + <p> + “The other?” Unorna repeated in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Our friend there, in the arm chair.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not true. He fell asleep of himself.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork smiled again, incredulously this time. He had already applied his + pocket-thermometer and looked at his watch. Unorna had risen to her feet, + disdaining to defend herself against the imputation expressed in his face. + Some minutes passed in silence. + </p> + <p> + “He has no fever,” said Keyork looking at the little instrument. “I will + call the Individual and we will take him away.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “To his lodging, of course. Where else?” He turned and went towards the + door. + </p> + <p> + In a moment, Unorna was kneeling again by Kafka’s side, her hand upon his + forehead, her lips close to his ear. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” came the faint answer as from very far off. + </p> + <p> + “You will wake two hours from now. You will not forget all that has + happened, but you will never love me again. I forbid you ever to love me + again! Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “You will only forget that I have told you this, though you will obey. You + will see me again, and if you can forgive me of your own free will, + forgive me then. That must be of your own free will. Wake in two hours of + yourself, without pain or sickness.” + </p> + <p> + Again she touched his forehead and then sprang to her feet. Keyork was + coming back with his dumb servant. At a sign, the Individual lifted Kafka + from the floor, taking from him the Wanderer’s furs and wrapping him in + others which Keyork had brought. The strong man walked away with his + burden as though he were carrying a child. Keyork Arabian lingered a + moment. + </p> + <p> + “What made you come back so early?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I will not tell you,” she answered, drawing back. + </p> + <p> + “No? Well, I am not curious. You have an excellent opportunity now.” + </p> + <p> + “An opportunity?” Unorna repeated with a cold interrogative. + </p> + <p> + “Excellent,” said the little man, standing on tiptoe to reach her ear, for + she would not bend her head. “You have only to whisper into his ear that + you are Beatrice and he will believe you for the rest of his life.” + </p> + <p> + “Go!” said Unorna. + </p> + <p> + Though the word was not spoken above her breath it was fierce and + commanding. Keyork Arabian smiled in an evil way, shrugged his shoulders + and left her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV + </h2> + <p> + Unorna was left alone with the Wanderer. His attitude did not change, his + eyes did not open, as she stood before him. Still he wore the look which + had at first attracted Keyork Arabian’s attention and which had amazed + Unorna herself. It was the expression that had come into his face in the + old cemetery when in his sleep she had spoken to him of love. + </p> + <p> + “He is dreaming of her,” Unorna said to herself again, as she turned sadly + away. + </p> + <p> + But since Keyork had been with her a doubt had assailed her which + painfully disturbed her thoughts, so that her brow contracted with anxiety + and from time to time she drew a quick hard breath. Keyork had taken it + for granted that the Wanderer’s sleep was not natural. + </p> + <p> + She tried to recall what had happened shortly before dawn but it was no + wonder that her memory served her ill and refused to bring back distinctly + the words she had spoken. Her whole being was unsettled and shaken, so + that she found it hard to recognise herself. The stormy hours through + which she had lived since yesterday had left their trace; the lack of + rest, instead of producing physical exhaustion, had brought about an + excessive mental weariness, and it was not easy for her now to find all + the connecting links between her actions. Then, above all else, there was + the great revulsion that had swept over her after her last and greatest + plan of evil had failed, causing in her such a change as could hardly have + seemed natural or even possible to a calm person watching her inmost + thoughts. + </p> + <p> + And yet such sudden changes take place daily in the world of crime and + passion. In one uncalled-for confession, of which it is hard to trace the + smallest reasonable cause, the intricate wickednesses of a lifetime are + revealed and repeated; in the mysterious impulse of a moment the murderer + turns back and delivers himself to justice; under an influence for which + there is often no accounting, the woman who has sinned securely through + long years lays bare her guilt and throws herself upon the mercy of the + man whom she has so skilfully and consistently deceived. We know the fact. + The reason we cannot know. Perhaps, to natures not wholly bad, sin is a + poison of which the moral organization can only bear a certain fixed + amount, great or small, before rejecting it altogether and with loathing. + We do not know. We speak of the workings of conscience, not understanding + what we mean. It is like that subtle something which we call electricity; + we can play with it, command it, lead it, neutralise it and die of it, + make light and heat with it, or language and sound, kill with it and cure + with it, while absolutely ignorant of its nature. We are no nearer to a + definition of it than the Greek who rubbed a bit of amber and lifted with + it a tiny straw, and from amber, Elektron called the something + electricity. Are we even as near as that to a definition of the human + conscience? + </p> + <p> + The change that had come over Unorna, whether it was to be lasting or not, + was profound. The circumstances under which it took place are plain + enough. The reasons must be left to themselves—it remains only to + tell the consequences which thereon followed. + </p> + <p> + The first of these was a hatred of that extraordinary power with which + nature had endowed her, which brought with it a determination never again + to make use of it for any evil purpose, and, if possible, never even for + good. + </p> + <p> + But as though her unhappy fate were for ever fighting against her good + impulses, that power of hers had exerted itself unconsciously, since her + resolution had been formed. Keyork Arabian’s words, and his evident though + unspoken disbelief in her denial, showed that he at least was convinced of + the fact that the Wanderer was not sleeping a natural sleep. Unorna tried + to recall what she had done and said, but all was vague and indistinct. Of + one thing she was sure. She had not laid her hand upon his forehead, and + she had not intentionally done any of those things which she had always + believed necessary for producing the results of hypnotism. She had not + willed him to do anything, she thought and she felt sure that she had + pronounced no words of the nature of a command. Step by step she tried to + reconstruct for her comfort a detailed recollection of what had passed, + but every effort in that direction was fruitless. Like many men far wiser + than herself, she believed in the mechanics of hypnotic science, in the + touches, in the passes, in the fixed look, in the will to fascinate. More + than once Keyork Arabian had scoffed at what he called her superstitions, + and had maintained that all the varying phenomena of hypnotism, all the + witchcraft of the darker ages, all the visions undoubtedly shown to + wondering eyes by mediaeval sorcerers, were traceable to moral influence, + and to no other cause. Unorna could not accept his reasoning. For her + there was a deeper and yet a more material mystery in it, as in her own + life, a mystery which she cherished as an inheritance, which impressed her + with a sense of her own strange destiny and of the gulf which separated + her from other women. She could not detach herself from the idea that the + supernatural played a part in all her doings, and she clung to the use of + gestures and passes and words in the exercise of her art, in which she + fancied a hidden and secret meaning to exist. Certain things had + especially impressed her. The not uncommon answer of hypnotics to the + question concerning their identity, “I am the image in your eyes,” is + undoubtedly elicited by the fact that their extraordinarily acute and, + perhaps, magnifying vision, perceives the image of themselves in the eyes + of the operator with abnormal distinctness, and, not impossibly, of a size + quite incompatible with the dimensions of the pupil. To Unorna the answer + meant something more. It suggested the actual presence of the person she + was influencing, in her own brain, and whenever she was undertaking + anything especially difficult, she endeavoured to obtain the reply + relating to the image as soon as possible. + </p> + <p> + In the present case, she was sure that she had done none of the things + which she considered necessary to produce a definite result. She was + totally unconscious of having impressed upon the sleeper any suggestion of + her will. Whatever she had said, she had addressed the words to herself + without any intention that they should be heard and understood. + </p> + <p> + These reflections comforted her as she paced the marble floor, and yet + Keyork’s remark rang in her ears and disturbed her. She knew how vast his + experience was and how much he could tell by a single glance at a human + face. He had been familiar with every phase of hypnotism long before she + had known him, and might reasonably be supposed to know by inspection + whether the sleep were natural or not. That a person hypnotised may appear + to sleep as naturally as one not under the influence is certain, but the + condition of rest is also very often different, to a practised eye, from + that of ordinary slumber. There is a fixity in the expression of the face, + and in the attitude of the body, which cannot continue under ordinary + circumstances. He had perhaps noticed both signs in the Wanderer. + </p> + <p> + She went back to his side and looked at him intently. She had scarcely + dared to do so before, and she felt that she might have been mistaken. The + light, too, had changed, for it was broad day, though the lamps were still + burning. Yet, even now, she could not tell. Her judgment of what she saw + was disturbed by many intertwining thoughts. + </p> + <p> + At least, he was happy. Whatever she had done, if she had done anything, + it had not hurt him. There was no possibility of misinterpreting the + sleeping man’s expression. + </p> + <p> + She wished that he would wake, though she knew how the smile would fade, + how the features would grow cold and indifferent, and how the grey eyes + she loved would open with a look of annoyance at seeing her before him. It + was like a vision of happiness in a house of sorrow to see him lying + there, so happy in his sleep, so loving, so peaceful. She could make it + all to last, too, if she would, and she realised that with a sudden pang. + The woman of whom he dreamed, whom he had loved so faithfully and sought + so long, was very near him. A word from Unorna and Beatrice could come and + find him as he lay asleep, and herself open the dear eyes. + </p> + <p> + Was that sacrifice to be asked of her before she was taken away to the + expiation of her sins? Fate could not be so very cruel—and yet the + mere idea was an added suffering. The longer she looked at him the more + the possibility grew and tortured her. + </p> + <p> + After all, it was almost certain that they would meet now, and at the + meeting she felt sure that all his memory would return. Why should she do + anything, why should she raise her hand, to bring them to each other? It + was too much to ask. Was it not enough that both were free, and both in + the same city together, and that she had vowed neither to hurt nor hinder + them? If it was their destiny to be joined together it would so happen + surely in the natural course; if not, was it her part to join them? The + punishment of her sins, whatever it should be, she could bear; but this + thing she could not do. + </p> + <p> + She passed her hand across her eyes as though to drive it away, and her + thoughts came back to the point from which they had started. The suspense + became unbearable when she realised that she did not know in what + condition the Wanderer would wake, nor whether, if left to nature, he + would wake at all. She could not endure it any longer. She touched his + sleeve, lightly at first, and then more heavily. She moved his arm. It was + passive in her hand and lay where she placed it. Yet she would not believe + that she had made him sleep. She drew back and looked at him. Then her + anxiety overcame her. + </p> + <p> + “Wake!” she cried, aloud. “For God’s sake, wake! I cannot bear it!” + </p> + <p> + His eyes opened at the sound of her voice, naturally and quietly. Then + they grew wide and deep and fixed themselves in a great wonder of many + seconds. Then Unorna saw no more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice!” it cried, and nothing more. + </p> + <p> + In the presence of that strength, in the ringing of that cry, Unorna was + helpless. She had no power of thought left in her, as she felt herself + borne along, body and soul, in the rush of a passion more masterful than + her own. + </p> + <p> + Then she was on her feet again, but his arms were round her still, and + hers, whether she would or not, were clasped about his neck. Dreams, + truth, faith kept or broken, hell and Heaven itself were swept away, all + wrecked together in the tide of love. And through it all his voice was in + her ear. + </p> + <p> + “Love, love, at last! From all the years, you have come back—at last—at + last!” + </p> + <p> + Broken and almost void of sense the words came then, through the storm of + his kisses and the tempest of her tears. She could no more resist him nor + draw herself away than the frail ship, wind-driven through crashing waves, + can turn and face the blast; no more than the long dry grass can turn and + quench the roaring flame; no more than the drooping willow bough can dam + the torrent and force it backwards up the steep mountain side. + </p> + <p> + In those short, false moments, Unorna knew what happiness could mean. Torn + from herself, lifted high above the misery and the darkness of her real + life, it was all true to her. There was no other Beatrice but herself, no + other woman whom he had ever loved. An enchantment greater than her own + was upon her and held her in bonds she could neither bend nor break. + </p> + <p> + She was sitting in her own chair now and he was kneeling before her, + holding her hands and looking up to her. For him the world held nothing + else. For him her hair was black as night; for him the unlike eyes were + dark and fathomless; for him the heavy marble hand was light, responsive, + delicate; for him her face was the face of Beatrice, as he had last seen + it long ago. The years had passed, indeed, and he had sought her through + many lands, but she had come back to him the same, in the glory of her + youth, in the strength of her love, in the divinity of her dark beauty, + his always, through it all, his now—for ever. + </p> + <p> + For a long time he did not speak. The words rose to his lips and failed of + utterance, as the first mist of early morning is drawn heavenwards to + vanish in the rising sun. The long-drawn breath could have made no sound + of sweeter meaning than the unspoken speech that rose in the deep gray + eyes. Nature’s grand organ, touched by hands divine, can yield no chord + more moving than a lover’s sigh. + </p> + <p> + Words came at last, as after the welcome shower in summer’s heat the song + of birds rings through the woods, and out across the fields, upon the + clear, earth-scented air—words fresh from their long rest within his + heart, unused in years of loneliness but unforgotten and familiar still—untarnished + jewels from the inmost depths; rich treasures from the storehouse of a + deathless faith; diamonds of truth, rubies of passion, pearls of devotion + studding the golden links of the chain of love. + </p> + <p> + “At last—at last—at last! Life of my life, the day is come + that is not day without you, and now it will always be day for us two—day + without end and sun for ever! And yet, I have seen you always in my night, + just as I see you now. As I hold your dear hands, I have held them—day + by day and year by year—and I have smoothed that black hair of yours + that I love, and kissed those dark eyes of yours many and many a thousand + times. It has been so long, love, so very long! But I knew it would come + some day. I knew I should find you, for you have been always with me, dear—always + and everywhere. The world is all full of you, for I have wandered through + it all and taken you with me and made every place yours with the thought + of you, and the love of you and the worship of you. For me, there is not + an ocean nor a sea nor a river, nor rock nor island nor broad continent of + earth, that has not known Beatrice and loved her name. Heart of my heart, + soul of my soul—the nights and the days without you, the lands and + the oceans where you were not, the endlessness of this little world that + hid you somewhere, the littleness of the whole universe without you—how + can you ever know what it has been to me? And so it is gone at last—gone + as a dream of sickness in the morning of health; gone as the blackness of + storm-clouds in the sweep of the clear west wind; gone as the shadow of + evil before the face of an angel of light! And I know it all. I see it all + in your eyes. You knew I was true, and you knew I sought you, and would + find you at last—and you have waited—and there has been no + other, not the thought of another, not the passing image of another + between us. For I know there has not been that and I should have known it + anywhere in all these years, the chill of it would have found me, the + sharpness of it would have been in my heart—no matter where, no + matter how far—yet say it, say it once—say that you have loved + me, too—” + </p> + <p> + “God knows how I have loved you—how I love you now!” Unorna said in + a low, unsteady voice. + </p> + <p> + The light that had been in his face grew brighter still as she spoke, + while she looked at him, wondering, her head thrown back against the high + chair, her eyelids wet and drooping, her lips still parted, her hand in + his. Small wonder if he had loved her for herself, she was so beautiful. + Small wonder it would have been if she had taken Beatrice’s place in his + heart during those weeks of close and daily converse. But that first great + love had left no fertile ground in which to plant another seed, no warmth + of kindness under which the tender shoot might grow to strength, no room + beneath its heaven for other branches than its own. Alone it had stood in + majesty as a lordly tree, straight, tall, and ever green, on a silent + mountain top. Alone it had borne the burden of grief’s heavy snows; + unbent, for all its loneliness, it had stood against the raging tempest; + and green still, in all its giant strength of stem and branch, in all its + kingly robe of unwithered foliage. Unscathed, unshaken, it yet stood. + Neither storm nor lightning, wind nor rain, sun nor snow had prevailed + against it to dry it up and cast it down that another might grow in its + place. + </p> + <p> + Yet this love was not for her to whom he spoke, and she knew it as she + answered him, though she answered truly, from the fulness of her heart. + She had cast an enchantment over him unwittingly, and she was taken in the + toils of her own magic even as she had sworn that she would never again + put forth her powers. She shuddered as she realised it all. In a few short + moments she had felt his kisses, and heard his words, and been clasped to + his heart, as she had many a time madly hoped. But in those moments, too, + she had known the truth of her woman’s instinct when it had told her that + love must be for herself and for her own sake, or not be love at all. + </p> + <p> + The falseness, the fathomless untruth of it, would have been bad enough + alone. But the truth that was so strong made it horrible. Had she but + inspired in him a burning love for herself, however much against his will, + it would have been very different. She would have heard her name from his + lips, she would have known that all, however false, however artificial, + was for herself, while it might last. To know that it was real, and not + for her, was intolerable. To see this love of his break out at last—this + other love which she had dreaded, against which she had fought, which she + had met with a jealousy as strong as itself, and struggled with and buried + under an imposed forgetfulness—to feel its great waves surging + around her and beating up against her heart, was more than she could bear. + Her face grew whiter and her hands were cold. She dreaded each moment lest + he should call her Beatrice again, and say that her fair hair was black + and that he loved those deep dark eyes of hers. + </p> + <p> + There had been one moment of happiness, in that first kiss, in the first + pressure of those strong arms. Then night descended. The hands that held + her had not been yet unclasped, the kiss was not cold upon her cheek, the + first great cry of his love had hardly died away in a softened echo, and + her punishment was upon her. His words were lashes, his touch poison, his + eyes avenging fires. As in nature’s great alchemy the diamond and the + blackened coal are one, as nature with the same elements pours life and + death from the same vial with the same hand, so now the love which would + have been life to Unorna was made worse than death because it was not for + her. + </p> + <p> + Yet the disguise was terribly perfect. The unconscious spell had done its + work thoroughly. He took her for Beatrice, and her voice for Beatrice’s + there in the broad light, in the familiar place where he had so often + talked with her for hours and known her for Unorna. But a few paces away + was the very spot where she had fallen at his feet last night and wept and + abused herself before him. There was the carpet on which Israel Kafka had + lain throughout the long hours while they had watched together. Upon that + table at her side a book lay which they had read together but two days + ago. In her own chair she sat, Unorna still, unchanged, unaltered save for + him. She doubted her own senses as she heard him speak, and ever and again + the name of Beatrice rang in her ears. He looked at her hands, and knew + them; at her black dress, and knew it for her own, and yet he poured out + the eloquence of his love—kneeling, then standing, then sitting at + her side, drawing her head to his shoulder and smoothing her fair hair—so + black to him—with a gentle hand. She was passive through it all, as + yet. There seemed to be no other way. He paused sometimes, then spoke + again. Perhaps, in the dream that possessed him, he heard her speak. + Possibly, he was unconscious of her silence, borne along by the torrent of + his own long pent-up speech. She could not tell, she did not care to know. + Of one thing alone she thought, of how to escape from it all and be alone. + </p> + <p> + She feared to move, still more to rise, not knowing what he would do. As + he was now, she could not tell what effect her words would have if she + spoke. It might be but a passing state after all. What would the awakening + be? Would his forgetfulness of Beatrice and his coldness to herself return + with the subsidence of his passion? Far better that than to see him and + hear him as he was now. + </p> + <p> + And yet there were moments now and then when he pronounced no name, when + he recalled no memory of the past, when there was only the tenderness of + love itself in his words, and then, as she listened, she could almost + think it was for her. It was bitter joy, unreal and fantastic, but it was + a relief. Had she loved him less, such a conflict between sense and senses + would have been impossible even in imagination. But she loved him greatly + and the deep desire to be loved in turn was in her still, shaming her + better thoughts, but sometimes ruling her in spite of herself and of the + pain she suffered with each word self-applied. All the vast + contradictions, all the measureless inconsistency, all the enormous + selfishness of which human hearts are capable, had met in hers as in a + battle-ground, fighting each other, rending what they found of herself + amongst them, sometimes uniting to throw their whole weight together + against the deep-rooted passion, sometimes taking side with it to drive + out every other rival. + </p> + <p> + It was shameful, base, despicable, and she knew it. A moment ago she had + longed to tear herself away, to silence him, to stop her ears, anything + not to hear those words that cut like whips and stung like scorpions. And + now again she was listening for the next, eagerly, breathlessly, drunk + with their sound and revelling almost in the unreality of the happiness + they brought. More and more she despised herself as the intervals between + one pang of suffering and the next grew longer, and the illusion deeper + and more like reality. + </p> + <p> + After all, it was he, and no other. It was the man she loved who was + pouring out his own love into her ears, and smoothing her hair and + pressing the hand he held. Had he not said it once, and more than once? + What matter where, what matter how, provided that he loved? She had + received the fulfilment of her wish. He loved her now. Under another name, + in a vision, with another face and another voice, yet, still, she was + herself. + </p> + <p> + As in a storm the thunder-claps came crashing through the air, deafening + and appalling at first, then rolling swiftly into a far distance, fainter + and fainter, till all is still and only the plash of the fast-falling rain + is heard, so, as she listened, the tempest of her pain was passing away. + Easier and easier it became to hear herself called Beatrice, easier and + easier it grew to take the other’s place, to accept the kiss, the touch, + the word, the pressure of the hand that were all another’s due, and given + to herself only for the mask she wore in his dream. + </p> + <p> + And the tide of the great temptation rose, and fell a little, and rose + higher again each time, till it washed the fragile feet of the last good + thought that lingered, taking refuge on the highest point above the waves. + On and on it came, receding and coming back, higher and higher, surer and + surer. Had she drawn back in time it would have been so easy. Had she + turned and fled when the first moment of senseless joy was over, when she + could still feel all the shame, and blush for all the abasement, it would + have been over now, and she would have been safe. But she had learned to + look upon the advancing water, and the sound of it had no more terror for + her. It was very high now. Presently it would climb higher and close above + her head. + </p> + <p> + There were long intervals of silence now. The first rush of his speech had + spent itself, for he had told her much and she had heard it all, even + through the mists of her changing moods. And now that he was silent she + longed to hear him speak again. She could never weary of that voice. It + had been music to her in the days when it had been full of cold + indifference—now each vibration roused high harmonies in her heart, + each note was a full chord, and all the chords made but one great + progression. She longed to hear it all again, wondering greatly how it + could never have been not good to hear. + </p> + <p> + Then with the greater temptation came the less, enclosed within it, + suddenly revealed to her. There was but one thing she hated in it all. + That was the name. Would he not give her another—her own perhaps? + She trembled as she thought of speaking. Would she still have Beatrice’s + voice? Might not her own break down the spell and destroy all at once? Yet + she had spoken once before. She had told him that she loved him and he had + not been undeceived. + </p> + <p> + “Beloved—” she said at last, lingering on the single word and then + hesitating. + </p> + <p> + He looked into her face as he drew her to him, with happy eyes. She might + speak, then, for he would hear tones not hers. + </p> + <p> + “Beloved, I am tired of my name. Will you not call me by another?” She + spoke very softly. + </p> + <p> + “By another name?” he exclaimed, surprised, but smiling at what seemed a + strange caprice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It is a sad name to me. It reminds me of many things—of a time + that is better forgotten since it is gone. Will you do it for me? It will + make it seem as though that time had never been.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet I love your own name,” he said, thoughtfully. “It is so much—or + has been so much in all these years, when I had nothing but your name to + love.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you not do it? It is all I ask.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I will, if you would rather have it so. Do you think there is + anything that I would not do if you asked it of me?” + </p> + <p> + They were almost the words she had spoken to him that night when they were + watching together by Israel Kafka’s side. She recognised them and a + strange thrill of triumph ran through her. What matter how? What matter + where? The old reckless questions came to her mind again. If he loved her, + and if he would but call her Unorna, what could it matter, indeed? Was she + not herself? She smiled unconsciously. + </p> + <p> + “I see it pleases you,” he said tenderly. “Let it be as you wish. What + name will you choose for your dear self?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. She could not tell how far he might remember what was past. + And yet, if he had remembered he would have seen where he was in the long + time that had passed since his awakening. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever—in your long travels—hear the name Unorna?” she + asked with a smile and a little hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna? No. I cannot remember. It is a Bohemian word—it means ‘she + of February.’ It has a pretty sound—half familiar to me. I wonder + where I have heard it.” + </p> + <p> + “Call me Unorna, then. It will remind us that you found me in February.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV + </h2> + <p> + After carefully locking and bolting the door of the sacristy Sister Paul + turned to Beatrice. She had set down her lamp upon the broad, polished + shelf which ran all round the place, forming the top of a continuous + series of cupboards, as in most sacristies, used for the vestments of the + church. At the back of these high presses rose half way to the spring of + the vault. + </p> + <p> + The nun seemed a little nervous and her voice quavered oddly as she spoke. + If she had tried to take up her lamp her hand would have shaken. In the + moment of danger she had been brave and determined, but now that all was + over her enfeebled strength felt the reaction from the strain. She turned + to Beatrice and met her flashing black eyes. The young girl’s delicate + nostrils quivered and her lips curled fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “You are angry, my dear child,” said Sister Paul. “So am I, and it seems + to me that our anger is just enough. ‘Be angry and sin not.’ I think we + can apply that to ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is that woman?” Beatrice asked. She was certainly angry, as the nun + had said, but she felt by no means sure that she could resist the + temptation of sinning if it presented itself as the possibility of tearing + Unorna to pieces. + </p> + <p> + “She was once with us,” the nun answered. “I knew her when she was a mere + girl—and I loved her then, in spite of her strange ways. But she has + changed. They call her a Witch—and indeed I think it is the only + name for her.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not believe in witches,” said Beatrice, a little scornfully. “But + whatever she is, she is bad. I do not know what it was that she wanted me + to do in the church, upon the altar there—it was something horrible. + Thank God you came in time! What could it have been, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + Sister Paul shook her head sorrowfully, but said nothing. She knew no more + than Beatrice of Unorna’s intention, but she believed in the existence of + a Black Art, full of sacrilegious practices, and credited Unorna vaguely + with the worst designs which she could think of, though in her goodness + she was not able to imagine anything much worse than the saying of a <i>Pater + Noster</i> backwards in a consecrated place. But she preferred to say + nothing, lest she should judge Unorna unjustly. After all, she did not + know. What she had seen had seemed bad enough and strange enough, but + apart from the fact that Beatrice had been found upon the altar, where she + certainly had no business to be, and that Unorna had acted like a guilty + woman, there was little to lay hold of in the way of fact. + </p> + <p> + “My child,” she said at last, “until we know more of the truth, and have + better advice than we can give each other, let us not speak of it to any + one of the sisters. In the morning I will tell all I have seen in + confession, and then I shall get advice. Perhaps you should do the same. I + know nothing of what happened before you left your room. Perhaps you have + something to reproach yourself with. It is not for me to ask. Think it + over.” + </p> + <p> + “I will tell you the whole truth,” Beatrice answered, resting her elbow + upon the polished shelf and supporting her head in her hand, while she + looked earnestly into Sister Paul’s faded eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Think well, my daughter. I have no right to any confession from you. If + there is anything——” + </p> + <p> + “Sister Paul—you are a woman, and I must have a woman’s help. I have + learned something to-night which will change my whole life. No—do + not be afraid—I have done nothing wrong. At least, I hope not. While + my father lived, I submitted. I hoped, but I gave no sign. I did not even + write, as I once might have done. I have often wished that I had—was + that wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “But you have told me nothing, dear child. How can I answer you?” The nun + was perplexed. + </p> + <p> + “True. I will tell you. Sister Paul—I am five-and-twenty years old, + I am a grown woman and this is no mere girl’s love story. Seven years ago—I + was only eighteen then—I was with my father as I have been ever + since. My mother had not been dead long then—perhaps that is the + reason why I seemed to be everything to my father. But they had not been + happy together, and I had loved her best. We were travelling—no + matter where—and then I met the man I have loved. He was not of our + country—that is, of my father’s. He was of the same people as my + mother. Well—I loved him. How dearly you must guess, and try to + understand. I could not tell you that. No one could. It began gradually, + for he was often with us in those days. My father liked him for his wit, + his learning, though he was young; for his strength and manliness—for + a hundred reasons which were nothing to me. I would have loved him had he + been a cripple, poor, ignorant, despised, instead of being what he was—the + grandest, noblest man God ever made. For I did not love him for his face, + nor for his courtly ways, nor for such gifts as other men might have, but + for himself and for his heart—do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “For his goodness,” said Sister Paul, nodding in approval. “I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” Beatrice answered, half impatiently. “Not for his goodness either. + Many men are good, and so was he—he must have been, of course. No + matter. I loved him. That is enough. He loved me, too. And one day we were + alone, in the broad spring sun, upon a terrace. There were lemon trees + there—I can see the place. Then we told each other that we loved—but + neither of us could find the words—they must be somewhere, those + strong beautiful words that could tell how we loved. We told each other—” + </p> + <p> + “Without your father’s consent?” asked the nun almost severely. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice’s eyes flashed. “Is a woman’s heart a dog that must follow at + heel?” she asked fiercely. “We loved. That was enough. My father had the + power, but not the heart, to come between. We told him, then, for we were + not cowards. We told him boldly that it must be. He was a thoughtful man, + who spoke little. He said that we must part at once, before we loved each + other better—and that we should soon forget. We looked at each + other, the man I loved and I. We knew that we should love better yet, + parted or together, though we could not tell how that could be. But we + knew also that such love as there was between us was enough. My father + gave no reasons, but I knew that he hated the name of my mother’s nation. + Of course we met again. I remember that I could cry in those days. My + father had not learned to part us then. Perhaps he was not quite sure + himself, at all events the parting did not come so soon. We told him that + we would wait, for ever if it must be. He may have been touched, though + little touched him at the best. Then, one day, suddenly and without + warning, he took me away to another city. And what of him? I asked. He + told me that there was an evil fever in the city and that it had seized + him—the man I loved. ‘He is free to follow us if he pleases,’ said + my father. But he never came. Then followed a journey, and another, and + another, until I knew that my father was travelling to avoid him. When I + saw that I grew silent, and never spoke his name again. Farther and + farther, longer and longer, to the ends of the earth. We saw many people, + many asked for my hand. Sometimes I heard of him, from men who had seen + him lately. I waited patiently, for I knew that he was on our track, and + sometimes I felt that he was near.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice paused. + </p> + <p> + “It is a strange story,” said Sister Paul, who had rarely heard a tale of + love. + </p> + <p> + “The strange thing is this,” Beatrice answered. “That woman—what is + her name? Unorna? She loves him, and she knows where he is.” + </p> + <p> + “Unorna?” repeated the nun in bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She met me after Compline to-night. I could not but speak to her, + and then I was deceived. I cannot tell whether she knew what I am to him, + but she deceived me utterly. She told me a strange story of her own life. + I was lonely. In all those years I have never spoken of what has filled + me. I cannot tell how it was. I began to speak, and then I forgot that she + was there, and told all.” + </p> + <p> + “She made you tell her, by her secret arts,” said Sister Paul in a low + voice. + </p> + <p> + “No—I was lonely and I believed that she was good, and I felt that I + must speak. Then—I cannot think how I could have been so mad—but + I thought that we should never meet again, and I showed her a likeness of + him. She turned on me. I shall not forget her face. I heard her say that + she knew him and loved him too. When I awoke I was lying on the altar. + That is all I know.” + </p> + <p> + “Her evil arts, her evil arts,” repeated the nun, shaking her head. “Come, + my dear child, let us see if all is in order there, upon the altar. If + these things are to be known they must be told in the right quarter. The + sacristan must not see that any one has been in the church.” + </p> + <p> + Sister Paul took up the lamp, but Beatrice laid a hand upon her arm. + </p> + <p> + “You must help me to find him,” she said firmly. “He is not far away.” + </p> + <p> + Her companion looked at her in astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Help you to find him?” she stammered. “But I cannot—I do not know—I + am afraid it is not right—an affair of love—” + </p> + <p> + “An affair of life, Sister Paul, and of death too, perhaps. This woman + lives in Prague. She is rich and must be well known—” + </p> + <p> + “Well known, indeed. Too well known—the Witch they call her.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there are those who know her. Tell me the name of one person only—it + is impossible that you should not remember some one who is acquainted with + her, who has talked with you of her—perhaps one of the ladies who + have been here in retreat.” + </p> + <p> + The nun was silent for a moment, gathering her recollections. + </p> + <p> + “There is one, at least, who knows her,” she said at length. “A great lady + here—it is said that she, too, meddles with forbidden practices and + that Unorna has often been with her—that together they have called + up the spirits of the dead with strange rappings and writings. She knows + her, I am sure, for I have talked with her and she says it is all natural, + and that there is a learned man with them sometimes, who explains how all + such things may happen in the course of nature—a man—let me + see, let me see—it is George, I think, but not as we call it, not + Jirgi, nor Jegor—no—it sounds harder—Ke-Keyrgi—no, + Keyork—Keyork Aribi——” + </p> + <p> + “Keyork Arabian!” exclaimed Beatrice. “Is he here?” + </p> + <p> + “You know him?” Sister Paul looked almost suspiciously at the young girl. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I do. He was with us in Egypt once. He showed us wonderful things + among the tombs. A strange little man, who knew everything, but very + amusing.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know. But that is his name. He lives in Prague.” + </p> + <p> + “How can I find him? I must see him at once—he will help me.” + </p> + <p> + The nun shook her head with disapproval. + </p> + <p> + “I should be sorry that you should talk with him,” she said. “I fear he is + no better than Unorna, and perhaps worse.” + </p> + <p> + “You need not fear,” Beatrice answered, with a scornful smile. “I am not + in the least afraid. Only tell me how I am to find him. He lives here, you + say—is there no directory in the convent?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe the portress keeps such a book,” said Sister Paul still shaking + her head uneasily. “But you must wait until the morning, my dear child, if + you will do this thing. Of the two, I should say that you would do better + to write to the lady. Come, we must be going. It is very late.” + </p> + <p> + She had taken the lamp again and was moving slowly towards the door. + Beatrice had no choice but to submit. It was evident that nothing more + could be done at present. The two women went back into the church, and + going round the high altar began to examine everything carefully. The only + trace of disorder they could discover was the fallen candlestick, so + massive and strong that it was not even bent or injured. They climbed the + short wooden steps, and uniting their strength, set it up again, carefully + and in its place, restoring the thick candle to the socket. Though broken + in the middle by the fall, the heavy wax supported itself easily enough. + Then they got down again and Sister Paul took away the steps. For a few + moments both women knelt down before the altar. + </p> + <p> + They left the church by the nuns’ staircase, bolting the door behind them, + and ascended to the corridors and reached Beatrice’s room. Unorna’s door + was open, as the nun had left it, and the yellow light streamed upon the + pavement. She went in and extinguished the lamp, and then came back to + Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “Are you not afraid to be alone after what has happened?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Afraid? Of what? No, indeed.” Then she thanked her companion again and + kissed Sister Paul’s waxen cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Say a prayer, my daughter—and may all be well with you, now and + ever!” said the good sister as she went away through the darkness. She + needed no light in the familiar way to her cell. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice searched among her numerous belongings and at last brought out a + writing-case. Then she sat down to her table by the light of the lamp that + had illuminated so many strange sights that night. + </p> + <p> + She wrote the name of the convent clearly upon the paper, and then wrote a + plain message in the fewest possible words. Something of her strong, + devoted nature showed itself in her handwriting. + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice Varanger begs that Keyork Arabian will meet her in the parlour + of the convent as soon after receiving this as possible. The matter is + very important.” + </p> + <p> + She had reasons of her own for believing that Keyork had not forgotten her + in the five years or more since they had been in Egypt together. Apart + from the fact that his memory had always been surprisingly good, he had at + that time professed the most unbounded admiration for her, and she + remembered with a smile his quaint devotion, his fantastic courtesy, and + his gnome-like attempts at grace. + </p> + <p> + She folded the note, to wait for the address which she could not ascertain + until the morning. She could do nothing more. It was nearly two o’clock + and there was evidently nothing to be done but to sleep. + </p> + <p> + As she laid her head upon the pillow a few minutes later she was amazed at + her own calm. Strong natures, in great tests, often surprise themselves + far more than they surprise others. Others see the results, always simpler + in proportion as they are greater. But the actors themselves alone know + how hard the great and simple can seem. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice’s calmness was not only of the outward kind at the present + moment. She felt that she was alone in the world, and that she had taken + her life into her own hands. Fate had lent her the clue of her happiness + at last and she would hold it firmly to the end. It would be time enough + then to open the flood-gates. It would have been unlike her to dwell long + upon the thought of Unorna or to give way to any passionate outbreak of + hatred. Why should Unorna not love him? The whole world loved him, and + small wonder. She feared no rival. + </p> + <p> + But he was near her now. Her heart leaped as she realised how very near he + might well be, then sank again to its calm beating. He had been near her a + score of times in the past years, and yet they had not met. But she had + not been free, then, as she was now. There was more hope than before, but + she could not delude herself with any belief in a certainty. + </p> + <p> + So thinking, and so saying to herself, she fell asleep, and slept soundly + without dreaming as most people do who are young and strong, and who are + clear-headed and active when they are awake. + </p> + <p> + It was late when she opened her eyes, and the broad cold light filled the + room. She lost no time in thinking over the events of the night, for + everything was fresh in her memory. Half dressed, she wrapped about her a + cloak that came down to her feet, and throwing a black veil over her hair + she went down to the portress’s lodge. In five minutes she had found + Keyork’s address and had despatched one of the convent gardeners with the + note. Then she leisurely returned to her room and set about completing her + toilet. She naturally supposed that an hour or two must elapse before she + received an answer, certainly before Keyork appeared in person, a fact + which showed that she had forgotten something of the man’s + characteristics. + </p> + <p> + Twenty minutes had scarcely passed, and she had not finished dressing when + Sister Paul entered the room, evidently in a state of considerable + anxiety. As has been seen, it chanced to be her turn to superintend the + guest’s quarters at that time, and the portress had of course informed her + immediately of Keyork’s coming, in order that she might tell Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “He is there!” she said, as she came in. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice was standing before the little mirror that hung upon the wall, + trying, under no small difficulties, to arrange her hair. He turned her + head quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Who is there? Keyork Arabian?” + </p> + <p> + Sister Paul nodded, glad that she was not obliged to pronounce the name + that had for her such an unChristian sound. + </p> + <p> + “Where is he? I did not think he could come so soon. Oh, Sister Paul, do + help me with my hair! I cannot make it stay.” + </p> + <p> + “He is in the parlour, down stairs,” answered the nun, coming to her + assistance. “Indeed, child, I do not see how I can help you.” She touched + the black coils ineffectually. “There! Is that better?” she asked in a + timid way. “I do not know how to do it—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” Beatrice exclaimed. “Hold that end—so—now turn it + that way—no, the other way—it is in the glass—so—now + keep it there while I put in a pin—no, no—in the same place, + but the other way—oh, Sister Paul! Did you never do your hair when + you were a girl?” + </p> + <p> + “That was so long ago,” answered the nun meekly. “Let me try again.” + </p> + <p> + The result was passably satisfactory at last, and assuredly not wanting in + the element of novelty. + </p> + <p> + “Are you not afraid to go alone?” asked Sister Paul with evident + preoccupation, as Beatrice put a few more touches to her toilet. + </p> + <p> + But the young girl only laughed and made the more haste. Sister Paul + walked with her to the head of the stairs, wishing that the rules would + allow her to accompany Beatrice into the parlour. Then as the latter went + down the nun stood at the top looking after her and audibly repeating + prayers for her preservation. + </p> + <p> + The convent parlour was a large, bare room, lighted by a high and grated + window. Plain, straight, modern chairs were ranged against the wall at + regular intervals. There was no table, but a square piece of green carpet + lay upon the middle of the stone pavement. A richly ornamented glazed + earthenware stove, in which a fire had just been lighted, occupied one + corner, a remnant of former aesthetic taste and strangely out of place + since the old carved furniture was gone. A crucifix of inferior + workmanship and realistically painted hung opposite the door. The place + was reserved for the use of ladies in retreat and was situated outside the + constantly closed door which shut off the cloistered part of the convent + from the small portion accessible to outsiders. + </p> + <p> + Keyork Arabian was standing in the middle of the parlour waiting for + Beatrice. When she entered at last he made two steps forward, bowing + profoundly, and then smiled in a deferential manner. + </p> + <p> + “My dear lady,” he said, “I am here. I have lost no time. It so happened + that I received your note just as I was leaving my carriage after a + morning drive. I had no idea that you were in Bohemia.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. It was good of you to come so soon.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down upon one of the stiff chairs and motioned to him to follow + her example. + </p> + <p> + “And your dear father—how is he?” inquired Keyork with suave + politeness, as he took his seat. + </p> + <p> + “My father died a week ago,” said Beatrice gravely. + </p> + <p> + Keyork’s face assumed all the expression of which it was capable. “I am + deeply grieved,” he said, moderating his huge voice to a soft and purring + sub-bass. “He was an old and valued friend.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s silence. Keyork, who knew many things, was well aware + that a silent feud, of which he also knew the cause, had existed between + father and daughter when he had last been with them, and he rightly judged + from his knowledge of their obstinate characters that it had lasted to the + end. He thought therefore that his expression of sympathy had been + sufficient and could pass muster. + </p> + <p> + “I asked you to come,” said Beatrice at last, “because I wanted your help + in a matter of importance to myself. I understand that you know a person + who calls herself Unorna, and who lives here.” + </p> + <p> + Keyork’s bright blue eyes scrutinized her face. He wondered how much she + knew. + </p> + <p> + “Very well indeed,” he answered, as though not at all surprised. + </p> + <p> + “You know something of her life, then. I suppose you see her very often, + do you not?” + </p> + <p> + “Daily, I can almost say.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you any objection to answering one question about her?” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty if you ask them, and if I know the answers,” said Keyork, + wondering what form the question would take, and preparing to meet a + surprise with indifference. + </p> + <p> + “But will you answer me truly?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear lady, I pledge you my sacred word of honour,” Keyork answered + with immense gravity, meeting her eyes and laying his hand upon his heart. + </p> + <p> + “Does she love that man—or not?” Beatrice asked, suddenly showing + him the little miniature of the Wanderer, which she had taken from its + case and had hitherto concealed in her hand. + </p> + <p> + She watched every line of his face for she knew something of him, and in + reality put very little more faith in his word of honour than he did + himself, which was not saying much. But she had counted upon surprising + him, and she succeeded, to a certain extent. His answer did not come as + glibly as he could have wished, though his plan was soon formed. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it! Ah, dear me! My old friend. We call him the Wanderer. Well, + Unorna certainly knew him when he was here.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he is gone?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I am not quite sure,” said Keyork, regaining all his + self-possession. “Of course I can find out for you, if you wish to know. + But as regards Unorna, I can tell you nothing. They were a good deal + together at one time. I fancy he was consulting her. You have heard that + she is a clairvoyant, I daresay.” + </p> + <p> + He made the last remark quite carelessly, as though he attached no + importance to the fact. + </p> + <p> + “Then you do not know whether she loves him?” + </p> + <p> + Keyork indulged himself with a little discreet laughter, deep and musical. + </p> + <p> + “Love is a very vague word,” he said presently. + </p> + <p> + “Is it?” Beatrice asked, with some coldness. + </p> + <p> + “To me, at least,” Keyork hastened to say, as though somewhat confused. + “But, of course, I can know very little about it in myself, and nothing + about it in others.” + </p> + <p> + Not knowing how matters might turn out, he was willing to leave Beatrice + with a suspicion of the truth, while denying all knowledge of it. + </p> + <p> + “You know him yourself, of course,” Beatrice suggested. + </p> + <p> + “I have known him for years—oh, yes, for him, I can answer. He was + not in the least in love.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not ask that question,” said Beatrice rather haughtily. “I knew he + was not.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, of course. I beg your pardon!” + </p> + <p> + Keyork was learning more from her than she from him. It was true that she + took no trouble to conceal her interest in the Wanderer and his doings. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure that he has left the city?” Beatrice asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, I am not positive. I could not say with certainty.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you see him last?” + </p> + <p> + “Within the week, I am quite sure,” Keyork answered with alacrity. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where he was staying?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not the least idea,” the little man replied, without the slightest + hesitation. “We met at first by chance in the Teyn Kirche, one afternoon—it + was a Sunday, I remember, about a month ago.” + </p> + <p> + “A month ago—on a Sunday,” Beatrice repeated thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I think it was New Year’s Day, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Strange,” she said. “I was in the church that very morning, with my maid. + I had been ill for several days—I remember how cold it was. Strange—the + same day.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Keyork, noting the words, but appearing to take no notice of + them. “I was looking at Tycho Brahe’s monument. You know how it annoys me + to forget anything—there was a word in the inscription which I could + not recall. I turned round and saw him sitting just at the end of the pew + nearest to the monument.” + </p> + <p> + “The old red slab with a figure on it, by the last pillar?” Beatrice asked + eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. I daresay you know the church very well. You remember that the + pew runs very near to the monument so that there is hardly room to pass.” + </p> + <p> + “I know—yes.” + </p> + <p> + She was thinking that it could hardly have been a mere accident which had + led the Wanderer to take the very seat she had occupied on the morning of + that day. He must have seen her during the Mass, but she could not imagine + how he could have missed her. They had been very near then. And now, a + whole month had passed, and Keyork Arabian professed not to know whether + the Wanderer was still in the city or not. + </p> + <p> + “Then you wish to be informed of our friend’s movements, as I understand + it?” said Keyork going back to the main point. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—what happened on that day?” Beatrice asked, for she wished to + hear more. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, on that day? Yes. Well, nothing happened worth mentioning. We talked + a little and went out of the church and walked a little way together. I + forget when we met next, but I have seen him at least a dozen times since + then, I am sure.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice began to understand that Keyork had no intention of giving her + any further information. She reflected that she had learned much in this + interview. The Wanderer had been, and perhaps still was, in Prague. Unorna + loved him and they had been frequently together. He had been in the Teyn + Kirche on the day she had last been there herself, and in all probability + he had seen her, since he had chosen the very seat in which she had sat. + Further, she gathered that Keyork had some interest in not speaking more + frankly. She gave up the idea of examining him any further. He was a man + not easily surprised, and it was only by means of a surprise that he could + be induced to betray even by a passing expression what he meant to + conceal. Her means of attack were exhausted for the present. She + determined at least to repeat her request clearly before dismissing him, + in the hope that it might suit his plans to fulfil it, but without the + least trust in his sincerity. + </p> + <p> + “Will you be so kind as to make some inquiry, and let me know the result + to-day?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I will do everything to give you an early answer,” said Keyork. “And I + shall be the more anxious to obtain one without delay in order that I may + have the very great pleasure of visiting you again. There is much that I + would like to ask you, if you would allow me. For old friends, as I trust + I may say that we are, you must admit that we have exchanged few—very + few—confidences this morning. May I come again to-day? It would be + an immense privilege to talk of old times with you, of our friends in + Egypt and of our many journeys. For you have no doubt travelled much since + then. Your dear father,” he lowered his voice reverentially, “was a great + traveller, as well as a very learned man. Ah, well, my dear lady—we + must all make up our minds to undertake that great journey one of these + days. But I pain you. I was very much attached to your dear father. + Command all my service. I will come again in the course of the day.” + </p> + <p> + With many sympathetic smiles and half-comic inclinations of his short, + broad body, the little man bowed himself out. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI + </h2> + <p> + Unorna drew one deep breath when she first heard her name fall with a + loving accent from the Wanderer’s lips. Surely the bitterness of despair + was past since she was loved and not called Beatrice. The sigh that came + then was of relief already felt, the forerunner, as she fancied, too, of a + happiness no longer dimmed by shadows of fear and mists of rising remorse. + Gazing into his eyes, she seemed to be watching in their reflection a + magic change. She had been Beatrice to him, Unorna to herself, but now the + transformation was at hand—now it was to come. For him she loved, + and who loved her, she was Unorna even to the name, in her own thoughts + she had taken the dark woman’s face. She had risked all upon the chances + of one throw and she had won. So long as he had called her by another’s + name the bitterness had been as gall mingled in the wine of love. But now + that too was gone. She felt that it was complete at last. Her golden head + sank peacefully upon his shoulder in the morning light. + </p> + <p> + “You have been long in coming, love,” she said, only half consciously, + “but you have come as I dreamed—it is perfect now. There is nothing + wanting any more.” + </p> + <p> + “It is all full, all real, all perfect,” he answered, softly. + </p> + <p> + “And there is to be no more parting, now——” + </p> + <p> + “Neither here, nor afterwards, beloved.” + </p> + <p> + “Then this is afterwards. Heaven has nothing more to give. What is Heaven? + The meeting of those who love—as we have met. I have forgotten what + it was to live before you came——” + </p> + <p> + “For me, there is nothing to remember between that day and this.” + </p> + <p> + “That day when you fell ill,” Unorna said, “the loneliness, the fear for + you——” + </p> + <p> + Unorna scarcely knew that it had not been she who had parted from him so + long ago. Yet she was playing a part, and in the semi-consciousness of her + deep self-illusion it all seemed as real as a vision in a dream so often + dreamed that it has become part of the dreamer’s life. Those who fall by + slow degrees under the power of the all-destroying opium remember + yesterday as being very far, very long past, and recall faint memories of + last year as though a century had lived and perished since then, seeing + confusedly in their own lives the lives of others, and other existences in + their own, until identity is almost gone in the endless transmigration of + their souls from the shadow in one dream-tale to the wraith of themselves + that dreams the next. So, in that hour, Unorna drifted through the + changing scenes that a word had power to call up, scarce able, and wholly + unwilling, to distinguish between her real and her imaginary self. What + matter how? What matter where? The very questions which at first she had + asked herself came now but faintly as out of an immeasurable distance, and + always more faintly still. They died away in her ears, as when, after long + waiting, and false starts, and turnings back and anxious words exchanged, + the great race is at last begun, the swift long limbs are gathered and + stretched and strained and gathered again, the thunder of flying hoofs is + in the air, and the rider, with low hands, and head inclined and eyes bent + forward, hears the last anxious word of parting counsel tremble and die in + the rush of the wind behind. + </p> + <p> + She had really loved him throughout all those years; she had really sought + him and mourned for him and longed for a sight of his face; they had + really parted and had really found each other but a short hour since; + there was no Beatrice but Unorna and no Unorna but Beatrice, for they were + one and indivisible and interchangeable as the glance of a man’s two eyes + that look on one fair sight; each sees alone, the same—but seeing + together, the sight grows doubly fair. + </p> + <p> + “And all the sadness, where is it now?” she asked. “And all the emptiness + of that long time? It never was, my love—it was yesterday we met. We + parted yesterday, to meet to-day. Say it was yesterday—the little + word can undo seven years.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems like yesterday,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I can almost think so, now, for it was all night between. But not + quite dark, as night is sometimes. It was a night full of stars—each + star was a thought of you, that burned softly and showed me where heaven + was. And darkest night, they say, means coming morning—so when the + stars went out I knew the sun must rise.” + </p> + <p> + The words fell from her lips naturally. To her it seemed true that she had + indeed waited long and hoped and thought of him. And it was not all false. + Ever since her childhood she had been told to wait, for her love would + come and would come only once. And so it was true, and the dream grew + sweeter and the illusion of the enchantment more enchanting still. For it + was an enchantment and a spell that bound them together there, among the + flowers, the drooping palms, the graceful tropic plants and the shadowy + leaves. And still the day rose higher, but still the lamps burned on, fed + by the silent, mysterious current that never tires, blending a real light + with an unreal one, an emblem of Unorna’s self, mixing and blending, too, + with a self not hers. + </p> + <p> + “And the sun is risen, indeed,” she added presently. + </p> + <p> + “Am I the sun, dear?” he asked, foretasting the delight of listening to + her simple answer. + </p> + <p> + “You are the sun, beloved, and when you shine, my eyes can see nothing + else in heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “And what are you yourself—Beatrice—no, Unorna—is that + the name you chose? It is so hard to remember anything when I look at + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice—Unorna—anything,” came the answer, softly murmuring. + “Anything, dear, any name, any face, any voice, if only I am I, and you + are you, and we two love! Both, neither, anything—do the blessed + souls in Paradise know their own names?” + </p> + <p> + “You are right—what does it matter? Why should you need a name at + all, since I have you with me always? It was well once—it served me + when I prayed for you—and it served to tell me that my heart was + gold while you were there, as the goldsmith’s mark upon his jewel stamps + the pure metal, that all men may know it.” + </p> + <p> + “You need no sign like that to show me what you are,” said she, with a + long glance. + </p> + <p> + “Nor I to tell me you are in my heart,” he answered. “It was a foolish + speech. Would you have me wise now?” + </p> + <p> + “If wisdom is love—yes. If not——” She laughed softly. + </p> + <p> + “Then folly?” + </p> + <p> + “Then folly, madness, anything—so that this last, as last it must, + or I shall die!” + </p> + <p> + “And why should it not last? Is there any reason, in earth or Heaven, why + we two should part? If there is—I will make that reason itself + folly, and madness, and unreason. Dear, do not speak of this not lasting. + Die, you say? Worse, far worse; as much as eternal death is worse than + bodily dying. Last? Does any one know what for ever means, if we do not? + Die, we must, in these dying bodies of ours, but part—no. Love has + burned the cruel sense out of that word, and bleached its blackness white. + We wounded the devil, parting, with one kiss, we killed him with the next—this + buries him—ah, love, how sweet——” + </p> + <p> + There was neither resistance nor the thought of resisting. Their lips met + and were withdrawn only that their eyes might drink again the draught the + lips had tasted, long draughts of sweetness and liquid light and love + unfathomable. And in the interval of speech half false, the truth of what + was all true welled up from the clear depths and overflowed the falseness, + till it grew falser and more fleeting still—as a thing lying deep in + a bright water casts up a distorted image on refracted rays. + </p> + <p> + Glance and kiss, when two love, are as body and soul, supremely human and + transcendently divine. The look alone, when the lips cannot meet, is but + the disembodied spirit, beautiful even in its sorrow, sad, despairing, + saying “ever,” and yet sighing “never,” tasting and knowing all the + bitterness of both. The kiss without the glance? The body without the + soul? The mortal thing without the undying thought? Draw down the thick + veil and hide the sight, lest devils sicken at it, and lest man should + loathe himself for what man can be. + </p> + <p> + Truth or untruth, their love was real, hers as much as his. She remembered + only what her heart had been without it. What her goal might be, now that + it had come, she guessed even then, but she would not ask. Was there never + a martyr in old times, more human than the rest, who turned back, for love + perhaps, if not for fear, and said that for love’s sake life still was + sweet, and brought a milk-white dove to Aphrodite’s altar, or dropped a + rose before Demeter’s feet? There must have been, for man is man, and + woman, woman. And if in the next month, or even the next year, or after + many years, that youth or maid took heart to bear a Christian’s death, was + there then no forgiveness, no sign of holy cross upon the sandstone in the + deep labyrinth of graves, no crown, no sainthood, and no reverent memory + of his name or hers among those of men and women worthier, perhaps, but + not more suffering? + </p> + <p> + No one can kill Self. No one can be altogether another, save in the + passing passion of a moment’s acting. I—in that syllable lies the + whole history of each human life; in that history lives the individuality; + in the clear and true conception of that individuality dwells such joint + foreknowledge of the future as we can have, such vague solution as to us + is possible of that vast equation in which all quantities are unknown save + that alone, that I which we know as we can know nothing else. + </p> + <p> + “Bury it!” she said. “Bury that parting—the thing, the word, and the + thought—bury it with all others of its kind, with change, and old + age, and stealing indifference, and growing coldness, and all that cankers + love—bury them all, together, in one wide deep grave—then + build on it the house of what we are—” + </p> + <p> + “Change? Indifference? I do not know those words,” the Wanderer said. + “Have they been in your dreams, love? They have never been in mine.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke tenderly, but with the faintest echo of sadness in his voice. The + mere suggestion that such thoughts could have been near her was enough to + pain him. She was silent, and again her head lay upon his shoulder. She + found there still the rest and the peace. Knowing her own life, the + immensity of his faith and trust in that other woman were made clear by + the simple, heartfelt words. If she had been indeed Beatrice, would he + have loved her so? If it had all been true, the parting, the seven years’ + separation, the utter loneliness, the hopelessness, the despair, could she + have been as true as he? In the stillness that followed she asked herself + the question which was so near a greater and a deadlier one. But the + answer came quickly. That, at least, she could have done. She could have + been true to him, even to death. It must be so easy to be faithful when + life was but one faith. In that chord at least no note rang false. + </p> + <p> + “Change in love—indifference to you!” she cried, all at once, hiding + her lovely face in his breast and twining her arms about his neck. “No, + no! I never meant that such things could be—they are but empty + words, words one hears spoken lightly by lips that never spoke the truth, + by men and women who never had such truth to speak as you and I.” + </p> + <p> + “And as for old age,” he said, dwelling upon her speech, “what is that to + us? Let it come, since come it must. It is good to be young and fair and + strong, but would not you or I give up all that for love’s sake, each of + us of our own free will, rather than lose the other’s love?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, indeed I would!” Unorna answered. + </p> + <p> + “Then what of age? What is it after all? A few gray hairs, a wrinkle here + and there, a slower step, perhaps a dimmer glance. That is all it is—the + quiet, sunny channel between the sea of earthly joy and the ocean of + heavenly happiness. The breeze of love still fills the sails, wafting us + softly onward through the narrows, never failing, though it be softer and + softer, till we glide out, scarce knowing it, upon the broader water and + are borne swiftly away from the lost land by the first breath of heaven.” + </p> + <p> + His words brought peace and the mirage of a far-off rest, that soothed + again the little half-born doubt. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “It is better to think so. Then we need think of no other + change.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no other possible,” he answered, gently pressing the shoulder + upon which his hand was resting. “We have not waited and believed, and + trusted and loved, for seven years, to wake at last—face to face as + we are to-day—and to find that we have trusted vainly and loved two + shadows, I yours, and you mine, to find at the great moment of all that we + are not ourselves, the selves we knew, but others of like passions but of + less endurance. Have we, beloved? And if we could love, and trust, and + believe without each other, each alone, is it not all the more sure that + we shall be unchanging together? It must be so. The whole is greater than + its parts, two loves together are greater and stronger than each could be + of itself. The strength of two strands close twined together is more than + twice the strength of each.” + </p> + <p> + She said nothing. By merest chance he had said words that had waked the + doubt again, so that it grew a little and took a firmer hold in her + unwilling heart. To love a shadow, he had said, to wake and find self not + self at all. That was what might come, would come, must come, sooner or + later, said the doubt. What matter where, or when, or how? The question + came again, vaguely, faintly as a mere memory, but confidently as though + knowing its own answer. Had she not rested in his arms, and felt his + kisses and heard his voice? What matter how, indeed? It matters greatly, + said the growing doubt, rearing its head and finding speech at last. It + matters greatly, it said, for love lies not alone in voice, and kiss, and + gentle touch, but in things more enduring, which to endure must be sound + and whole and not cankered to the core by a living lie. Then came the old + reckless reasoning again: Am I not I? Is he not he? Do I not love him with + my whole strength? Does he not love this very self of mine, here as it is, + my head upon his shoulder, my hand within his hand? And if he once loved + another, have I not her place, to have and hold, that I may be loved in + her stead? Go, said the doubt, growing black and strong; go, for you are + nothing to him but a figure in his dream, disguised in the lines of one he + really loved and loves; go quickly, before it is too late, before that + real Beatrice comes and wakes him and drives you out of the kingdom you + usurp. + </p> + <p> + But she knew it was only a doubt, and had it been the truth, and had + Beatrice’s foot been on the threshold, she would not have been driven away + by fear. But the fight had begun. + </p> + <p> + “Speak to me, dear,” she said. “I must hear your voice—it makes me + know that it is all real.” + </p> + <p> + “How the minutes fly!” he exclaimed, smoothing her hair with his hand. “It + seems to me that I was but just speaking when you spoke.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems so long—” She checked herself, wondering whether an hour + had passed or but a second. + </p> + <p> + Though love be swifter than the fleeting hours, doubt can outrun a + lifetime in one beating of the heart. + </p> + <p> + “Then how divinely long it all may seem,” he answered. “But can we not + begin to think, and to make plans for to-morrow, and the next day, and for + the years before us? That will make more time for us, for with the present + we shall have the future, too. No—that is foolish again. And yet it + is so hard to say which I would have. Shall the moment linger because it + is so sweet? Or shall it be gone quickly, because the next is to be + sweeter still? Love, where is your father?” + </p> + <p> + Unorna started. The question was suggested, perhaps, by his inclination to + speak of what was to be done, but it fell suddenly upon her ears, as a + peal of thunder when the sky has no clouds. Must she lie now, or break the + spell? One word, at least, she could yet speak with truth. + </p> + <p> + “Dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Dead!” the Wanderer repeated, thoughtfully and with a faint surprise. “Is + it long ago, beloved?” he asked presently, in a subdued tone as though + fearing to wake some painful memory. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered. The great doubt was taking her heart in its strong + hands now and tearing it, and twisting it. + </p> + <p> + “And whose house is this in which I have found you, darling? Was it his?” + </p> + <p> + “It is mine,” Unorna said. + </p> + <p> + How long would he ask questions to which she could find true answers? What + question would come next? There were so many he might ask and few to which + she could reply so truthfully even in that narrow sense of truth which + found its only meaning in a whim of chance. But for a moment he asked + nothing more. + </p> + <p> + “Not mine,” she said. “It is yours. You cannot take me and yet call + anything mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Ours, then, beloved. What does it matter? So he died long ago—poor + man! And yet, it seems but a little while since some one told me—but + that was a mistake, of course. He did not know. How many years may it be, + dear one? I see you still wear mourning for him.” + </p> + <p> + “No—that was but a fancy—to-day. He died—he died more + than two years ago.” + </p> + <p> + She bent her head. It was but a poor attempt at truth, a miserable lying + truth to deceive herself with, but it seemed better than to lie the whole + truth outright, and say that her father—Beatrice’s father—had + been dead but just a week. The blood burned in her face. Brave natures, + good and bad alike, hate falsehood, not for its wickedness, perhaps, but + for its cowardice. She could do things as bad, far worse. She could lay + her hand upon the forehead of a sleeping man and inspire in him a deep, + unchangeable belief in something utterly untrue; but now, as it was, she + was ashamed and hid her face. + </p> + <p> + “It is strange,” he said, “how little men know of each other’s lives or + deaths. They told me he was alive last year. But it has hurt you to speak + of it. Forgive me, dear, it was thoughtless of me.” + </p> + <p> + He tried to lift her head, but she held it obstinately down. + </p> + <p> + “Have I pained you, Beatrice?” he asked, forgetting to call her by the + other name that was so new to him. + </p> + <p> + “No—oh, no!” she exclaimed without looking up. + </p> + <p> + “What is it then?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—it is nothing—no, I will not look at you—I am + ashamed.” That at least was true. + </p> + <p> + “Ashamed, dear heart! Of what?” + </p> + <p> + He had seen her face in spite of herself. Lie, or lose all, said a voice + within. + </p> + <p> + “Ashamed of being glad that—that I am free,” she stammered, + struggling on the very verge of the precipice. + </p> + <p> + “You may be glad of that, and yet be very sorry he is dead,” the Wanderer + said, stroking her hair. + </p> + <p> + It was true, and seemed quite simple. She wondered that she had not + thought of that. Yet she felt that the man she loved, in all his nobility + and honesty, was playing the tempter to her, though he could not know it. + Deeper and deeper she sank, yet ever more conscious that she was sinking. + Before him she felt no longer as loving woman to loving man—she was + beginning to feel as a guilty prisoner before his judge. + </p> + <p> + He thought to turn the subject to a lighter strain. By chance he glanced + at his own hand. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know this ring?” he asked, holding it before her, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I know it,” she answered, trembling again. + </p> + <p> + “You gave it to me, love, do you remember? And I gave you a likeness of + myself, because you asked for it, though I would rather have given you + something better. Have you it still?” + </p> + <p> + She was silent. Something was rising in her throat. Then she choked it + down. + </p> + <p> + “I had it in my hand last night,” she said in a breaking voice. True, once + more. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, darling? Are you crying? This is no day for tears.” + </p> + <p> + “I little thought that I should have yourself to-day,” she tried to say. + </p> + <p> + Then the tears came, tears of shame, big, hot, slow. They fell upon his + hand. She was weeping for joy, he thought. What else could any man think + in such a case? He drew her to him, and pressed her cheek with his hand as + her head nestled on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “When you put this ring on my finger, dear—so long ago——” + </p> + <p> + She sobbed aloud. + </p> + <p> + “No, darling—no, dear heart,” he said, comforting her, “you must not + cry—that long ago is over now and gone for ever. Do you remember + that day, sweetheart, in the broad spring sun upon the terrace among the + lemon trees. No, dear—your tears hurt me always, even when they are + shed in happiness—no, dear, no. Rest there, let me dry your dear + eyes—so and so. Again? For ever, if you will. While you have tears, + I have kisses to dry them—it was so then, on that very day. I can + remember. I can see it all—and you. You have not changed, love, in + all those years, more than a blossom changes in one hour of a summer’s + day! You took this ring and put it on my finger. Do you remember what I + said? I know the very words. I promised you—it needed no promise + either—that it should never leave its place until you took it back—and + you—how well I remember your face—you said that you would take + it from my hand some day, when all was well, when you should be free to + give me another in its stead, and to take one in return. I have kept my + word, beloved. Keep yours—I have brought you back the ring. Take it, + sweetheart. It is heavy with the burden of lonely years. Take it and give + me that other which I claim.” + </p> + <p> + She did not speak, for she was fighting down the choking sobs, struggling + to keep back the burning drops that scalded her cheeks, striving to gather + strength for the weight of a greater shame. Lie, or lose all, the voice + said. + </p> + <p> + Very slowly she raised her head. She knew that his hand was close to hers, + held there that she might fulfil Beatrice’s promise. Was she not free? + Could she not give him what he asked? No matter how—she tried to say + it to herself and could not. She felt his breath upon her hair. He was + waiting. If she did not act soon or speak he would wonder what held her + back—wonder—suspicion next and then? She put out her hand to + touch his fingers, half blinded, groping as though she could not see. He + made it easy for her. He fancied she was trembling, as she was weeping, + with the joy of it all. + </p> + <p> + She felt the ring, though she dared not look at it. She drew it a little + and felt that it would come off easily. She felt the fingers she loved so + well, straight, strong and nervous, and she touched them lovingly. The + ring was not tight, it would pass easily over the joint that alone kept it + in its place. + </p> + <p> + “Take it, beloved,” he said. “It has waited long enough.” + </p> + <p> + He was beginning to wonder at her hesitation as she knew he would. After + wonder would come suspicion—and then? Very slowly—it was just + upon the joint of his finger now. Should she do it? What would happen? He + would have broken his vow—unwittingly. How quickly and gladly + Beatrice would have taken it. What would she say, if they lived and met—why + should they not meet? Would the spell endure that shock—who would + Beatrice be then? The woman who had given him this ring? Or another, whom + he would no longer know? But she must be quick. He was waiting and + Beatrice would not have made him wait. + </p> + <p> + Her hand was like stone, numb, motionless, immovable, as though some + unseen being had taken it in an iron grasp and held it there, in mid-air, + just touching his. Yes—no—yes—she could not move—a + hand was clasped upon her wrist, a hand smaller than his, but strong as + fate, fixed in its grip as an iron vice. + </p> + <p> + Unorna felt a cold breath, that was not his, upon her forehead, and she + felt as though her heavy hair were rising of itself upon her head. She + knew that horror, for she had been overtaken by it once before. She was + not afraid, but she knew what it was. There was a shadow, too, and a dark + woman, tall, queenly, with deep flashing eyes was standing beside her. She + knew, before she looked; she looked, and it was there. Her own face was + whiter than that other woman’s. + </p> + <p> + “Have you come already?” she asked of the shadow, in a low despairing + tone. + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice—what has happened?” cried the Wanderer. To him, she seemed + to be speaking to the empty air and her white face startled him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, staring still, in the same hopeless voice. “It is + Beatrice. She has come for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice—beloved—do not speak like that! For God’s sake—what + do you see? There is nothing there.” + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice is there. I am Unorna.” + </p> + <p> + “Unorna, Beatrice—have we not said it should be all the same! + Sweetheart—look at me! Rest here—shut those dear eyes of + yours. It is gone now whatever it was—you are tired, dear—you + must rest.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes closed and her head sank. It was gone, as he said, and she knew + what it had been—a mere vision called up by her own over-tortured + brain. Keyork Arabian had a name for it. + </p> + <p> + Frightened by your own nerves, laughed the voice, when, if you had not + been a coward, you might have faced it down and lied again, and all would + have been well. But you shall have another chance, and lying is very easy, + even when the nerves are over-wrought. You will do better the next time. + </p> + <p> + The voice was like Keyork Arabian’s. Unstrung, almost forgetting all, she + wondered vaguely at the sound, for it was a real sound and a real voice to + her. Was her soul his, indeed, and was he drawing it on slowly, surely to + the end? Had he been behind her last night? Had he left an hour’s liberty + only to come back again and take at last what was his? + </p> + <p> + There is time yet, you have not lost him, for he thinks you mad. The voice + spoke once more. + </p> + <p> + And at the same moment the strong dear arms were again around her, again + her head was on that restful shoulder of his, again her pale face was + turned up to his, and kisses were raining on her tired eyes, while broken + words of love and tenderness made music through the tempest. + </p> + <p> + Again the vast temptation rose. How could he ever know? Who was to + undeceive him, if he was not yet undeceived? Who should ever make him + understand the truth so long as the spell lasted? Why not then take what + was given her, and when the end came, if it came, then tell all boldly? + Even then, he would not understand. Had he understood last night, when she + had confessed all that she had done before? He had not believed one word + of it, except that she loved him. Could she make him believe it now, when + he was clasping her so fiercely to his breast, half mad with love for her + himself? + </p> + <p> + So easy, too. She had but to forget that passing vision, to put her arms + about his neck, to give kiss for kiss, and loving word for loving word. + Not even that. She had but to lie there, passive, silent if she could not + speak, and it would be still the same. No power on earth could undo what + she had done, unless she willed it. Neither man nor woman could make his + clasping hands let go of her and give her up. + </p> + <p> + Be still and wait, whispered the voice, you have lost nothing yet. + </p> + <p> + But Unorna would not. She had spoken and acted her last lie. It was over. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII + </h2> + <p> + Unorna struggled for a moment. The Wanderer did not understand, but loosed + his arms, so that she was free. She rose to her feet and stood before him. + </p> + <p> + “You have dreamed all this,” she said. “I am not Beatrice.” + </p> + <p> + “Dreamed? Not Beatrice?” she heard him cry in his bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + Something more he said, but she could not catch the words. She was already + gone, through the labyrinth of the many plants, to the door through which + twelve hours earlier she had fled from Israel Kafka. She ran the faster as + she left him behind. She passed the entrance and the passage and the + vestibule beyond, not thinking whither she was going, or not caring. She + found herself in that large, well-lighted room in which the ancient + sleeper lay alone. Perhaps her instinct led her there as to a retreat + safer even than her own chamber. She knew that if she would there was + something there which she could use. + </p> + <p> + She sank into a chair and covered her face, trembling from head to foot. + For many minutes after that she could neither see nor hear—she would + hardly have felt a wound or a blow. And yet she knew that she meant to end + her life, since all that made it life was ended. + </p> + <p> + After a time, her hands fell in a despairing gesture upon her knees and + she stared about the room. Her eyes rested on the sleeper, then upon his + couch, lying as a prophet in state, the massive head raised upon a silken + pillow, the vast limbs just outlined beneath the snow-white robe, the + hoary beard flowing down over the great breast that slowly rose and fell. + </p> + <p> + To her there was a dreadful irony in that useless life, prolonged in sleep + beyond the limits of human age. Yet she had thought it worth the labour + and care and endless watchfulness it had cost for years. And now her own, + strong, young and fresh, seemed not only useless but fit only to be cut + off and cast away, as an existence that offended God and man and most of + all herself. + </p> + <p> + But if she died then, there, in that secret chamber where she and her + companion had sought the secret of life for years, if she died now—how + would all end? Was it an expiation—or a flight? Would one short + moment of half-conscious suffering pay half her debt? + </p> + <p> + She stared at the old man’s face with wide, despairing eyes. Many a time, + unknown to Keyork and once to his knowledge, she had roused the sleeper to + speak, and on the whole he had spoken truly, wisely, and well. She lacked + neither the less courage to die, nor the greater to live. She longed but + to hear one honest word, not of hope, but of encouragement, but one word + in contrast to those hideous whispered promptings that had come to her in + Keyork Arabian’s voice. How could she trust herself alone? Her evil deeds + were many—so many, that, although she had turned at last against + them, she could not tell where to strike. + </p> + <p> + “If you would only tell me!” she cried leaning over the unconscious head. + “If you would only help me. You are so old that you must be wise, and if + so very wise, then you are good! Wake, but this once, and tell me what is + right!” + </p> + <p> + The deep eyes opened and looked up to hers. The great limbs stirred, the + bony hands unclasped. There was something awe-inspiring in the ancient + strength renewed and filled with a new life. + </p> + <p> + “Who calls me?” asked the clear, deep voice. + </p> + <p> + “I, Unorna——” + </p> + <p> + “What do you ask of me?” + </p> + <p> + He had risen from his couch and stood before her, towering far above her + head. Even the Wanderer would have seemed but of common stature beside + this man of other years, of a forgotten generation, who now stood erect + and filled with a mysterious youth. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what I should do——” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what you have done.” + </p> + <p> + Then in one great confession, with bowed head and folded hands, she poured + out the story of her life. + </p> + <p> + “And I am lost!” she cried at last. “One holds my soul, and one my heart! + May not my body die? Oh, say that it is right—that I may die!” + </p> + <p> + “Die? Die—when you may yet undo?” + </p> + <p> + “Undo?” + </p> + <p> + “Undo and do. Undo the wrong and do the right.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot. The wrong is past undoing—and I am past doing right.” + </p> + <p> + “Do not blaspheme—go! Do it.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Call her—that other woman—Beatrice. Bring her to him, and him + to her.” + </p> + <p> + “And see them meet!” + </p> + <p> + She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped her lips. + </p> + <p> + “May I not die?” she cried despairingly. “May I not die—for him—for + her, for both? Would that not be enough? Would they not meet? Would they + not then be free?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you love him still?” + </p> + <p> + “With all my broken heart——” + </p> + <p> + “Then do not leave his happiness to chance alone, but go at once. There is + one little act of Heaven’s work still in your power. Make it all yours.” + </p> + <p> + His great hands rested on her shoulders and his eyes looked down to hers. + </p> + <p> + “Is it so bitter to do right?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “It is very bitter,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + Very slowly she turned, and as she moved he went beside her, gently urging + her and seeming to support her. Slowly, through vestibule and passage, + they went on and entered together the great hall of the flowers. The + Wanderer was there alone. + </p> + <p> + He uttered a short cry and sprang to meet her, but stepped back in awe of + the great white-robed figure that towered by her side. + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice!” he cried, as they passed. + </p> + <p> + “I am not Beatrice,” she answered, her downcast eyes not raised to look at + him, moving still forward under the gentle guidance of the giant’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “Not Beatrice—no—you are not she—you are Unorna! Have I + dreamed all this?” + </p> + <p> + She had passed him now, and still she would not turn her head. But her + voice came back to him as she walked on. + </p> + <p> + “You have dreamed what will very soon be true,” she said. “Wait here, and + Beatrice will soon be with you.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that I am mad,” the Wanderer cried, making one step to follow her, + then stopping short. Unorna was already at the door. The ancient sleeper + laid one hand upon her head. + </p> + <p> + “You will do it now,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I will do it—to the end,” she answered. “Thank God that I have made + you live to tell me how.” + </p> + <p> + So she went out, alone, to undo what she had done so evilly well. + </p> + <p> + The old man turned and went towards the Wanderer, who stood still in the + middle of the hall, confused, not knowing whether he had dreamed or was + really mad. + </p> + <p> + “What man are you?” he asked, as the white-robed figure approached. + </p> + <p> + “A man, as you are, for I was once young—not as you are, for I am + very old, and yet like you, for I am young again.” + </p> + <p> + “You speak in riddles. What are you doing here, and where have you sent + Unorna?” + </p> + <p> + “When I was old, in that long time between, she took me in, and I have + slept beneath her roof these many years. She came to me to-day. She told + me all her story and all yours, waking me from my sleep, and asking me + what she should do. And she is gone to do that thing of which I told her. + Wait and you will see. She loves you well.” + </p> + <p> + “And you would help her to get my love, as she had tried to get it + before?” the Wanderer asked with rising anger. “What am I to you, or you + to me, that you would meddle in my life?” + </p> + <p> + “You to me? Nothing. A man.” + </p> + <p> + “Therefore an enemy—and you would help Unorna—let me go! This + home is cursed. I will not stay in it.” The hoary giant took his arm, and + the Wanderer started at the weight and strength of the touch. + </p> + <p> + “You shall bless this house before you leave it. In this place, here where + you stand, you shall find the happiness you have sought through all the + years.” + </p> + <p> + “In Unorna?” the question was asked scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “By Unorna.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not believe you. You are mad, as I am. Would you play the prophet?” + </p> + <p> + The door opened in the distance, and from behind the screen of plants + Keyork Arabian came forward into the hall, his small eyes bright, his + ivory face set and expressionless, his long beard waving in the swing of + his walk. The Wanderer saw him first and called to him. + </p> + <p> + “Keyork—come here!” he said. “Who is this man?” + </p> + <p> + For a moment Keyork seemed speechless with amazement. But it was anger + that choked his words. Then he came on quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Who waked him?” he cried in fury. “What is this? Why is he here?” + </p> + <p> + “Unorna waked me,” answered the ancient sleeper very calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna? Again? The curse of The Three Black Angels on her! Mad again? + Sleep, go back! It is not ready yet, and you will die, and I shall lose it + all—all—all! Oh, she shall pay for this with her soul in + hell!” + </p> + <p> + He threw himself upon the giant, in an insane frenzy, clasping his arms + round the huge limbs and trying to force him backwards. + </p> + <p> + “Go! go!” he cried frantically. “It may not be too late! You may yet sleep + and live! Oh, my Experiment, my great Experiment! All lost——” + </p> + <p> + “What is this madness?” asked the Wanderer. “You cannot carry him, and he + will not go. Let him alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Madness?” yelled Keyork, turning on him. “You are the madman, you the + fool, who cannot understand! Help me to move him—you are strong and + young—together we can take him back—he may yet sleep and live—he + must and shall! I say it! Lay your hands on him—you will not help + me? Then I will curse you till you do——” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Keyork!” exclaimed the Wanderer, half pitying him. “Your big + thoughts have cracked your little brain at last.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Keyork? You call me poor Keyork? You boy! You puppet! You ball, that + we have bandied to and fro, half sleeping, half awake! It drives me mad to + see you standing there, scoffing instead of helping me!” + </p> + <p> + “You are past my help, I fear.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you not move? Are you dead already, standing on your feet and + staring at me?” + </p> + <p> + Again Keyork threw himself upon the huge old man, and stamped and + struggled and tried to move him backwards. He might as well have spent his + strength against a rock. Breathless but furious still, he desisted at + last, too much beside himself to see that he whose sudden death he feared + was stronger than he, because the great experiment had succeeded far + beyond all hope. + </p> + <p> + “Unorna has done this!” he cried, beating his forehead in impotent rage. + “Unorna has ruined me, and all,—and everything—so she has paid + me for my help! Trust a woman when she loves? Trust angels to curse God, + or Hell to save a sinner! But she shall pay, too—I have her still. + Why do you stare at me? Wait, fool! You shall be happy now. What are you + to me that I should even hate you? You shall have what you want. I will + bring you the woman you love, the Beatrice you have seen in dreams—and + then Unorna’s heart will break and she will die, and her soul—her + soul——” + </p> + <p> + Keyork broke into a peal of laughter, deep, rolling, diabolical in its + despairing, frantic mirth. He was still laughing as he reached the door. + </p> + <p> + “Her soul, her soul!” they heard him cry, between one burst and another as + he went out, and from the echoing vestibule, and from the staircase + beyond, the great laughter rolled back to them when they were left alone. + </p> + <p> + “What is it all? I cannot understand,” the Wanderer said, looking up to + the grand calm face. + </p> + <p> + “It is not always given to evil to do good, even for evil’s sake,” said + the old man. “The thing that he would is done already. The wound that he + would make is already bleeding; the heart he is gone to break is broken; + the soul that he would torture is beyond all his torments.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Unorna dead?” the Wanderer asked, turning, he knew now why, with a + sort of reverence to his companion. + </p> + <p> + “She is not dead.” + </p> + <p> + Unorna waited in the parlour of the convent. Then Beatrice came in, and + stood before her. Neither feared the other, and each looked into the + other’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I have come to undo what I have done,” Unorna said, not waiting for the + cold inquiry which she knew would come if she were silent. + </p> + <p> + “That will be hard, indeed,” Beatrice answered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It is very hard. Make it still harder if you can, I could still do + it.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you think I will believe you, or trust you?” asked the dark woman. + </p> + <p> + “I know that you will when you know how I have loved him.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you come here to tell me of your love?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And when I have told you, you will forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + “I am no saint,” said Beatrice, coldly. “I do not find forgiveness in such + abundance as you need.” + </p> + <p> + “You will find it for me. You are not bad, as I am, but you can understand + what I have done, nevertheless, for you know what you yourself would do + for the sake of him we love. No—do not be angry with me yet—I + love him and I tell you so—that you may understand.” + </p> + <p> + “At that price, I would rather not have the understanding. I do not care + to hear you say it. It is not good to hear.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet, if I did not love him as I do, I should not be here, of my own free + will, to take you to him. I came for that.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not believe you,” Beatrice answered in tones like ice. + </p> + <p> + “And yet you will, and very soon. Whether you forgive or not—that is + another matter. I cannot ask it. God knows how much easier it would have + been to die than to come here. But if I were dead you might never have + found him, nor he you, though you are so very near together. Do you think + it is easier for me to come to you, whom he loves, than it is for you to + hear me say I love him, when I come to give him to you? If you had found + it all, not as it is, but otherwise—if you had found that in these + years he had known me and loved me, as he once loved you, if he turned + from you coldly and bid you forget him, because he would be happy with me, + and because he had utterly forgotten you—would it be easy for you to + give him up?” + </p> + <p> + “He loved me then—he loves me still,” Beatrice said. “It is another + case.” + </p> + <p> + “A much more bitter case. Even then you would have the memory of his love, + which I can never have—in true reality, though I have much to + remember, in his dreams of you.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice started a little, and her brow grew dark and angry. + </p> + <p> + “Then you have tried to get what was not yours by your bad powers!” she + cried. “And you have made him sleep—and dream—what?” + </p> + <p> + “Of you.” + </p> + <p> + “And he talked of love?” + </p> + <p> + “Of love for you.” + </p> + <p> + “To you?” + </p> + <p> + “To me.” + </p> + <p> + “And dreamed that you were I? That too?” + </p> + <p> + “That I was you.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there more to tell?” Beatrice asked, growing white. “He kissed you in + that dream of his—do not tell me he did that—no, tell me—tell + me all!” + </p> + <p> + “He kissed the thing he saw, believing the lips yours.” + </p> + <p> + “More—more—is it not done yet? Can you sting again? What + else?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—save that last night I tried to kill you, body and soul.” + </p> + <p> + “And why did you not kill me?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you woke. Then the nun saved you. If she had not come, you would + have slept again, and slept for ever. And I would have let his dreams + last, and made it last—for him, I should have been the only + Beatrice.” + </p> + <p> + “You have done all this, and you ask me to forgive you?” + </p> + <p> + “I ask nothing. If you will not go to him, I will bring him to you—” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice turned away and walked across the room. + </p> + <p> + “Loved her,” she said aloud, “and talked to her of love, and kissed—” + She stopped suddenly. Then she came back again with swift steps and + grasped Unorna’s arm fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me more still—this dream has lasted long—you are man and + wife!” + </p> + <p> + “We might have been. He would still have thought me you, for months and + years. He would have had me take from his finger that ring you put there. + I tried—I tell you the whole truth—but I could not. I saw you + there beside me and you held my hand. I broke away and left him.” + </p> + <p> + “Left him of your free will?” + </p> + <p> + “I could not lie again. It was too much. He would have broken a promise if + I had stayed. I love him—so I left him.” + </p> + <p> + “Is all this true?” + </p> + <p> + “Every word.” + </p> + <p> + “Swear it to me.” + </p> + <p> + “How can I? By what shall I swear to you? Heaven itself would laugh at any + oath of mine. With my life I will answer for every word. With my soul—no—it + is not mine to answer with. Will you have my life? My last breath shall + tell you that I tell the truth. The dying do not lie.” + </p> + <p> + “You tell me that you love that man. You tell me that you made him think + in dreams that he loved you. You tell me that you might be man and wife. + And you ask me to believe that you turned back from such happiness as + would make an angel sin? If you had done this—but it is not possible—no + woman could! His words in your ear, and yet turn back? His lips on yours, + and leave him? Who could do that?” + </p> + <p> + “One who loves him.” + </p> + <p> + “What made you do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Love.” + </p> + <p> + “No—fear—nothing else——” + </p> + <p> + “Fear? And what have I to fear? My body is beyond the fear of death, as my + soul is beyond the hope of life. If it were to be done again I should be + weak. I know I should. If you could know half of what the doing cost! But + let that alone. I did it, and he is waiting for you. Will you come?” + </p> + <p> + “If I only knew it to be true——” + </p> + <p> + “How hard you make it. Yet, it was hard enough.” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice touched her arm, more gently than before, and gazed into her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “If I could believe it all I would not make it hard. I would forgive you—and + you would deserve better than that, better than anything that is mine to + give.” + </p> + <p> + “I deserve nothing and ask nothing. If you will come, you will see, and, + seeing, you will believe. And if you then forgive—well then, you + will have done far more than I could do.” + </p> + <p> + “I would forgive you freely——” + </p> + <p> + “Are you afraid to go with me?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I am afraid of something worse. You have put something here—a + hope——” + </p> + <p> + “A hope? Then you believe. There is no hope without a little belief in it. + Will you come?” + </p> + <p> + “To him?” + </p> + <p> + “To him.” + </p> + <p> + “It can but be untrue,” said Beatrice, still hesitating. “I can but go. + What of him!” she asked suddenly. “If he were living—would you take + me to him? Could you?” + </p> + <p> + She turned very pale, and her eyes stared madly at Unorna. + </p> + <p> + “If he were dead,” Unorna answered, “I should not be here.” + </p> + <p> + Something in her tone and look moved Beatrice’s heart at last. + </p> + <p> + “I will go with you,” she said. “And if I find him—and if all is + well with him—then God in Heaven repay you, for you have been braver + than the bravest I ever knew.” + </p> + <p> + “Can love save a soul as well as lose it?” Unorna asked. + </p> + <p> + Then they went away together. + </p> + <p> + They were scarcely out of sight of the convent gate when another carriage + drove up. Almost before it had stopped, the door opened and Keyork + Arabian’s short, heavy form emerged and descended hastily to the pavement. + He rang the bell furiously, and the old portress set the gate ajar and + looked out cautiously, fearing that the noisy peal meant trouble or + disturbance. + </p> + <p> + “The lady Beatrice Varanger—I must see her instantly!” cried the + little man in terrible excitement. + </p> + <p> + “She is gone out,” the portress replied. + </p> + <p> + “Gone out? Where? Alone?” + </p> + <p> + “With a lady who was here last night—a lady with unlike eyes—” + </p> + <p> + “Where? Where? Where are they gone?” asked Keyork hardly able to find + breath. + </p> + <p> + “The lady bade the coachman drive her home—but where she lives—” + </p> + <p> + “Home? To Unorna’s home? It is not true! I see it in your eyes. Witch! + Hag! Let me in! Let me in, I say! May vampires get your body and the Three + Black Angels cast lots upon your soul!” + </p> + <p> + In the storm of curses that followed, the convent door was violently shut + in his face. Within, the portress stood shaking with fear, crossing + herself again and again, and verily believing that the devil himself had + tried to force an entrance into the sacred place. + </p> + <p> + In fearful anger Keyork drew back. He hesitated one moment and then + regained his carriage. + </p> + <p> + “To Unorna’s house!” he shouted, as he shut the door with a crash. + </p> + <p> + “This is my house, and he is here,” Unorna said, as Beatrice passed before + her, under the deep arch of the entrance. + </p> + <p> + Then she lead the way up the broad staircase, and through the small outer + hall to the door of the great conservatory. + </p> + <p> + “You will find him there,” she said. “Go on alone.” + </p> + <p> + But Beatrice took her hand to draw her in. + </p> + <p> + “Must I see it all?” Unorna asked, hopelessly. + </p> + <p> + Then from among the plants and trees a great white-robed figure came out + and stood between them. Joining their hands he gently pushed them forward + to the middle of the hall where the Wanderer stood alone. + </p> + <p> + “It is done!” Unorna cried, as her heart broke. + </p> + <p> + She saw the scene she had acted so short a time before. She heard the + passionate cry, the rain of kisses, the tempest of tears. The expiation + was complete. Not a sight, not a sound was spared her. The strong arms of + the ancient sleeper held her upright on her feet. She could not fall, she + could not close her eyes, she could not stop her ears, no merciful stupor + overcame her. + </p> + <p> + “Is it so bitter to do right?” the old man asked, bending low and speaking + softly. + </p> + <p> + “It is the bitterness of death,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “It is well done,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + Then came a noise of hurried steps and a loud, deep voice, calling, + “Unorna! Unorna!” + </p> + <p> + Keyork Arabian was there. He glanced at Beatrice and the Wanderer, locked + in each other’s arms, then turned to Unorna and looked into her face. + </p> + <p> + “It has killed her,” he said. “Who did it?” + </p> + <p> + His low-spoken words echoed like angry thunder. + </p> + <p> + “Give her to me,” he said again. “She is mine—body and soul.” + </p> + <p> + But the great strong arms were around her and would not let her go. + </p> + <p> + “Save me!” she cried in failing tones. “Save me from him!” + </p> + <p> + “You have saved yourself,” said the solemn voice of the old man. + </p> + <p> + “Saved?” Keyork laughed. “From me?” He laid his hand upon her arm. Then + his face changed again, and his laughter died dismally away, and he hung + back. + </p> + <p> + “Can you forgive her?” asked the other voice. + </p> + <p> + The Wanderer stood close to them now, drawing Beatrice to his side. The + question was for them. + </p> + <p> + “Can you forgive me?” asked Unorna faintly, turning her eyes towards them. + </p> + <p> + “As we hope to find forgiveness and trust in a life to come,” they + answered. + </p> + <p> + There was a low sound in the air, unearthly, muffled, desperate as of a + strong being groaning in awful agony. When they looked, they saw that + Keyork Arabian was gone. + </p> + <p> + The dawn of a coming day rose in Unorna’s face as she sank back. + </p> + <p> + “It is over,” she sighed, as her eyes closed. + </p> + <p> + Her question was answered; her love had saved her. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Witch of Prague, by F. 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Marion Crawford + +Release Date: April 13, 2006 [EBook #3816] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WITCH OF PRAGUE *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers + + + + + +THE WITCH OF PRAGUE + +A FANTASTIC TALE + +By F. Marion Crawford + + + + +CHAPTER I + +A great multitude of people filled the church, crowded together in +the old black pews, standing closely thronged in the nave and aisles, +pressing shoulder to shoulder even in the two chapels on the right and +left of the apse, a vast gathering of pale men and women whose eyes +were sad and in whose faces was written the history of their nation. The +mighty shafts and pilasters of the Gothic edifice rose like the stems of +giant trees in a primeval forest from a dusky undergrowth, spreading out +and uniting their stony branches far above in the upper gloom. From the +clerestory windows of the nave an uncertain light descended halfway to +the depths and seemed to float upon the darkness below as oil upon the +water of a well. Over the western entrance the huge fantastic organ +bristled with blackened pipes and dusty gilded ornaments of colossal +size, like some enormous kingly crown long forgotten in the lumber +room of the universe, tarnished and overlaid with the dust of ages. +Eastwards, before the rail which separated the high altar from the +people, wax torches, so thick that a man might not span one of them with +both his hands, were set up at irregular intervals, some taller, some +shorter, burning with steady, golden flames, each one surrounded with +heavy funeral wreaths, and each having a tablet below it, whereon were +set forth in the Bohemian idiom, the names, titles, and qualities of +him or her in whose memory it was lighted. Innumerable lamps and tapers +before the side altars and under the strange canopied shrines at the +bases of the pillars, struggled ineffectually with the gloom, shedding +but a few sickly yellow rays upon the pallid faces of the persons +nearest to their light. + +Suddenly the heavy vibration of a single pedal note burst from the +organ upon the breathing silence, long drawn out, rich, voluminous, +and imposing. Presently, upon the massive bass, great chords grew up, +succeeding each other in a simple modulation, rising then with the +blare of trumpets and the simultaneous crash of mixtures, fifteenths +and coupled pedals to a deafening peal, then subsiding quickly again +and terminating in one long sustained common chord. And now, as the +celebrant bowed at the lowest step before the high altar, the voices of +the innumerable congregation joined the harmony of the organ, ringing +up to the groined roof in an ancient Slavonic melody, melancholy +and beautiful, and rendered yet more unlike all other music by the +undefinable character of the Bohemian language, in which tones softer +than those of the softest southern tongue alternate so oddly with rough +gutturals and strident sibilants. + +The Wanderer stood in the midst of the throng, erect, taller than the +men near him, holding his head high, so that a little of the light from +the memorial torches reached his thoughtful, manly face, making the +noble and passionate features to stand out clearly, while losing its +power of illumination in the dark beard and among the shadows of his +hair. His was a face such as Rembrandt would have painted, seen under +the light that Rembrandt loved best; for the expression seemed to +overcome the surrounding gloom by its own luminous quality, while the +deep gray eyes were made almost black by the wide expansion of the +pupils; the dusky brows clearly defined the boundary in the face between +passion and thought, and the pale forehead, by its slight recession into +the shade from its middle prominence, proclaimed the man of heart, the +man of faith, the man of devotion, as well as the intuitive nature of +the delicately sensitive mind and the quick, elastic qualities of the +man's finely organized, but nervous bodily constitution. The long white +fingers of one hand stirred restlessly, twitching at the fur of his +broad lapel which was turned back across his chest, and from time to +time he drew a deep breath and sighed, not painfully, but wearily and +hopelessly, as a man sighs who knows that his happiness is long past +and that his liberation from the burden of life is yet far off in the +future. + +The celebrant reached the reading of the Gospel and the men and women +in the pews rose to their feet. Still the singing of the long-drawn-out +stanzas of the hymn continued with unflagging devotion, and still the +deep accompaniment of the ancient organ sustained the mighty chorus of +voices. The Gospel over, the people sank into their seats again, not +standing, as is the custom in some countries, until the Creed had +been said. Here and there, indeed, a woman, perhaps a stranger in the +country, remained upon her feet, noticeable among the many figures +seated in the pews. The Wanderer, familiar with many lands and many +varying traditions of worship, unconsciously noted these exceptions, +looking with a vague curiosity from one to the other. Then, all at once, +his tall frame shivered from head to foot, and his fingers convulsively +grasped the yielding sable on which they lay. + +She was there, the woman he had sought so long, whose face he had not +found in the cities and dwellings of the living, neither her grave in +the silent communities of the dead. There, before the uncouth monument +of dark red marble beneath which Tycho Brahe rests in peace, there she +stood; not as he had seen her last on that day when his senses had left +him in the delirium of his sickness, not in the freshness of her bloom +and of her dark loveliness, but changed as he had dreamed in evil dreams +that death would have power to change her. The warm olive of her cheek +was turned to the hue of wax, the soft shadows beneath her velvet eyes +were deepened and hardened, her expression, once yielding and changing +under the breath of thought and feeling as a field of flowers when +the west wind blows, was now set, as though for ever, in a death-like +fixity. The delicate features were drawn and pinched, the nostrils +contracted, the colourless lips straightened out of the lines of beauty +into the mould of a lifeless mask. It was the face of a dead woman, but +it was her face still, and the Wanderer knew it well; in the kingdom +of his soul the whole resistless commonwealth of the emotions revolted +together to dethrone death's regent--sorrow, while the thrice-tempered +springs of passion, bent but not broken, stirred suddenly in the palace +of his body and shook the strong foundations of his being. + +During the seconds that followed, his eyes were riveted upon the beloved +head. Then, as the Creed ended, the vision sank down and was lost to his +sight. She was seated now, and the broad sea of humanity hid her from +him, though he raised himself the full height of his stature in the +effort to distinguish even the least part of her head-dress. To move +from his place was all but impossible, though the fierce longing to be +near her bade him trample even upon the shoulders of the throng to reach +her, as men have done more than once to save themselves from death by +fire in crowded places. Still the singing of the hymn continued, and +would continue, as he knew, until the moment of the Elevation. He +strained his hearing to catch the sounds that came from the quarter +where she sat. In a chorus of a thousand singers he fancied that he +could have distinguished the tender, heart-stirring vibration of her +tones. Never woman sang, never could woman sing again, as she had once +sung, though her voice had been as soft as it had been sweet, and tuned +to vibrate in the heart rather than in the ear. As the strains rose +and fell, the Wanderer bowed his head and closed his eyes, listening, +through the maze of sounds, for the silvery ring of her magic note. +Something he heard at last, something that sent a thrill from his ear to +his heart, unless indeed his heart itself were making music for his +ears to hear. The impression reached him fitfully, often interrupted and +lost, but as often renewing itself and reawakening in the listener the +certainty of recognition which he had felt at the sight of the singer's +face. + +He who loves with his whole soul has a knowledge and a learning which +surpass the wisdom of those who spend their lives in the study of things +living or long dead, or never animate. They, indeed, can construct +the figure of a flower from the dried web of a single leaf, or by the +examination of a dusty seed, and they can set up the scheme of life of a +shadowy mammoth out of a fragment of its skeleton, or tell the story +of hill and valley from the contemplation of a handful of earth or of +a broken pebble. Often they are right, sometimes they are driven deeper +and deeper into error by the complicated imperfections of their own +science. But he who loves greatly possesses in his intuition the +capacities of all instruments of observation which man has invented and +applied to his use. The lenses of his eyes can magnify the infinitesimal +detail to the dimensions of common things, and bring objects to his +vision from immeasurable distances; the labyrinth of his ear can choose +and distinguish amidst the harmonies and the discords of the world, +muffling in its tortuous passages the reverberation of ordinary sounds +while multiplying a hundredfold the faint tones of the one beloved +voice. His whole body and his whole intelligence form together an +instrument of exquisite sensibility whereby the perceptions of his +inmost soul are hourly tortured, delighted, caught up into ecstasy, torn +and crushed by jealousy and fear, or plunged into the frigid waters of +despair. + +The melancholy hymn resounded through the vast church, but though the +Wanderer stretched the faculty of hearing to the utmost, he could no +longer find the note he sought amongst the vibrations of the dank and +heavy air. Then an irresistible longing came upon him to turn and force +his way through the dense throng of men and women, to reach the aisle +and press past the huge pillar till he could slip between the tombstone +of the astronomer and the row of back wooden seats. Once there, he +should see her face to face. + +He turned, indeed, as he stood, and he tried to move a few steps. On all +sides curious looks were directed upon him, but no one offered to make +way, and still the monotonous singing continued until he felt himself +deafened, as he faced the great congregation. + +"I am ill," he said in a low voice to those nearest to him. "Pray let me +pass!" + +His face was white, indeed, and those who heard his words believed him. +A mild old man raised his sad blue eyes, gazed at him, and while trying +to draw back, gently shook his head. A pale woman, whose sickly features +were half veiled in the folds of a torn black shawl, moved as far as +she could, shrinking as the very poor and miserable shrink when they are +expected to make way before the rich and the strong. A lad of fifteen +stood upon tiptoe to make himself even slighter than he was and thus to +widen the way, and the Wanderer found himself, after repeated efforts, +as much as two steps distant from his former position. He was still +trying to divide the crowd when the music suddenly ceased, and the +tones of the organ died away far up under the western window. It was the +moment of the Elevation, and the first silvery tinkling of the bell, +the people swayed a little, all those who were able kneeling, and those +whose movements were impeded by the press of worshippers bending towards +the altar as a field of grain before the gale. The Wanderer turned again +and bowed himself with the rest, devoutly and humbly, with half-closed +eyes, as he strove to collect and control his thoughts in the presence +of the chief mystery of his Faith. Three times the tiny bell was rung, a +pause followed, and thrice again the clear jingle of the metal broke the +solemn stillness. Then once more the people stirred, and the soft sound +of their simultaneous motion was like a mighty sigh breathed up from the +secret vaults and the deep foundations of the ancient church; again the +pedal note of the organ boomed through the nave and aisles, and again +the thousands of human voices took up the strain of song. + +The Wanderer glanced about him, measuring the distance he must traverse +to reach the monument of the Danish astronomer and confronting it with +the short time which now remained before the end of the Mass. He saw +that in such a throng he would have no chance of gaining the position he +wished to occupy in less than half an hour, and he had not but a +scant ten minutes at his disposal. He gave up the attempt therefore, +determining that when the celebration should be over he would move +forward with the crowd, trusting to his superior stature and energy +to keep him within sight of the woman he sought, until both he and she +could meet, either just within or just without the narrow entrance of +the church. + +Very soon the moment of action came. The singing died away, the +benediction was given, the second Gospel was read, the priest and the +people repeated the Bohemian prayers, and all was over. The countless +heads began to move onward, the shuffling of innumerable feet sent +heavy, tuneless echoes through vaulted space, broken every moment by the +sharp, painful cough of a suffering child whom no one could see in the +multitude, or by the dull thud of some heavy foot striking against the +wooden seats in the press. The Wanderer moved forward with the rest. +Reaching the entrance of the pew where she had sat he was kept back +during a few seconds by the half dozen men and women who were forcing +their way out of it before him. But at the farthest end, a figure +clothed in black was still kneeling. A moment more and he might enter +the pew and be at her side. One of the other women dropped something +before she was out of the narrow space, and stooped, fumbling and +searching in the darkness. At the minute, the slight, girlish figure +rose swiftly and passed like a shadow before the heavy marble monument. +The Wanderer saw that the pew was open at the other end, and without +heeding the woman who stood in his way, he sprang upon the low seat, +passed her, stepped to the floor upon the other side and was out in +the aisle in a moment. Many persons had already left the church and the +space was comparatively free. + +She was before him, gliding quickly toward the door. Ere he could reach +her, he saw her touch the thick ice which filled the marble basin, cross +herself hurriedly and pass out. But he had seen her face again, and he +knew that he was not mistaken. The thin, waxen features were as those of +the dead, but they were hers, nevertheless. In an instant he could be by +her side. But again his progress was momentarily impeded by a number of +persons who were entering the building hastily to attend the next Mass. +Scarcely ten seconds later he was out in the narrow and dismal passage +which winds between the north side of the Teyn Kirche and the buildings +behind the Kinsky Palace. The vast buttresses and towers cast deep +shadows below them, and the blackened houses opposite absorb what +remains of the uncertain winter's daylight. To the left of the church a +low arch spans the lane, affording a covered communication between the +north aisle and the sacristy. To the right the open space is somewhat +broader, and three dark archways give access to as many passages, +leading in radiating directions and under the old houses to the streets +beyond. + +The Wanderer stood upon the steps, beneath the rich stone carvings which +set forth the Crucifixion over the door of the church, and his quick +eyes scanned everything within sight. To the left, no figure resembling +the one he sought was to be seen, but on the right, he fancied that +among a score of persons now rapidly dispersing he could distinguish +just within one of the archways a moving shadow, black against the +blackness. In an instant he had crossed the way and was hurrying through +the gloom. Already far before him, but visible and, as he believed, +unmistakable, the shade was speeding onward, light as mist, noiseless as +thought, but yet clearly to be seen and followed. He cried aloud, as he +ran, + +"Beatrice! Beatrice!" + +His strong voice echoed along the dank walls and out into the court +beyond. It was intensely cold, and the still air carried the sound +clearly to the distance. She must have heard him, she must have known +his voice, but as she crossed the open place, and the gray light fell +upon her, he could see that she did not raise her bent head nor slacken +her speed. + +He ran on, sure of overtaking her in the passage she had now entered, +for she seemed to be only walking, while he was pursuing her at a +headlong pace. But in the narrow tunnel, when he reached it, she was +not, though at the farther end he imagined that the fold of a black +garment was just disappearing. He emerged into the street, in which he +could now see in both directions to a distance of fifty yards or more. +He was alone. The rusty iron shutters of the little shops were all +barred and fastened, and every door within the range of his vision was +closed. He stood still in surprise and listened. There was no sound to +be heard, not the grating of a lock, nor the tinkling of a bell, nor the +fall of a footstep. + +He did not pause long, for he made up his mind as to what he should do +in the flash of a moment's intuition. It was physically impossible that +she should have disappeared into any one of the houses which had their +entrances within the dark tunnel he had just traversed. Apart from the +presumptive impossibility of her being lodged in such a quarter, there +was the self-evident fact that he must have heard the door opened and +closed. Secondly, she could not have turned to the right, for in that +direction the street was straight and without any lateral exit, so that +he must have seen her. Therefore she must have gone to the left, since +on that side there was a narrow alley leading out of the lane, at some +distance from the point where he was now standing--too far, indeed, for +her to have reached it unnoticed, unless, as was possible, he had been +greatly deceived in the distance which had lately separated her from +him. + +Without further hesitation, he turned to the left. He found no one +in the way, for it was not yet noon, and at that hour the people were +either at their prayers or at their Sunday morning's potations, and the +place was as deserted as a disused cemetery. Still he hastened onward, +never pausing for breath, till he found himself all at once in the +great Ring. He knew the city well, but in his race he had bestowed no +attention upon the familiar windings and turnings, thinking only of +overtaking the fleeting vision, no matter how, no matter where. Now, on +a sudden, the great, irregular square opened before him, flanked on the +one side by the fantastic spires of the Teyn Church, and the blackened +front of the huge Kinsky Palace, on the other by the half-modern Town +Hall with its ancient tower, its beautiful porch, and the graceful oriel +which forms the apse of the chapel in the second story. + +One of the city watchmen, muffled in his military overcoat, and +conspicuous by the great bunch of dark feathers that drooped from his +black hat, was standing idly at the corner from which the Wanderer +emerged. The latter thought of inquiring whether the man had seen a lady +pass, but the fellow's vacant stare convinced him that no questioning +would elicit a satisfactory answer. Moreover, as he looked across the +square he caught sight of a retreating figure dressed in black, already +at such a distance as to make positive recognition impossible. In his +haste he found no time to convince himself that no living woman could +have thus outrun him, and he instantly resumed his pursuit, gaining +rapidly upon her he was following. But it is not an easy matter to +overtake even a woman, when she has an advantage of a couple of +hundred yards, and when the race is a short one. He passed the ancient +astronomical clock, just as the little bell was striking the third +quarter after eleven, but he did not raise his head to watch the +sad-faced apostles as they presented their stiff figures in succession +at the two square windows. When the blackened cock under the small +Gothic arch above flapped his wooden wings and uttered his melancholy +crow, the Wanderer was already at the corner of the little Ring, and +he could see the object of his pursuit disappearing before him into the +Karlsgasse. He noticed uneasily that the resemblance between the woman +he was following and the object of his loving search seemed now to +diminish, as in a bad dream, as the distance between himself and her +decreased. But he held resolutely on, nearing her at every step, round +a sharp corner to the right, then to the left, to the right again, and +once more in the opposite direction, always, as he knew, approaching +the old stone bridge. He was not a dozen paces behind her as she turned +quickly a third time to the right, round the wall of the ancient house +which faces the little square over against the enormous buildings +comprising the Clementine Jesuit monastery and the astronomical +observatory. As he sprang past the corner he saw the heavy door just +closing and heard the sharp resounding clang of its iron fastening. The +lady had disappeared, and he felt sure that she had gone through that +entrance. + +He knew the house well, for it is distinguished from all others in +Prague, both by its shape and its oddly ornamented, unnaturally narrow +front. It is built in the figure of an irregular triangle, the blunt +apex of one angle facing the little square, the sides being erected on +the one hand along the Karlsgasse and on the other upon a narrow alley +which leads away towards the Jews' quarter. Overhanging passages are +built out over this dim lane, as though to facilitate the interior +communications of the dwelling, and in the shadow beneath them there is +a small door studded with iron nails which is invariably shut. The main +entrance takes in all the scant breadth of the truncated angle which +looks towards the monastery. Immediately over it is a great window, +above that another, and, highest of all, under the pointed gable, a +round and unglazed aperture, within which there is inky darkness. The +windows of the first and second stories are flanked by huge figures of +saints, standing forth in strangely contorted attitudes, black with the +dust of ages, black as all old Prague is black, with the smoke of the +brown Bohemian coal, with the dark and unctuous mists of many autumns, +with the cruel, petrifying frosts of ten score winters. + +He who knew the cities of men as few have known them, knew also +this house. Many a time had he paused before it by day and by night, +wondering who lived within its massive, irregular walls, behind those +uncouth, barbarously sculptured saints who kept their interminable watch +high up by the lozenged windows. He would know now. Since she whom +he sought had entered, he would enter too; and in some corner of that +dwelling which had long possessed a mysterious attraction for his eyes, +he would find at last that being who held power over his heart, that +Beatrice whom he had learned to think of as dead, while still believing +that somewhere she must be yet alive, that dear lady whom, dead or +living, he loved beyond all others, with a great love, passing words. + + + +CHAPTER II + +The Wanderer stood still before the door. In the freezing air, his +quick-drawn breath made fantastic wreaths of mist, white and full of +odd shapes as he watched the tiny clouds curling quickly into each other +before the blackened oak. Then he laid his hand boldly upon the chain of +the bell. He expected to hear the harsh jingling of cracked metal, but +he was surprised by the silvery clearness and musical quality of the +ringing tones which reached his ear. He was pleased, and unconsciously +took the pleasant infusion for a favourable omen. The heavy door swung +back almost immediately, and he was confronted by a tall porter in dark +green cloth and gold lacings, whose imposing appearance was made still +more striking by the magnificent fair beard which flowed down almost to +his waist. The man lifted his heavy cocked hat and held it low at +his side as he drew back to let the visitor enter. The latter had not +expected to be admitted thus without question, and paused under the +bright light which illuminated the arched entrance, intending to make +some inquiry of the porter. But the latter seemed to expect nothing of +the sort. He carefully closed the door, and then, bearing his hat in one +hand and his gold-headed staff in the other, he proceeded gravely to the +other end of the vaulted porch, opened a great glazed door and held it +back for the visitor to pass. + +The Wanderer recognized that the farther he was allowed to penetrate +unhindered into the interior of the house, the nearer he should be to +the object of his search. He did not know where he was, nor what he +might find. For all that he knew, he might be in a club, in a great +banking-house, or in some semi-public institution of the nature of a +library, an academy or a conservatory of music. There are many such +establishments in Prague, though he was not acquainted with any in which +the internal arrangements so closely resembled those of a luxurious +private residence. But there was no time for hesitation, and he ascended +the broad staircase with a firm step, glancing at the rich tapestries +which covered the walls, at the polished surface of the marble steps +on either side of the heavy carpet, and at the elaborate and beautiful +iron-work of the hand-rail. As he mounted higher, he heard the quick +rapping of an electric signal above him, and he understood that the +porter had announced his coming. Reaching the landing, he was met by a +servant in black, as correct at all points as the porter himself, and +who bowed low as he held back the thick curtain which hung before the +entrance. Without a word the man followed the visitor into a high room +of irregular shape, which served as a vestibule, and stood waiting to +receive the guest's furs, should it please him to lay them aside. To +pause now, and to enter into an explanation with a servant, would have +been to reject an opportunity which might never return. In such an +establishment, he was sure of finding himself before long in the +presence of some more or less intelligent person of his own class, of +whom he could make such inquiries as might enlighten him, and to whom he +could present such excuses for his intrusion as might seem most fitting +in so difficult a case. He let his sables fall into the hands of the +servant and followed the latter along a short passage. + +The man introduced him into a spacious hall and closed the door, leaving +him to his own reflections. The place was very wide and high and without +windows, but the broad daylight descended abundantly from above through +the glazed roof and illuminated every corner. He would have taken the +room for a conservatory, for it contained a forest of tropical trees and +plants, and whole gardens of rare southern flowers. Tall letonias, +date palms, mimosas and rubber trees of many varieties stretched their +fantastic spikes and heavy leaves half-way up to the crystal ceiling; +giant ferns swept the polished marble floor with their soft embroideries +and dark green laces; Indian creepers, full of bright blossoms, made +screens and curtains of their intertwining foliage; orchids of every +hue and of every exotic species bloomed in thick banks along the walls. +Flowers less rare, violets and lilies of the valley, closely set and +luxuriant, grew in beds edged with moss around the roots of the larger +plants and in many open spaces. The air was very soft and warm, moist +and full of heavy odours as the still atmosphere of an island in +southern seas, and the silence was broken only by the light plash of +softly-falling water. + +Having advanced a few steps from the door, the Wanderer stood still and +waited, supposing that the owner of the dwelling would be made aware +of a visitor's presence and would soon appear. But no one came. Then +a gentle voice spoke from amidst the verdure, apparently from no great +distance. + +"I am here," it said. + +He moved forward amidst the ferns and the tall plants, until he found +himself on the farther side of a thick network of creepers. Then he +paused, for he was in the presence of a woman, of her who dwelt among +the flowers. She was sitting before him, motionless and upright in a +high, carved chair, and so placed that the pointed leaves of the palm +which rose above her cast sharp, star-shaped shadows over the broad +folds of her white dress. One hand, as white, as cold, as heavily +perfect as the sculpture of a Praxiteles or a Phidias, rested with +drooping fingers on the arm of the chair. The other pressed the pages +of a great book which lay open on the lady's knee. Her face was turned +toward the visitor, and her eyes examined his face; calmly and with no +surprise in them, but not without a look of interest. Their expression +was at once so unusual, so disquieting, and yet so inexplicably +attractive as to fascinate the Wanderer's gaze. He did not remember that +he had ever seen a pair of eyes of distinctly different colours, the one +of a clear, cold gray, the other of a deep, warm brown, so dark as to +seem almost black, and he would not have believed that nature could so +far transgress the canons of her own art and yet preserve the appearance +of beauty. For the lady was beautiful, from the diadem of her red gold +hair to the proud curve of her fresh young lips; from her broad, pale +forehead, prominent and boldly modelled at the angles of the brows, to +the strong mouldings of the well-balanced chin, which gave evidence of +strength and resolution wherewith to carry out the promise of the high +aquiline features and of the wide and sensitive nostrils. + +"Madame," said the Wanderer, bending his head courteously and advancing +another step, "I can neither frame excuses for having entered your house +unbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence for my intrusion, unless you are +willing in the first place to hear my short story. May I expect so much +kindness?" + +He paused, and the lady looked at him fixedly and curiously. Without +taking her eyes from his face, and without speaking, she closed the book +she had held on her knee, and laid it beside her upon a low table. The +Wanderer did not avoid her gaze, for he had nothing to conceal, nor any +sense of timidity. He was an intruder upon the privacy of one whom he +did not know, but he was ready to explain his presence and to make such +amends as courtesy required, if he had given offence. + +The heavy odours of the flowers filled his nostrils with an unknown, +luxurious delight, as he stood there, gazing into the lady's eyes; he +fancied that a gentle breath of perfumed air was blowing softly over his +hair and face out of the motionless palms, and the faint plashing of the +hidden fountain was like an exquisite melody in his ears. It was good to +be in such a place, to look on such a woman, to breathe such odours, and +to hear such tuneful music. A dreamlike, half-mysterious satisfaction of +the senses dulled the keen self-knowledge of body and soul for one +short moment. In the stormy play of his troubled life there was a brief +interlude of peace. He tasted the fruit of the lotus, his lips were +moistened in the sweet waters of forgetfulness. + +The lady spoke at last, and the spell left him, not broken, as by a +sudden shock, but losing its strong power by quick degrees until it was +wholly gone. + +"I will answer your question by another," said the lady. "Let your reply +be the plain truth. It will be better so." + +"Ask what you will. I have nothing to conceal." + +"Do you know who and what I am? Do you come here out of curiosity, in +the vain hope of knowing me, having heard of me from others?" + +"Assuredly not." A faint flush rose in the man's pale and noble face. +"You have my word," he said, in the tone of one who is sure of being +believed, "that I have never, to my knowledge, heard of your existence, +that I am ignorant even of your name--forgive my ignorance--and that I +entered this house, not knowing whose it might be, seeking and following +after one for whom I have searched the world, one dearly loved, long +lost, long sought." + +"It is enough. Be seated. I am Unorna." + +"Unorna?" repeated the Wanderer, with an unconscious question in his +voice, as though the name recalled some half-forgotten association. + +"Unorna--yes. I have another name," she added, with a shade of +bitterness, "but it is hardly mine. Tell me your story. You loved--you +lost--you seek--so much I know. What else?" + +The Wanderer sighed. + +"You have told in those few words the story of my life--the unfinished +story. A wanderer I was born, a wanderer I am, a wanderer I must ever +be, until at last I find her whom I seek. I knew her in a strange land, +far from my birthplace, in a city where I was known but to a few, and +I loved her. She loved me, too, and that against her father's will. He +would not have his daughter wed with one not of her race; for he himself +had taken a wife among strangers, and while she was yet alive he had +repented of what he had done. But I would have overcome his reasons and +his arguments--she and I could have overcome them together, for he did +not hate me, he bore me no ill-will. We were almost friends when I last +took his hand. Then the hour of destiny came upon me. The air of that +city was treacherous and deadly. I had left her with her father, and my +heart was full of many things, and of words both spoken and unuttered. I +lingered upon an ancient bridge that spanned the river, and the sun went +down. Then the evil fever of the south laid hold upon me and +poisoned the blood in my veins, and stole the consciousness from my +understanding. Weeks passed away, and memory returned, with the strength +to speak. I learned that she I loved and her father were gone, and none +knew whither. I rose and left the accursed city, being at that time +scarce able to stand upright upon my feet. Finding no trace of those I +sought, I journeyed to their own country, for I knew where her father +held his lands. I had been ill many weeks and much time had passed, from +the day on which I had left her, until I was able to move from my bed. +When I reached the gates of her home, I was told that all had been +lately sold, and that others now dwelt within the walls. I inquired of +those new owners of the land, but neither they or any of all those whom +I questioned could tell me whither I should direct my search. The father +was a strange man, loving travel and change and movement, restless and +unsatisfied with the world, rich and free to make his own caprice his +guide through life; reticent he was, moreover, and thoughtful, not given +to speaking out his intentions. Those who administered his affairs in +his absence were honourable men, bound by his especial injunction not to +reveal his ever-varying plans. Many times, in my ceaseless search, I met +persons who had lately seen him and his daughter and spoken with them. +I was ever on their track, from hemisphere to hemisphere, from continent +to continent, from country to country, from city to city, often +believing myself close upon them, often learning suddenly that an ocean +lay between them and me. Was he eluding me, purposely, resolutely, or +was he unconscious of my desperate pursuit, being served by chance alone +and by his own restless temper? I do not know. At last, some one told me +that she was dead, speaking thoughtlessly, not knowing that I loved her. +He who told me had heard the news from another, who had received it on +hearsay from a third. None knew in what place her spirit had parted; +none knew by what manner of sickness she had died. Since then, I have +heard others say that she is not dead, that they have heard in their +turn from others that she yet lives. An hour ago, I knew not what to +think. To-day, I saw her in a crowded church. I heard her voice, though +I could not reach her in the throng, struggle how I would. I followed +her in haste, I lost her at one turning, I saw her before me at the +next. At last a figure, clothed as she had been clothed, entered your +house. Whether it was she I know not certainly, but I do know that in +the church I saw her. She cannot be within your dwelling without your +knowledge; if she be here--then I have found her, my journey is ended, +my wanderings have led me home at last. If she be not here, if I have +been mistaken, I entreat you to let me set eyes on that other whom I +mistook for her, to forgive then my mannerless intrusion and to let me +go." + +Unorna had listened with half-closed eyes, but with unfaltering +attention, watching the speaker's face from beneath her drooping lids, +making no effort to read his thoughts, but weighing his words and +impressing every detail of his story upon her mind. When he had done +there was silence for a time, broken only by the plash and ripple of the +falling water. + +"She is not here," said Unorna at last. "You shall see for yourself. +There is indeed in this house a young girl to whom I am deeply attached, +who has grown up at my side and has always lived under my roof. She is +very pale and dark, and is dressed always in black." + +"Like her I saw." + +"You shall see her again. I will send for her." Unorna pressed an ivory +key in the silver ball which lay beside her, attached to a thick cord of +white silk. "Ask Sletchna Axenia to come to me," she said to the servant +who opened the door in the distance, out of sight behind the forest of +plants. + +Amid less unusual surroundings the Wanderer would have rejected with +contempt the last remnants of his belief in the identity of Unorna's +companion, with Beatrice. But, being where he was, he felt unable to +decide between the possible and the impossible, between what he might +reasonably expect and what lay beyond the bounds of reason itself. +The air he breathed was so loaded with rich exotic perfumes, the woman +before him was so little like other women, her strangely mismatched eyes +had for his own such a disquieting attraction, all that he saw and felt +and heard was so far removed from the commonplaces of daily life as to +make him feel that he himself was becoming a part of some other person's +existence, that he was being gradually drawn away from his identity, and +was losing the power of thinking his own thoughts. He reasoned as +the shadows reason in dreamland, the boundaries of common probability +receded to an immeasurable distance, and he almost ceased to know where +reality ended and where imagination took up the sequence of events. + +Who was this woman, who called herself Unorna? He tried to consider the +question, and to bring his intelligence to bear upon it. Was she a great +lady of Prague, rich, capricious, creating a mysterious existence for +herself, merely for her own good pleasure? Her language, her voice, +her evident refinement gave colour to the idea, which was in itself +attractive to a man who had long ceased to expect novelty in this +working-day world. He glanced at her face, musing and wondering, +inhaling the sweet, intoxicating odours of the flowers and listening to +the tinkling of the hidden fountain. Her eyes were gazing into his, and +again, as if by magic, the curtain of life's stage was drawn together +in misty folds, shutting out the past, the present, and the future, the +fact, the doubt, and the hope, in an interval of perfect peace. + +He was roused by the sound of a light footfall upon the marble pavement. +Unorna's eyes were turned from his, and with something like a movement +of surprise he himself looked towards the new comer. A young girl was +standing under the shadow of a great letonia at a short distance from +him. She was very pale indeed, but not with that death-like, waxen +pallor which had chilled him when he had looked upon that other face. +There was a faint resemblance in the small, aquiline features, the dress +was black, and the figure of the girl before him was assuredly neither +much taller nor much shorter than that of the woman he loved and sought. +But the likeness went no further, and he knew that he had been utterly +mistaken. + +Unorna exchanged a few indifferent words with Axenia and dismissed her. + +"You have seen," she said, when the young girl was gone. "Was it she who +entered the house just now?" + +"Yes. I was misled by a mere resemblance. Forgive me for my +importunity--let me thank you most sincerely for your great kindness." +He rose as he spoke. + +"Do not go," said Unorna, looking at him earnestly. + +He stood still, silent, as though his attitude should explain itself, +and yet expecting that she would say something further. He felt that her +eyes were upon him, and he raised his own to meet the look frankly, as +was his wont. For the first time since he had entered her presence +he felt that there was more than a mere disquieting attraction in her +steady gaze; there was a strong, resistless fascination, from which he +had no power to withdraw himself. Almost unconsciously he resumed his +seat, still looking at her, while telling himself with a severe effort +that he would look but one instant longer and then turn away. Ten +seconds passed, twenty, half a minute, in total silence. He was +confused, disturbed, and yet wholly unable to shut out her penetrating +glance. His fast ebbing consciousness barely allowed him to wonder +whether he was weakened by the strong emotions he had felt in the +church, or by the first beginning of some unknown and unexpected malady. +He was utterly weak and unstrung. He could neither rise from his seat, +nor lift his hand, nor close the lids of his eyes. It was as though +an irresistible force were drawing him into the depths of a fathomless +whirlpool, down, down, by its endless giddy spirals, robbing him of a +portion of his consciousness at every gyration, so that he left behind +him at every instant something of his individuality, something of the +central faculty of self-recognition. He felt no pain, but he did +not feel that inexpressible delight of peace which already twice had +descended upon him. He experienced a rapid diminution of all perception, +of all feeling, of all intelligence. Thought, and the memory of thought, +ebbed from his brain and left it vacant, as the waters of a lock subside +when the gates are opened, leaving emptiness in their place. + +Unorna's eyes turned from him, and she raised her hand a moment, letting +it fall again upon her knee. Instantly the strong man was restored to +himself; his weakness vanished, his sight was clear, his intelligence +was awake. Instantly the certainty flashed upon him that Unorna +possessed the power of imposing the hypnotic sleep and had exercised +that gift upon him, unexpectedly and against his will. He would have +more willingly supposed that he had been the victim of a momentary +physical faintness, for the idea of having been thus subjected to the +influence of a woman, and of a woman whom he hardly knew, was repugnant +to him, and had in it something humiliating to his pride, or at least +to his vanity. But he could not escape the conviction forced upon him by +the circumstances. + +"Do not go far, for I may yet help you," said Unorna, quietly. "Let us +talk of this matter and consult what is best to be done. Will you accept +a woman's help?" + +"Readily. But I cannot accept her will as mine, nor resign my +consciousness into her keeping." + +"Not for the sake of seeing her whom you say you love?" + +The Wanderer was silent, being yet undetermined how to act, and still +unsteadied by what he had experienced. But he was able to reason, and he +asked of his judgment what he should do, wondering what manner of woman +Unorna might prove to be, and whether she was anything more than one of +those who live and even enrich themselves by the exercise of the unusual +faculties of powers nature has given them. He had seen many of that +class, and he considered most of them to be but half fanatics, half +charlatans, worshipping in themselves as something almost divine that +which was but a physical power, or weakness, beyond their own limited +comprehension. Though a whole school of wise and thoughtful men had +already produced remarkable results and elicited astounding facts by +sifting the truth through a fine web of closely logical experiment, +it did not follow that either Unorna, or any other self-convinced, +self-taught operator could do more than grope blindly towards the light, +guided by intuition alone amongst the varied and misleading phenomena +of hypnotism. The thought of accepting the help of one who was probably, +like most of her kind, a deceiver of herself and therefore, and thereby, +of others, was an affront to the dignity of his distress, a desecration +of his love's sanctity, a frivolous invasion of love's holiest ground. +But, on the other hand, he was stimulated to catch at the veriest +shadows of possibility by the certainty that he was at last within the +same city with her he loved, and he knew that hypnotic subjects are +sometimes able to determine the abode of persons whom no one else can +find. To-morrow it might be too late. Even before to-day's sun had set +Beatrice might be once more taken from him, snatched away to the ends +of the earth by her father's ever-changing caprice. To lose a moment now +might be to lose all. + +He was tempted to yield, to resign his will into Unorna's hands, and his +sight to her leading, to let her bid him sleep and see the truth. But +then, with a sudden reaction of his individuality, he realized that +he had another course, surer, simpler, more dignified. Beatrice was in +Prague. It was little probable that she was permanently established in +the city, and in all likelihood she and her father were lodged in one of +the two or three great hotels. To be driven from the one to the other of +these would be but an affair of minutes. Failing information from this +source, there remained the registers of the Austrian police, whose +vigilance takes note of every stranger's name and dwelling-place. + +"I thank you," he said. "If all my inquiries fail, and if you will let +me visit you once more to-day, I will then ask your help." + +"You are right," Unorna answered. + + + +CHAPTER III + +He had been deceived in supposing that he must inevitably find the +names of those he sought upon the ordinary registers which chronicle +the arrival and departure of travellers. He lost no time, he spared +no effort, driving from place to place as fast as two sturdy Hungarian +horses could take him, hurrying from one office to another, and again +and again searching endless pages and columns which seemed full of all +the names of earth, but in which he never found the one of all others +which he longed to read. The gloom in the narrow streets was already +deepening, though it was scarcely two hours after mid-day, and the +heavy air had begun to thicken with a cold gray haze, even in the broad, +straight Przikopy, the wide thoroughfare which has taken the place and +name of the moat before the ancient fortifications, so that distant +objects and figures lost the distinctness of their outlines. Winter in +Prague is but one long, melancholy dream, broken sometimes at noon by an +hour of sunshine, by an intermittent visitation of reality, by the shock +and glare of a little broad daylight. The morning is not morning, +the evening is not evening; as in the land of the Lotus, it is ever +afternoon, gray, soft, misty, sad, save when the sun, being at his +meridian height, pierces the dim streets and sweeps the open places with +low, slanting waves of pale brightness. And yet these same dusky streets +are thronged with a moving multitude, are traversed ever by ceaseless +streams of men and women, flowing onward, silently, swiftly, eagerly. +The very beggars do not speak above a whisper, the very dogs are dumb. +The stillness of all voices leaves nothing for the perception of the +hearing save the dull thread of many thousand feet and the rough rattle +of an occasional carriage. Rarely, the harsh tones of a peasant, or the +clear voices of a knot of strangers, unused to such oppressive +silence, startle the ear, causing hundreds of eager, half-suspicious, +half-wondering eyes to turn in the direction of the sound. + +And yet Prague is a great city, the capital of the Bohemian Crownland, +the centre of a not unimportant nation, the focus in which are +concentrated the hottest, if not the brightest, rays from the fire of +regeneration kindled within the last half century by the Slavonic race. +There is an ardent furnace of life hidden beneath the crust of ashes: +there is a wonderful language behind that national silence. + +The Wanderer stood in deep thought under the shadow of the ancient +Powder Tower. Haste had no further object now, since he had made every +inquiry within his power, and it was a relief to feel the pavement +beneath his feet and to breathe the misty frozen air after having been +so long in the closeness of his carriage. He hesitated as to what +he should do, unwilling to return to Unorna and acknowledge himself +vanquished, yet finding it hard to resist his desire to try every means, +no matter how little reasonable, how evidently useless, how puerile +and revolting to his sounder sense. The street behind him led directly +towards Unorna's house. Had he found himself in a more remote quarter, +he might have come to another and a wiser conclusion. Being so near to +the house of which he was thinking, he yielded to the temptation. Having +reached this stage of resolution, his mind began to recapitulate the +events of the day, and he suddenly felt a strong wish to revisit the +church, to stand in the place where Beatrice had stood, to touch in the +marble basin beside the door the thick ice which her fingers had touched +so lately, to traverse again the dark passages through which he had +pursued her. To accomplish his purpose he need only turn aside a few +steps from the path he was now following. He left the street almost +immediately, passing under a low arched way that opened on the +right-hand side, and a moment later he was within the walls of the Teyn +Kirche. + +The vast building was less gloomy than it had been in the morning. +It was not yet the hour of vespers, the funeral torches had been +extinguished, as well as most of the lights upon the high altar, there +were not a dozen persons in the church, and high up beneath the roof +broad shafts of softened sunshine, floating above the mists of the city +without, streamed through the narrow lancet windows and were diffused +in the great gloom below. The Wanderer went to the monument of Brahe and +sat down in the corner of the blackened pew. His hands trembled a little +as he clasped them upon his knee, and his head sank slowly towards his +breast. + +He thought of all that might have been if he had risked everything that +morning. He could have used his strength to force a way for himself +through the press, he could have thrust the multitude to the right and +left, and he could have reached her side. Perhaps he had been weak, +indolent, timid, and he accused himself of his own failure. But then, +again, he seemed to see about him the closely packed crowd, the sea of +faces, the thick, black mass of humanity, and he knew the tremendous +power that lay in the inert, passive resistance of a vast gathering +such as had been present. Had it been anywhere else, in a street, in a +theatre, anywhere except in a church, all would have been well. It had +not been his fault, for he knew, when he thought of it calmly, that the +strength of his body would have been but as a breath of air against the +silent, motionless, and immovable barrier presented by a thousand men, +standing shoulder to shoulder against him. He could have done nothing. +Once again his fate had defeated him at the moment of success. + +He was aware that some one was standing very near to him. He looked up +and saw a very short, gray-bearded man engaged in a minute examination +of the dark red marble face on the astronomer's tomb. The man's head, +covered with closely-cropped gray hair, was half buried between his +high, broad shoulders, in an immense collar of fur, but the shape of +the skull was so singular as to distinguish its possessor, when hatless, +from all other men. The cranium was abnormally shaped, reaching a great +elevation at the summit, then sinking suddenly, then spreading forward +to an enormous development at the temple just visible as he was then +standing, and at the same time forming unusual protuberances behind the +large and pointed ears. No one who knew the man could mistake his head, +when even the least portion of it could be seen. The Wanderer recognised +him at once. + +As though he were conscious of being watched, the little man turned +sharply, exhibiting his wrinkled forehead, broad at the brows, narrow +and high in the middle, showing, too, a Socratic nose half buried in the +midst of the gray hair which grew as high as the prominent cheek bones, +and suggesting the idea of a polished ivory ball lying in a nest of +grayish wool. Indeed all that was visible of the face above the beard +might have been carved out of old ivory, so far as the hue and quality +of the surface were concerned; and if it had been necessary to sculpture +a portrait of the man, no material could have been chosen more fitted +to reproduce faithfully the deep cutting of the features, to render the +close network of the wrinkles which covered them like the shadings of a +line engraving, and at the same time to give the whole that appearance +of hardness and smoothness which was peculiar to the clear, tough skin. +The only positive colour which relieved the half tints of the face lay +in the sharp bright eyes which gleamed beneath the busy eyebrows like +tiny patches of vivid blue sky seen through little rifts in a curtain of +cloud. All expression, all mobility, all life were concentrated in those +two points. + +The Wanderer rose to his feet. + +"Keyork Arabian!" he exclaimed, extending his hand. The little man +immediately gripped it in his small fingers, which, soft and delicately +made as they were, possessed a strength hardly to have been expected +either from their shape, or from the small proportions of him to whom +they belonged. + +"Still wandering?" asked the little man, with a slightly sarcastic +intonation. He spoke in a deep, caressing bass, not loud, but rich in +quality and free from that jarring harshness which often belongs to very +manly voices. A musician would have discovered that the pitch was that +of those Russian choristers whose deep throats yield organ tones, a full +octave below the compass of ordinary singers in other lands. + +"You must have wandered, too, since we last met," replied the taller +man. + +"I never wander," said Keyork. "When a man knows what he wants, +knows where it is to be found, and goes thither to take it, he is not +wandering. Moreover, I have no thought of removing myself or my goods +from Prague. I live here. It is a city for old men. It is saturnine. The +foundations of its houses rest on the silurian formation, which is more +than can be said for any other capital, as far as I know." + +"Is that an advantage?" inquired the Wanderer. + +"To my mind. I would say to my son, if I had one--my thanks to a blind +but intelligent destiny for preserving me from such a calamity!--I would +say to him, 'Spend thy youth among flowers in the land where they are +brightest and sweetest; pass thy manhood in all lands where man strives +with man, thought for thought, blow for blow; choose for thine old age +that spot in which, all things being old, thou mayest for the longest +time consider thyself young in comparison with thy surroundings.' A man +can never feel old if he contemplates and meditates upon those +things only which are immeasurably older than himself. Moreover the +imperishable can preserve the perishable." + +"It was not your habit to talk of death when we were together." + +"I have found it interesting of late years. The subject is connected +with one of my inventions. Did you ever embalm a body? No? I could tell +you something singular about the newest process." + +"What is the connection?" + +"I am embalming myself, body and mind. It is but an experiment, +and unless it succeeds it must be the last. Embalming, as it is now +understood, means substituting one thing for another. Very good. I +am trying to purge from my mind its old circulating medium; the new +thoughts must all be selected from a class which admits of no decay. +Nothing could be simpler." + +"It seems to me that nothing could be more vague." + +"You were not formerly so slow to understand me," said the strange +little man with some impatience. + +"Do you know a lady of Prague who calls herself Unorna?" the Wanderer +asked, paying no attention to his friend's last remark. + +"I do. What of her?" Keyork Arabian glanced keenly at his companion. + +"What is she? She has an odd name." + +"As for her name, it is easily accounted for. She was born on the +twenty-ninth day of February, the year of her birth being bisextile. +Unor means February, Unorna, derivative adjective, 'belonging to +February.' Some one gave her the name to commemorate the circumstance." + +"Her parents, I suppose." + +"Most probably--whoever they may have been." + +"And what is she?" the Wanderer asked. + +"She calls herself a witch," answered Keyork with considerable scorn. "I +do not know what she is, or what to call her--a sensitive, an hysterical +subject, a medium, a witch--a fool, if you like, or a charlatan if you +prefer the term. Beautiful she is, at least, whatever else she may not +be." + +"Yes, she is beautiful." + +"So you have seen her, have you?" The little man again looked sharply up +at his tall companion. "You have had a consultation----" + +"Does she give consultations? Is she a professional seer?" The Wanderer +asked the question in a tone of surprise. "Do you mean that she +maintains an establishment upon such a scale out of the proceeds of +fortune-telling?" + +"I do not mean anything of the sort. Fortune-telling is excellent! Very +good!" Keyork's bright eyes flashed with amusement. "What are you doing +here--I mean in this church?" He put the question suddenly. + +"Pursuing--an idea, if you please to call it so." + +"Not knowing what you mean I must please to call your meaning by your +own name for it. It is your nature to be enigmatic. Shall we go out? +If I stay here much longer I shall be petrified instead of embalmed. I +shall turn into dirty old red marble like Tycho's effigy there, an awful +warning to future philosophers, and an example for the edification of +the faithful who worship here." + +They walked towards the door, and the contrast between the appearance +of the two brought the ghost of a smile to the thin lips of the pale +sacristan, who was occupied in renewing the tapers upon one of the +side altars. Keyork Arabian might have stood for the portrait of the +gnome-king. His high and pointed head, his immense beard, his stunted +but powerful and thickset limbs, his short, sturdy strides, the fiery, +half-humorous, half-threatening twinkle of his bright eyes gave him +all the appearance of a fantastic figure from a fairy tale, and the +diminutive height of his compact frame set off the noble stature and +graceful motion of his companion. + +"So you were pursuing an idea," said the little man as they emerged into +the narrow street. "Now ideas may be divided variously into classes, +as, for instance, ideas which are good, bad, or indifferent. Or you may +contrast the idea of Plato with ideas anything but platonic--take it +as you please. Then there is my idea, which is in itself, good, +interesting, and worthy of the embalming process; and there is your +idea, which I am human enough to consider altogether bad, worthless, +and frivolous, for the plain and substantial reason that it is not mine. +Perhaps that is the best division of all. Thine eye is necessarily, +fatally, irrevocably evil, because mine is essentially, predestinately, +and unchangeably good. If I secretly adopt your idea, I openly assert +that it was never yours at all, but mine from the beginning, by the +prerogatives of greater age, wider experience, and immeasurably superior +wisdom. If you have an idea upon any subject, I will utterly annihilate +it to my own most profound satisfaction; if you have none concerning any +special point, I will force you to accept mine, as mine, or to die the +intellectual death. That is the general theory of the idea." + +"And what does it prove?" inquired the Wanderer. + +"If you knew anything," answered Keyork, with twinkling eyes, "you would +know that a theory is not a demonstration, but an explanation. But, by +the hypothesis, since you are not I, you can know nothing certainly. +Now my theory explains many things, and, among others, the adamantine, +imperishable, impenetrable nature of the substance vanity upon which +the showman, Nature, projects in fast fading colours the unsubstantial +images of men. Why do you drag me through this dismal passage?" + +"I passed through it this morning and missed my way." + +"In pursuit of the idea, of course. That was to be expected. Prague is +constructed on the same principle as the human brain, full of winding +ways, dark lanes, and gloomy arches, all of which may lead somewhere, +or may not. Its topography continually misleads its inhabitants as +the convolutions of the brain mislead the thoughts that dwell there, +sometimes bringing them out at last, after a patient search for +daylight, upon a fine broad street where the newest fashions in thought +are exposed for sale in brightly illuminated shop windows and showcases; +conducting them sometimes to the dark, unsavoury court where the +miserable self drags out its unhealthy existence in the single room of +its hired earthly lodging." + +"The self which you propose to preserve from corruption," observed the +tall man, who was carefully examining every foot of the walls between +which he was passing with his companion, "since you think so poorly +of the lodger and the lodging, I wonder that you should be anxious to +prolong the sufferings of the one and his lease of the other." + +"It is all I have," answered Keyork Arabian. "Did you think of that?" + +"That circumstance may serve as an excuse, but it does not constitute a +reason." + +"Not a reason! Is the most abject poverty a reason for throwing away the +daily crust? My self is all I have. Shall I let it perish when an effort +may preserve it from destruction? On the one side of the line stands +Keyork Arabian, on the other floats the shadow of an annihilation, which +threatens to swallow up Keyork's self, while leaving all that he has +borrowed of life to be enjoyed, or wasted by others. Could Keyork be +expected to hesitate, so long as he may hope to remain in possession +of that inestimable treasure, his own individuality, which is his only +means for enjoying all that is not his, but borrowed?" + +"So soon as you speak of enjoyment, argument ceases," answered the +Wanderer. + +"You are wrong, as usual," returned the other. "It is the other way. +Enjoyment is the universal solvent of all arguments. No reason can +resist its mordant action. It will dissolve any philosophy not founded +upon it and modelled out of its substance, as Aqua Regia will dissolve +all metals, even to gold itself. Enjoyment? Enjoyment is the protest of +reality against the tyranny of fiction." + +The little man stopped short in his walk, striking his heavy stick +sharply upon the pavement and looking up at his companion, very much as +a man of ordinary size looks up at the face of a colossal statue. + +"Have wisdom and study led you no farther than that conclusion?" + +Keyork's eyes brightened suddenly, and a peal of laughter, deep and +rich, broke from his sturdy breast and rolled long echoes through +the dismal lane, musical as a hunting-song heard among great trees in +winter. But his ivory features were not discomposed, though his white +beard trembled and waved softly like a snowy veil blown about by the +wind. + +"If wisdom can teach how to prolong the lease, what study can be +compared with that of which the results may beautify the dwelling? +What more can any man do for himself than make himself happy? The +very question is absurd. What are you trying to do for yourself at the +present moment? Is it for the sake of improving the physical condition +or of promoting the moral case of mankind at large that you are dragging +me through the slums and byways and alleys of the gloomiest city on this +side of eternal perdition? It is certainly not for my welfare that +you are sacrificing yourself. You admit that you are pursuing an idea. +Perhaps you are in search of some new and curious form of mildew, and +when you have found it--or something else--you will name your discovery +_Fungus Pragensis_, or _Cryptogamus minor Errantis_--'the Wanderer's +toadstool.' But I know you of old, my good friend. The idea you pursue +is not an idea at all, but that specimen of the _genus homo_ known +as 'woman,' species 'lady,' variety 'true love,' vulgar designation +'sweetheart.'" + +The Wanderer stared coldly at his companion. + +"The vulgarity of the designation is indeed only equalled by that +of your taste in selecting it," he said slowly. Then he turned away, +intending to leave Keyork standing where he was. + +But the little man had already repented of his speech. He ran quickly +to his friend's side and laid one hand upon his arm. The Wanderer paused +and again looked down. + +"Is it of any use to be offended with my speeches? Am I an acquaintance +of yesterday? Do you imagine that it could ever be my intention to annoy +you?" the questions were asked rapidly in tones of genuine anxiety. + +"Indeed, I hardly know how I could suppose that. You have always been +friendly--but I confess--your names for things are not--always----" + +The Wanderer did not complete the sentence, but looked gravely at +Keyork as though wishing to convey very clearly again what he had before +expressed in words. + +"If we were fellow-countrymen and had our native language in common, +we should not so easily misunderstand one another," replied the other. +"Come, forgive my lack of skill, and do not let us quarrel. Perhaps I +can help you. You may know Prague well, but I know it better. Will you +allow me to say that I know also whom it is you are seeking here?" + +"Yes. You know. I have not changed since we last met, nor have +circumstances favoured me." + +"Tell me--have you really seen this Unorna, and talked with her?" + +"This morning." + +"And she could not help you?" + +"I refused to accept her help, until I had done all that was in my own +power to do." + +"You were rash. And have you now done all, and failed?" + +"I have." + +"Then, if you will accept a humble suggestion from me, you will go back +to her at once." + +"I know very little of her. I do not altogether trust her--" + +"Trust! Powers of Eblis--or any other powers! Who talks of trust? Does +the wise man trust himself? Never. Then how can he dare trust any one +else?" + +"Your cynical philosophy again!" exclaimed the Wanderer. + +"Philosophy? I am a mysosophist! All wisdom is vanity, and I hate it! +Autology is my study, autosophy my ambition, autonomy my pride. I am the +great Panegoist, the would-be Conservator of Self, the inspired prophet +of the Universal I. I--I--I! My creed has but one word, and that word +but one letter, that letter represents Unity, and Unity is Strength. I +am I, one, indivisible, central! O I! Hail and live for ever!" + +Again the little man's rich bass voice rang out in mellow laughter. A +very faint smile appeared upon his companion's sad face. + +"You are happy, Keyork," he said. "You must be, since you can laugh at +yourself so honestly." + +"At myself? Vain man! I am laughing at you, and at every one else, at +everything except myself. Will you go to Unorna? You need not trust her +any more than the natural infirmity of your judgment suggests." + +"Can you tell me nothing more of her? Do you know her well?" + +"She does not offer her help to every one. You would have done well to +accept it in the first instance. You may not find her in the same humour +again." + +"I had supposed from what you said of her that she made a profession of +clairvoyance, or hypnotism, or mesmerism--whatever may be the right term +nowadays." + +"It matters very little," answered Keyork, gravely. "I used to wonder at +Adam's ingenuity in naming all living things, but I think he would have +made but a poor figure in a tournament of modern terminologists. No. +Unorna does not accept remuneration for her help when she vouchsafes to +give it." + +"And yet I was introduced to her presence without even giving my name." + +"That is her fancy. She will see any one who wishes to see her, beggar, +gentleman, or prince. But she only answers such questions as she pleases +to answer." + +"That is to say, inquiries for which she is already prepared with a +reply," suggested the Wanderer. + +"See for yourself. At all events, she is a very interesting specimen. I +have never known any one like her." + +Keyork Arabian was silent, as though he were reflecting upon Unorna's +character and peculiar gifts, before describing them to his friend. His +ivory features softened almost imperceptibly, and his sharp blue eyes +suddenly lost their light, as though they no longer saw the outer +world. But the Wanderer cared for none of these things, and bestowed +no attention upon his companion's face. 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?" + +"What?" asked the other vaguely, as though roused from sleep. + +"If I go to Unorna and ask a consultation of her, as though she were +a common somnambulist, and if she deigns to place her powers at my +disposal what sort of assistance shall I most probably get?" + +They had been walking slowly forward, and Keyork again stopped, rapping +the pavement with his iron-shod stick, and looking up from under his +bushy, overhanging eyebrows. + +"Of two things, one will happen," he answered. "Either she will herself +fall into the abnormal state and will answer correctly any questions you +put to her, or she will hypnotise you, and you will yourself see--what +you wish to see." + +"I myself?" + +"You yourself. The peculiarity of the woman is her duality, her +double power. She can, by an act of volition, become hypnotic, +clairvoyant--whatever you choose to call it. Or, if her visitor is at +all sensitive, she can reverse the situation and play the part of the +hypnotiser. I never heard of a like case." + +"After all, I do not see why it should not be so," said the Wanderer +thoughtfully. "At all events, whatever she can do, is evidently done by +hypnotism, and such extraordinary experiments have succeeded of late--" + +"I did not say that there was nothing but hypnotism in her processes." + +"What then? Magic?" The Wanderer's lip curled scornfully. + +"I do not know," replied the little man, speaking slowly. "Whatever her +secret may be, she keeps it, even when speaking in sleep. This I can +tell you. I suspect that there is some other being, or person, in that +queer old house of hers whom she consults on grave occasions. At a loss +for an answer to a difficult scientific question, I have known her to +leave the room and to come back in the course of a few minutes with a +reply which I am positive she could never have framed herself." + +"She may have consulted books," suggested the Wanderer. + +"I am an old man," said Keyork Arabian suddenly. "I am a very old man; +there are not many books which I have not seen and partially read at one +time or at another, and my memory is surprisingly good. I have excellent +reasons for believing that her information is not got from anything that +was ever written or printed." + +"May I ask of what general nature your questions were?" inquired the +other, more interested than he had hitherto been in the conversation. + +"They referred to the principles of embalmment." + +"Much has been written about that since the days of the Egyptians." + +"The Egyptians!" exclaimed Keyork with great scorn. "They embalmed their +dead after a fashion. Did you ever hear that they embalmed the living?" +The little man's eyes shot fire. + +"No, nor will I believe in any such outrageous impossibilities! If that +is all, I have little faith in Unorna's mysterious counsellor." + +"The faith which removes mountains is generally gained by experience +when it is gained at all, and the craving for explanation takes the +place, in some minds, of a willingness to learn. It is not my business +to find explanations, nor to raise my little self to your higher level, +by standing upon this curbstone, in order to deliver a lecture in the +popular form, upon matters that interest me. It is enough that I have +found what I wanted. Go and do likewise. See for yourself. You have +nothing to lose and everything to gain. You are unhappy, and unhappiness +is dangerous, in rare cases fatal. If you tell me to-morrow that Unorna +is a charlatan, you will be in no worse plight than to-day, nor will +your opinion of her influence mine. If she helps you to find what you +want--so much the better for you--how much the better, and how great the +risk you run, are questions for your judgment." + +"I will go," answered the Wanderer, after a moment's hesitation. + +"Very good," said Keyork Arabian. "If you want to find me again, come to +my lodging. Do you know the house of the Black Mother of God?" + +"Yes--there is a legend about a Spanish picture of our Lady once +preserved there--" + +"Exactly, it takes its name from that black picture. It is on the corner +of the Fruit Market, over against the window at which the Princess +Windischgratz was shot. I live in the upper story. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye." + + + +CHAPTER IV + +After the Wanderer had left her, Unorna continued to hold in her +hand the book she had again taken up, following the printed lines +mechanically from left to right, from the top of the page to the foot. +Having reached that point, however, she did not turn over the leaf. She +was vaguely aware that she had not understood the sense of the words, +and she returned to the place at which she had begun, trying to +concentrate her attention upon the matter, moving her fresh lips to form +the syllables, and bending her brows in the effort of understanding, +so that a short, straight furrow appeared, like a sharp vertical cut +extending from between the eyes to the midst of the broad forehead. One, +two and three sentences she grasped and comprehended; then her thoughts +wandered again, and the groups of letters passed meaningless before +her sight. She was accustomed to directing her intelligence without any +perceptible effort, and she was annoyed at being thus led away from her +occupation, against her will and in spite of her determination. A third +attempt showed her that it was useless to force herself any longer, and +with a gesture and look of irritation she once more laid the volume upon +the table at her side. + +During a few minutes she sat motionless in her chair, her elbow leaning +on the carved arm-piece, her chin supported upon the back of her +half-closed hand, of which the heavy, perfect fingers were turned +inwards, drooping in classic curves towards the lace about her throat. +Her strangely mismatched eyes stared vacantly towards an imaginary +horizon, not bounded by banks of flowers, nor obscured by the fantastic +foliage of exotic trees. + +Presently she held up her head, her white hand dropped upon her knee, +she hesitated an instant, and then rose to her feet, swiftly, as though +she had made a resolution and was about to act upon it. She made a step +forward, and then paused again, while a half-scornful smile passed like +a shadow over her face. Very slowly she began to pace the marble floor, +up and down in the open space before her chair, turning and turning +again, the soft folds of her white gown following her across the smooth +pavement with a gentle, sweeping sound, such as the breeze makes among +flowers in spring. + +"Is it he?" she asked aloud in a voice ringing with the joy and the +fear of a passion that has waited long and is at last approaching the +fulfilment of satisfaction. + +No answer came to her from among the thick foliage nor in the scented +breath of the violets and the lilies. The murmuring song of the little +fountain alone disturbed the stillness, and the rustle of her own +garments as she moved. + +"Is it he? Is it he? Is it he?" she repeated again and again, in +varying tones, chiming the changes of hope and fear, of certainty +and vacillation, of sadness and of gladness, of eager passion and of +chilling doubt. + +She stood still, staring at the pavement, her fingers clasped together, +the palms of her hands turned downward, her arms relaxed. She did not +see the dark red squares of marble, alternating with the white and +the gray, but as she looked a face and a form rose before her, in +the contemplation of which all her senses and faculties concentrated +themselves. The pale and noble head grew very distinct in her inner +sight, the dark gray eyes gazed sadly upon her, the passionate features +were fixed in the expression of a great sorrow. + +"Are you indeed he?" she asked, speaking softly and doubtfully, and yet +unconsciously projecting her strong will upon the vision, as though to +force it to give the answer for which she longed. + +And the answer came, imposed by the effort of her imagination upon the +thing imagined. The face suddenly became luminous, as with a radiance +within itself; the shadows of grief melted away, and in their place +trembled the rising light of a dawning love. The lips moved and the +voice spoke, not as it had spoken to her lately, but in tones long +familiar to her in dreams by day and night. + +"I am he, I am that love for whom you have waited; you are that dear one +whom I have long sought throughout the world. The hour of our joy has +struck, the new life begins to-day, and there shall be no end." + +Unorna's arms went out to grasp the shadow, and she drew it to her in +her fancy and kissed its radiant face. + +"To ages of ages!" she cried. + +Then she covered her eyes as though to impress the sight they had seen +upon the mind within, and groping blindly for her chair sank back +into her seat. But the mechanical effort of will and memory could not +preserve the image. In spite of all inward concentration of thought, +its colours faded, its outlines trembled, grew faint and vanished, and +darkness was in its place. Unorna's hand dropped to her side, and a +quick throb of pain stabbed her through and through, agonising as the +wound of a blunt and jagged knife, though it was gone almost before she +knew where she had felt it. Then her eyes flashed with unlike fires, the +one dark and passionate as the light of a black diamond, the other keen +and daring as the gleam of blue steel in the sun. + +"Ah, but I will!" she exclaimed. "And what I will--shall be." + +As though she were satisfied with the promise thus made to herself, she +smiled, her eyelids drooped, the tension of her frame was relaxed, and +she sank again into the indolent attitude in which the Wanderer had +found her. A moment later the distant door turned softly upon its hinges +and a light footfall broke the stillness. There was no need for Unorna +to speak in order that the sound of her voice might guide the new comer +to her retreat. The footsteps approached swiftly and surely. A young man +of singular beauty came out of the green shadows and stood beside the +chair in the open space. + +Unorna betrayed no surprise as she looked up into her visitor's face. +She knew it well. In form and feature the youth represented the noblest +type of the Jewish race. It was impossible to see him without thinking +of a young eagle of the mountains, eager, swift, sure, instinct with +elasticity, far-sighted and untiring, strong to grasp and to hold, +beautiful with the glossy and unruffled beauty of a plumage continually +smoothed in the sweep and the rush of high, bright air. + +Israel Kafka stood still, gazing down upon the woman he loved, and +drawing his breath hard between his parted lips. His piercing eyes +devoured every detail of the sight before him, while the dark blood rose +in his lean olive cheek, and the veins of his temples swelled with the +beating of his quickened pulse. + +"Well?" + +The single indifferent word received the value of a longer speech from +the tone in which it was uttered, and from the look and gesture +which accompanied it. Unorna's voice was gentle, soft, half-indolent, +half-caressing, half-expectant, and half-careless. There was something +almost insolent in its assumption of superiority, which was borne out by +the little defiant tapping of two long white fingers upon the arm of the +carved chair. And yet, with the rising inflection of the monosyllable +there went a raising of the brows, a sidelong glance of the eyes, a +slowly wreathing smile that curved the fresh lips just enough to +unmask two perfect teeth, all of which lent to the voice a meaning, +a familiarity, a pliant possibility of favourable interpretation, fit +rather to flatter a hope than to chill a passion. + +The blood beat more fiercely in the young man's veins, his black eyes +gleamed yet more brightly, his pale, high-curved nostrils quivered at +every breath he drew. The throbbings of his heart unseated his thoughts +and strongly took possession of the government of his body. Under an +irresistible impulse he fell upon his knees beside Unorna, covering her +marble hand with all his lean, dark fingers and pressing his forehead +upon them, as though he had found and grasped all that could be dear to +him in life. + +"Unorna! My golden Unorna!" he cried, as he knelt. + +Unorna looked down upon his bent head. The smile faded from her face, +and for a moment a look of hardness lingered there, which gave way to +an expression of pain and regret. As though collecting her thoughts she +closed her eyes, as she tried to draw back her hand; then as he held it +still, she leaned back and spoke to him. + +"You have not understood me," she said, as quietly as she could. + +The strong fingers were not lifted from hers, but the white face, now +bloodless and transparent, was raised to hers, and a look of such fear +as she had never dreamed of was in the wide black eyes. + +"Not--understood?" he repeated in startled, broken tones. + +Unorna sighed, and turned away, for the sight hurt her and accused her. + +"No, you have not understood. Is it my fault? 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. Unorna sat +quite still, staring fixedly into the green shadows of the foliage, as +though not daring to meet the gaze she felt upon her. Israel Kafka still +knelt beside her, motionless and hardly breathing, like a dangerous wild +animal startled by an unexpected enemy, and momentarily paralysed in +the very act of springing, whether backward in flight, or forward in the +teeth of the foe, it is not possible to guess. + +"I have been mistaken," Unorna continued at last. "Forgive--forget--" + +Israel Kafka rose to his feet and drew back a step from her side. +All his movements were smooth and graceful. The perfect man is most +beautiful in motion, the perfect woman in repose. + +"How easy it is for you!" exclaimed the Moravian. "How easy! How simple! +You call me, and I come. You let your eyes rest on me, and I kneel +before you. You sigh, and I speak words of love. You lift your hand and +I crouch at your feet. You frown--and I humbly leave you. How easy!" + +"You are wrong, and you speak foolishly. You are angry, and you do not +weigh your words." + +"Angry! What have I to do with so common a madness as anger? I am more +than angry. Do you think that because I have submitted to the veering +gusts of your good and evil humours these many months, I have lost all +consciousness of myself? Do you think that you can blow upon me as upon +a feather, from east and west, from north and south, hotly or coldly, as +your unstable nature moves you? Have you promised me nothing? Have you +given me no hope? Have you said and done nothing whereby you are bound? +Or can no pledge bind you, no promise find a foothold in your slippery +memory, no word of yours have meaning for those who hear it?" + +"I never gave you either pledge or promise," answered Unorna in a harder +tone. "The only hope I have ever extended to you was this, that I would +one day answer you plainly. I have done so. You are not satisfied. Is +there anything more to be said? I do not bid you leave my house for +ever, any more than I mean to drive you from my friendship." + +"From your friendship! Ah, I thank you, Unorna; I most humbly thank +you! For the mercy you extend in allowing me to linger near you, I am +grateful! Your friend, you say? Ay, truly, your friend and servant, your +servant and your slave, your slave and your dog. Is the friend impatient +and dissatisfied with his lot? A soft word shall turn away his anger. Is +the servant over-presumptuous? Your scorn will soon teach him his duty. +Is the slave disobedient? Blows will cure him of his faults. Does your +dog fawn upon you too familiarly? Thrust him from you with your foot and +he will cringe and cower till you smile again. 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!" + +"You are wise to suggest the latter alternative as a possibility," said +Unorna coldly and not heeding his approach. + +The young man stood still, and folded his arms. The colour had returned +to his face and a deep flush was rising under his olive skin. + +"Do you mean what you say?" he asked slowly. "Do you mean that I shall +not have all, but nothing? Do you still dare to mean that, after all +that has passed between you and me?" + +Unorna raised her eyes and looked steadily into his. + +"Israel Kafka, do not speak to me of daring." + +But the young man's glance did not waver. The angry expression of his +features did not relax; he neither drew back nor bent his head. Unorna +seemed to be exerting all the strength of her will in the attempt to +dominate him, but without result. In the effort she made to concentrate +her determination her face grew pale and her lips trembled. Kafka +faced her resolutely, his eyes on fire, the rich colour mantling in his +cheeks. + +"Where is your power now?" he asked suddenly. "Where is your witchery? +You are only a woman, after all. You are only a weak woman!" + +Very slowly he drew nearer to her side, his lithe figure bending a +little as he looked down upon her. Unorna leaned far back, withdrawing +her face from his as far as she could, but still trying to impose her +will upon him. + +"You cannot," he said between his teeth, answering her thought. + +Men who have tamed wild beasts alone know what such a moment is like. A +hundred times the brave man has held the tiger spell-bound and crouching +under his cold, fearless gaze. The beast, ever docile and submissive, +has cringed at his feet, fawned to his touch, and licked the hand that +snatched away the half-devoured morsel. Obedient to voice and eye, the +giant strength and sinewy grace have been debased to make the sport of +multitudes; the noble, pliant frame has contorted itself to execute the +mean antics of the low-comedy ape--to counterfeit death like a poodle +dog; to leap through gaudily-painted rings at the word of command; to +fetch and carry like a spaniel. A hundred times the changing crowd has +paid its paltry fee to watch the little play that is daily acted behind +the stout iron bars by the man and the beast. The man, the nobler, +braver creature, is arrayed in a wretched flimsy finery of tights and +spangles, parading his physical weakness and inferiority in the +toggery of a mountebank. The tiger, vast, sleepy-eyed, mysterious, lies +motionless in the front of his cage, the gorgeous stripes of his velvet +coat following each curve of his body, from the cushions of his great +fore paws to the arch of his gathered haunches. The watchfulness and +flexible activity of the serpent and the strength that knows no master +are clothed in the magnificent robes of the native-born sovereign. Time +and times again the beautiful giant has gone through the slavish +round of his mechanical tricks, obedient to the fragile creature of +intelligence, to the little dwarf, man, whose power is in his eyes and +heart only. He is accustomed to the lights, to the spectators, to the +laughter, to the applause, to the frightened scream of the hysterical +women in the audience, to the close air and to the narrow stage behind +the bars. The tamer in his tights and tinsel has grown used to his +tiger, to his emotions, to his hourly danger. He even finds at last that +his mind wanders during the performance, and that at the very instant +when he is holding the ring for the leap, or thrusting his head into the +beast's fearful jaws, he is thinking of his wife, of his little child, +of his domestic happiness or household troubles, rather than of what +he is doing. Many times, perhaps many hundreds of times, all passes off +quietly and successfully. Then, inevitably, comes the struggle. Who +can tell the causes? The tiger is growing old, or is ill fed, or is not +well, or is merely in one of those evil humours to which animals are +subject as well as their masters. One day he refuses to go through with +the performance. First one trick fails, and then another. The public +grows impatient, the man in spangles grows nervous, raises his voice, +stamps loudly with his foot, and strikes his terrible slave with his +light switch. A low, deep sound breaks from the enormous throat, the +spectators hold their breath, the huge, flexible limbs are gathered for +the leap, and in the gaslight and the dead silence man and beast are +face to face. Life hangs in the balance, and death is at the door. + +Then the tamer's heart beats loud, his chest heaves, his brows are +furrowed. Even then, in the instant that still separates him from +triumph or destruction, the thought of his sleeping child or of his +watching wife darts through his brain. But the struggle has begun and +there is no escape. One of two things must happen: he must overcome or +he must die. To draw back, to let his glance waver, to show so much as +the least sign of fear, is death. The moment is supreme, and he knows +it. + +Unorna grasped the arms of her chair as though seeking for physical +support in her extremity. She could not yield. Before her eyes arose a +vision unlike the reality in all its respects. She saw an older face, +a taller figure, a look of deeper thought between her and the angry man +who was trying to conquer her resistance with a glance. Between her and +her mistake the image of what should be stood out, bright, vivid, and +strong. A new conviction had taken the place of the old, a real passion +was flaming upon the altar whereon she had fed with dreams the semblance +of a sacred fire. + +"You do not really love me," she said softly. + +Israel Kafka started, as a man who is struck unawares. The monstrous +untruth which filled the words broke down his guard, sudden tears veiled +the penetrating sharpness of his gaze, and his hand trembled. + +"I do not love you? I! Unorna--Unorna!" + +The first words broke from him in a cry of horror and stupefaction. But +her name, when he spoke it, sounded as the death moan of a young wild +animal wounded beyond all power to turn at bay. + +He moved unsteadily and laid hold of the tall chair in which she sat. +He was behind her now, standing, but bending down so that his forehead +pressed his fingers. He could not bear to look upon her hair, still less +upon her face. Even his hands were white and bloodless. Unorna could +hear his quick breathing just above her shoulder. She sat quite still, +and her lips were smiling, though her brow was thoughtful and almost +sad. She knew that the struggle was over and that she had gained the +mastery, though the price of victory might be a broken heart. + +"You thought I was jesting," she said in a low voice, looking before her +into the deep foliage, but knowing that her softest whisper would reach +him. "But there was no jest in what I said--nor any unkindness in what +I meant, though it is all my fault. But that is true--you never loved me +as I would be loved." + +"Unorna----" + +"No, I am not unkind. Your love is young, fierce, inconstant; half +terrible, half boyish, aflame to-day, asleep to-morrow, ready to turn +into hatred at one moment, to melt into tears at the next, intermittent, +unstable as water, fleeting as a cloud's shadow on the mountain side--" + +"It pleased you once," said Israel Kafka in broken tones. "It is not +less love because you are weary of it, and of me." + +"Weary, you say? No, not weary--and very truly not of you. You will +believe that to-day, to-morrow, you will still try to force life into +your belief--and then it will be dead and gone like all thoughts which +have never entered into the shapes of reality. We have not loved each +other. We have but fancied that it would be sweet to love, and the knife +of truth has parted the web of our dreams, keenly, in the midst, so that +we see before us what is, though the ghost of what might have been is +yet lingering near." + +"Who wove that web, Unorna? You, or I?" He lifted his heavy eyes and +gazed at her coiled hair. + +"What matters it whether it was your doing or mine? But we wove it +together--and together we must see the truth." + +"If this is true, there is no more 'together' for you and me." + +"We may yet glean friendship in the fields where love has grown." + +"Friendship! The very word is a wound! Friendship! The very dregs and +lees of the wine of life! Friendship! The sour drainings of the heart's +cup, left to moisten the lips of the damned when the blessed have drunk +their fill! I hate the word, as I hate the thought!" + +Unorna sighed, partly, perhaps, that he might hear the sigh, and put +upon it an interpretation soothing to his vanity, but partly, too, +from a sincere regret that he should need to suffer as he was evidently +suffering. She had half believed that she loved him, and she owed him +pity. Women's hearts pay such debts unwillingly, but they do pay them, +nevertheless. She wished that she had never set eyes upon Israel Kafka; +she wished that she might never see him again; even his death would +hardly have cost her a pang, and yet she was sorry for him. Diana, the +huntress, shot her arrows with unfailing aim; Diana, the goddess, may +have sighed and shed one bright immortal tear, as she looked into the +fast-glazing eyes of the dying stag--may not Diana, the maiden, have +felt a touch of human sympathy and pain as she listened to the deep note +of her hounds baying on poor Actaeon's track! No one is all bad, or all +good. No woman is all earthly, nor any goddess all divine. + +"I am sorry," said Unorna. "You will not understand----" + +"I have understood enough. I have understood that a woman can have +two faces and two hearts, two minds, two souls; it is enough, my +understanding need go no farther. You sighed before you spoke. It was +not for me; it was for yourself. You never felt pain or sorrow for +another." + +He was trying hard to grow cold and to find cold words to say, which +might lead her to believe him stronger than he was and able to master +his grief. But he was too young, too hot, too changeable for such a +part. Moreover, in his first violent outbreak Unorna had dominated him, +and he could not now regain the advantage. + +"You are wrong, Israel Kafka. You would make me less than human. If +I sighed, it was indeed for you. See--I confess that I have done you +wrong, not in deeds, but in letting you hope. Truly, I myself have hoped +also. I have thought that the star of love was trembling just below the +east, and that you and I might be one to another--what we cannot be now. +My wisdom has failed me, my sight has been deceived. Am I the only +woman in this world who has been mistaken? Can you not forgive? If I +had promised, if I had said one word--and yet, you are right, too, for +I have let you think in earnest what has been but a passing dream of +my own thoughts. It was all wrong; it was all my fault. There, lay your +hand in mine and say that you forgive, as I ask forgiveness." + +He was still standing behind her, leaning against the back of her chair. +Without looking round she raised her hand above her shoulder as though +seeking for his. But he would not take it. + +"Is it so hard?" she asked softly. "Is it even harder for you to give +than for me to ask? Shall we part like this--not to meet again--each +bearing a wound, when both might be whole? Can you not say the word?" + +"What is it to you whether I forgive you or not?" + +"Since I ask it, believe that it is much to me," she answered, slowly +turning her head until, without catching sight of his face, she could +just see where his fingers were resting on her chair. Then, over her +shoulder, she touched them, and drew them to her cheek. He made no +resistance. + +"Shall we part without one kind thought?" Her voice was softer still and +so low and sweet that it seemed as though the words were spoken in the +ripple of the tiny fountain. There was magic in the place, in the air, +in the sounds, above all in the fair woman's touch. + +"Is this friendship?" asked Kafka. Then he sank upon his knees beside +her, and looked up into her face. + +"It is friendship; yes--why not? Am I like other women?" + +"Then why need there be any parting?" + +"If you will be my friend there need be none. You have forgiven me +now--I see it in your eyes. Is it not true?" + +He was at her feet, passive at last under the superior power which he +had never been able to resist. Unorna's fascination was upon him, and +he could only echo her words, as he would have executed her slightest +command, without consciousness of free will or individual thought. It +was enough that for one moment his anger should cease to give life to +his resistance; it was sufficient that Unorna should touch him thus, +and speak softly, his eyelids quivered and his look became fixed, his +strength was absorbed in hers and incapable of acting except under her +direction. So long as she might please the spell would endure. + +"Sit beside me now, and let us talk," she said. + +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. + +"I am only your slave, after all," he repeated. + +"I could touch you with my hand and you would hate me, and forget that +you ever loved me." + +This time the man was silent. There was a contraction of pain in his +face, as though a violent mental struggle were going on within him. +Unorna tapped the pavement impatiently with her foot and bent her brows. + +"You would hate me and forget that you ever loved me," she repeated, +dwelling on each word as though to impress it on his consciousness. "Say +it. I order you." + +The contraction of his features disappeared. + +"I should hate you and forget that I ever loved you," he said slowly. + +"You never loved me." + +"I never loved you." + +Again Unorna laughed, and he joined in her laughter, unintelligently, +as he had done before. She leaned back in her seat, and her face grew +grave. Israel Kafka sat motionless in his chair, staring at her with +unwinking eyes. But his gaze did not disturb her. There was no more +meaning in it than in the expression of a marble statue, far less than +in that of a painted portrait. 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. Again and again +the vision of a newer happiness took shape and colour before her, so +clearly and vividly that she could have clasped it and held it and +believed in its reality, as she had done before Israel Kafka had +entered. But there was a doubt now, which constantly arose between her +and it, the dark and shapeless shadow of a reasoning she hated and yet +knew to be strong. + +"I must ask him," she said unconsciously. + +"You must ask him," repeated Israel Kafka from his seat. + +For the third time Unorna laughed aloud as she heard the echo of her own +words. + +"Whom shall I ask?" she inquired contemptuously, as she rose to her +feet. + +The dull, glassy eyes sought hers in painful perplexity, following her +face as she moved. + +"I do not know," answered the powerless man. + +Unorna came close to him and laid her hand upon his head. + +"Sleep, until I wake you," she said. + +The eyelids drooped and closed at her command, and instantly the man's +breathing became heavy and regular. Unorna's full lips curled as she +looked down at him. + +"And you would be my master!" she exclaimed. + +Then she turned and disappeared among the plants, leaving him alone. + + + +CHAPTER V + +Unorna passed through a corridor which was, indeed, only a long balcony +covered in with arches and closed with windows against the outer air. +At the farther end three steps descended to a dark door, through the +thickness of a massive wall, showing that at this point Unorna's house +had at some former time been joined with another building beyond, with +which it thus formed one habitation. Unorna paused, holding the key +as though hesitating whether she should put it into the lock. It was +evident that much depended upon her decision, for her face expressed +the anxiety she felt. Once she turned away, as though to abandon her +intention, hesitated, and then, with an impatient frown, opened the +door and went in. She passed through a small, well-lighted vestibule and +entered the room beyond. + +The apartment was furnished with luxury, but a stranger would have +received an oddly disquieting impression of the whole at a first glance. +There was everything in the place which is considered necessary for a +bedroom, and everything was perfect of its kind, spotless and dustless, +and carefully arranged in order. But almost everything was of an unusual +and unfamiliar shape, as though designed for some especial reason to +remain in equilibrium in any possible position, and to be moved from +place to place with the smallest imaginable physical effort. The carved +bedstead was fitted with wheels which did not touch the ground, and +levers so placed as to be within the reach of a person lying in it. The +tables were each supported at one end only by one strong column, fixed +to a heavy base set on broad rollers, so that the board could be run +across a bed or a lounge with the greatest ease. There was but one chair +made like ordinary chairs; the rest were so constructed that the least +motion of the occupant must be accompanied by a corresponding change +of position of the back and arms, and some of them bore a curious +resemblance to a surgeon's operating table, having attachments of +silver-plated metal at many points, of which the object was not +immediately evident. Before a closed door a sort of wheeled conveyance, +partaking of the nature of a chair and of a perambulator, stood upon +polished rails, which disappeared under the door itself, showing that +the thing was intended to be moved from one room to another in a certain +way and in a fixed line. The rails, had the door been opened, would have +been seen to descend upon the other side by a gentle inclined plane +into the centre of a huge marble basin, and the contrivance thus made +it possible to wheel a person into a bath and out again without +necessitating the slightest effort or change of position in the body. In +the bedroom the windows were arranged so that the light and air could +be regulated to a nicety. The walls were covered with fine basket work, +apparently adapted in panels; but these panels were in reality movable +trays, as it were, forming shallow boxes fitted with closely-woven +wicker covers, and filled with charcoal and other porous substances +intended to absorb the impurities of the air, and thus easily changed +and renewed from time to time. Immediately beneath the ceiling were +placed delicate glass globes of various soft colours, with silken +shades, movable from below by means of brass rods and handles. In the +ceiling itself there were large ventilators, easily regulated as might +be required, and there was a curious arrangement of rails and wheels +from which depended a sort of swing, apparently adapted for moving a +person or a weight to different parts of the room without touching the +floor. In one of the lounges, not far from the window, lay a colossal +old man, wrapped in a loose robe of warm white stuff, and fast asleep. + +He was a very old man, so old, indeed, as to make it hard to guess his +age from his face and his hands, the only parts visible as he lay at +rest, the vast body and limbs lying motionless under his garment, as +beneath a heavy white pall. He could not be less than a hundred years +old, but how much older than that he might really be, it was impossible +to say. What might be called the waxen period had set in, and the high +colourless features seemed to be modelled in that soft, semi-transparent +material. The time had come when the stern furrows of age had broken +up into countless minutely-traced lines, so close and fine as to seem +a part of the texture of the skin, mere shadings, evenly distributed +throughout, and no longer affecting the expression of the face as +the deep wrinkles had done in former days; at threescore and ten, at +fourscore, and even at ninety years. The century that had passed had +taken with it its marks and scars, leaving the great features in their +original purity of design, lean, smooth, and clearly defined. That last +change in living man is rare enough, but when once seen is not to be +forgotten. There is something in the faces of the very, very old which +hardly suggests age at all, but rather the vague possibility of a +returning prime. Only the hands tell the tale, with their huge, shining, +fleshless joints, their shadowy hollows, and their unnatural yellow +nails. + +The old man lay quite still, breathing softly through his snowy beard. +Unorna came to his side. There was something of wonder and admiration +in her own eyes as she stood there gazing upon the face which other +generations of men and women, all long dead, had looked upon and known. +The secret of life and death was before her each day when she entered +that room, and on the very verge of solution. The wisdom hardly gained +in many lands was striving with all its concentrated power to preserve +that life; the rare and subtle gifts which she herself possessed were +daily exercised to their full in the suggestion of vitality; the most +elaborate inventions of skilled mechanicians were employed in reducing +the labour of living to the lowest conceivable degree of effort. The +great experiment was being tried. What Keyork Arabian described as the +embalming of a man still alive was being attempted. And he lived. For +years they had watched him and tended him, and looked critically for +the least signs of a diminution or an augmentation in his strength. They +knew that he was now in his one hundred and seventh year, and yet he +lived and was no weaker. Was there a limit; or was there not, since the +destruction of the tissues was arrested beyond doubt, so far as the most +minute tests could show? Might there not be, in the slow oscillations +of nature, a degree of decay, on this side of death, from which a return +should be possible, provided that the critical moment were passed in a +state of sleep and under perfect conditions? How do we know that all +men must die? We suppose the statement to be true by induction, from +the undoubted fact that men have hitherto died within a certain limit of +age. By induction, too, our fathers, our grandfathers, knew that it was +impossible for man to traverse the earth faster than at the full speed +of a galloping horse. After several thousand years of experience that +piece of knowledge, which seemed to be singularly certain, was suddenly +proved to be the grossest ignorance by a man who had been in the habit +of playing with a tea-kettle when a boy. We ourselves, not very long +ago, knew positively, as all men had known since the beginning of the +world, that it was quite impossible to converse with a friend at a +distance beyond the carrying power of a speaking trumpet. To-day, a +boy who does not know that one may talk very agreeably with a friend +a thousand miles away is an ignoramus; and experimenters whisper among +themselves that, if the undulatory theory of light have any foundation, +there is no real reason why we may not see that same friend at that same +distance, as well as talk with him. Ten years ago we were quite sure +that it was beyond the bounds of natural possibility to produce a bad +burn upon the human body by touching the flesh with a bit of cardboard +or a common lead pencil. Now we know with equal certainty that if upon +one arm of a hypnotised patient we impress a letter of the alphabet +cut out of wood, telling him that it is red-hot iron, the shape of the +letter will on the following day be found on a raw and painful wound +not only in the place we selected but on the other arm, in the exactly +corresponding spot, and reversed as though seen in a looking-glass; +and we very justly consider that a physician who does not know this and +similar facts is dangerously behind the times, since the knowledge is +open to all. The inductive reasoning of many thousands of years has +been knocked to pieces in the last century by a few dozen men who have +reasoned little but attempted much. It would be rash to assert that +bodily death may not some day, and under certain conditions, be +altogether escaped. It is nonsense to pretend that human life may not +possibly, and before long, be enormously prolonged, and that by some +shorter cut to longevity than temperance and sanitation. No man can say +that it will, but no man of average intelligence can now deny that it +may. + +Unorna had hesitated at the door, and she hesitated now. It was in her +power, and in hers only, to wake the hoary giant, or at least to +modify his perpetual sleep so far as to obtain from him answers to her +questions. It would be an easy matter to lay one hand upon his brow, +bidding him see and speak--how easy, she alone knew. But on the other +hand, to disturb his slumber was to interfere with the continuity of the +great experiment, to break through a rule lately made, to incur the risk +of an accident, if not of death itself. + +She drew back at the thought, as though fearing to startle him, and then +she smiled at her own nervousness. To wake him she must exercise her +will. There was no danger of his ever being roused by any sound or touch +not proceeding from herself. The crash of thunder had no reverberation +for his ears, the explosion of a cannon would not have penetrated into +his lethargy. She might touch him, move him, even speak to him, but +unless she laid her hand upon his waxen forehead and bid him feel and +hear, he would be as unconscious as the dead. She returned to his side +and gazed into his placid face. Strange faculties were asleep in that +ancient brain, and strange wisdom was stored there, gathered from +many sources long ago, and treasured unconsciously by the memory to be +recalled at her command. + +The man had been a failure in his day, a scholar, a student, a searcher +after great secrets, a wanderer in the labyrinths of higher thought. +He had been a failure and had starved, as failures must, in order that +vulgar success may fatten and grow healthy. He had outlived the few that +had been dear to him, he had outlived the power to feed on thought, he +had outlived generations of men, and cycles of changes, and yet there +had been life left in the huge gaunt limbs and sight in the sunken eyes. +Then he had outlived pride itself, and the ancient scholar had begged +his bread. In his hundredth year he had leaned for rest against Unorna's +door, and she had taken him in and cared for him, and since that time +she had preserved his life. For his history was known in the ancient +city, and it was said that he had possessed great wisdom in his day. +Unorna knew that this wisdom could be hers if she could keep alive the +spark of life, and that she could employ his own learning to that end. +Already she had much experience of her powers, and knew that if she once +had the mastery of the old man's free will he must obey her fatally and +unresistingly. Then she conceived the idea of embalming, as it were, the +living being, in a perpetual hypnotic lethargy, from whence she recalled +him from time to time to an intermediate state, in which she caused +him to do mechanically all those things which she judged necessary to +prolong life. + +Seeing her success from the first, she had begun to fancy that the +present condition of things might be made to continue indefinitely. +Since death was to-day no nearer than it had been seven years ago, there +was no reason why it might not be guarded against during seven years +more, and if during seven, why not during ten, twenty, fifty? She had +for a helper a physician of consummate practical skill--a man whose +interest in the result of the trial was, if anything, more keen than +her own; a friend, above all, whom she believed she might trust, and who +appeared to trust her. + +But in the course of their great experiment they had together made +rules by which they had mutually agreed to be bound. They had of late +determined that the old man must not be disturbed in his profound rest +by any question tending to cause a state of mental activity. The test of +a very fine instrument had proved that the shortest interval of positive +lucidity was followed by a slight but distinctly perceptible rise +of temperature in the body, and this could mean only a waste of the +precious tissues they were so carefully preserving. They hoped and +believed that the grand crisis was at hand, and that, if the body did +not now lose strength and vitality for a considerable time, both would +slowly though surely increase, in consequence of the means they were +using to instill new blood into the system. But the period was supreme, +and to interfere in any way with the progress of the experiment was to +run a risk of which the whole extent could only be realised by Unorna +and her companion. + +She hesitated therefore, well knowing that her ally would oppose her +intention with all his might, and dreading his anger, bold as she was, +almost as much as she feared the danger to the old man's life. On the +other hand, she had a motive which the physician could not have, and +which, as she was aware, he would have despised and condemned. She had a +question to ask, which she considered of vital importance to herself, +to which she firmly believed that the true answer would be given, and +which, in her womanly impetuosity and impatience, she could not bear +to leave unasked until the morrow, much less until months should have +passed away. Two very powerful incentives were at work, two of the very +strongest which have influence with mankind, love and a superstitious +belief in an especial destiny of happiness, at the present moment on the +very verge of realisation. + +She believed profoundly in herself and in the suggestions of her own +imagination. So fixed and unalterable was that belief that it amounted +to positive knowledge, so far as it constituted a motive of action. In +her strange youth wild dreams had possessed her, and some of them, often +dreamed again, had become realities to her now. Her powers were natural, +those gifts which from time to time are seen in men and women, which are +alternately scoffed at as impostures, or accepted as facts, but which +are never understood either by their possessor or by those who witness +the results. She had from childhood the power to charm with eye and hand +all living things, the fascination which takes hold of the consciousness +through sight and touch and word, and lulls it to sleep. It was +witchery, and she was called a witch. In earlier centuries her hideous +fate would have been sealed from the first day when, under her childish +gaze, a wolf that had been taken alive in the Bohemian forest crawled +fawning to her feet, at the full length of its chain, and laid its +savage head under her hand, and closed its bloodshot eyes and slept +before her. Those who had seen had taken her and taught her how to +use what she possessed according to their own shadowy beliefs and dim +traditions of the half-forgotten magic in a distant land. They had +filled her heart with longings and her brain with dreams, and she had +grown up to believe that one day love would come suddenly upon her and +bear her away through the enchanted gates of the earthly paradise; once +only that love would come, and the supreme danger of her life would be +that she should not know it when it was at hand. + +And now she knew that she loved, for the place of her fondness for +the one man had been taken by her passion for the other, and she felt +without reasoning, where, before, she had tried to reason herself into +feeling. The moment had come. She had seen the man in whom her happiness +was to be, the time was short, the danger great if she should not grasp +what her destiny would offer her but once. Had the Wanderer been by her +side, she would have needed to ask no question, she would have known and +been satisfied. But hours must pass before she could see him again, and +every minute spent without him grew more full of anxiety and disturbing +passion than the last. The wild love-blossom that springs into existence +in a single moment has elements which do not enter into the gentler +being of that other love which is sown in indifference, and which grows +up in slowly increasing interest, tended and refreshed in the pleasant +intercourse of close acquaintance, to bud and bloom at last as +a mild-scented garden flower. Love at first sight is impatient, +passionate, ruthless, cruel, as the year would be, if from the calendar +of the season the months of slow transition were struck out; if the +raging heat of August followed in one day upon the wild tempests of the +winter; if the fruit of the vine but yesterday in leaf grew rich and +black to-day, to be churned to foam to-morrow under the feet of the +laughing wine treaders. + +Unorna felt that the day would be intolerable if she could not hear from +other lips the promise of a predestined happiness. She was not really in +doubt, but she was under the imperious impulse of a passion which +must needs find some response, even in the useless confirmation of its +reality uttered by an indifferent person--the spirit of a mighty cry +seeking its own echo in the echoless, flat waste of the Great Desert. + +Then, too, she placed a sincere faith in the old man's answers to her +questions, regardless of the matter inquired into. She believed that +in the mysterious condition between sleep and waking which she could +command, the knowledge of things to be was with him as certainly as the +memory of what had been and of what was even now passing in the outer +world. To her, the one direction of the faculty seemed no less possible +than the others, though she had not yet attained alone to the vision of +the future. Hitherto the old man's utterances had been fulfilled to the +letter. More than once, as Keyork Arabian had hinted, she had consulted +his second sight in preference to her own, and she had not been +deceived. His greater learning and his vast experience lent to his +sayings something divine in her eyes; she looked upon him as the +Pythoness of Delphi looked upon the divinity of her inspiration. + +The irresistible longing to hear the passionate pleadings of her own +heart solemnly confirmed by the voice in which she trusted overcame at +last every obstacle. Unorna bent over the sleeper, looking earnestly +into his face, and she laid one hand upon his brow. + +"You hear me," she said, slowly and distinctly. "You are conscious of +thought, and you see into the future." + +The massive head stirred, the long limbs moved uneasily under the white +robe, the enormous, bony hands contracted, and in the cavernous eyes the +great lids were slowly lifted. A dull stare met her look. + +"Is it he?" she asked, speaking more quickly in spite of herself. "Is it +he at last?" + +There was no answer. The lips did not part, there was not even the +attempt to speak. She had been sure that the one word would be spoken +unhesitatingly, and the silence startled her and brought back the doubt +which she had half forgotten. + +"You must answer my question. I command you to answer me. Is it he?" + +"You must tell me more before I can answer." + +The words came in a feeble piping voice, strangely out of keeping with +the colossal frame and imposing features. + +Unorna's face was clouded, and the ready gleam of anger flashed in her +eyes as it ever did at the smallest opposition to her will. + +"Can you not see him?" she asked impatiently. + +"I cannot see him unless you lead me to him and tell me where he is." + +"Where are you?" + +"In your mind." + +"And what are you?" + +"I am the image in your eyes." + +"There is another man in my mind," said Unorna. "I command you to see +him." + +"I see him. He is tall, pale, noble, suffering. You love him." + +"Is it he who shall be my life and my death? Is it he who shall love me +as other women are not loved?" + +The weak voice was still for a moment, and the face seemed covered with +a veil of perplexity. + +"I see with your eyes," said the old man at last. + +"And I command you to see into the future with your own!" cried Unorna, +concentrating her terrible will as she grew more impatient. + +There was an evident struggle in the giant's mind, an effort to obey +which failed to break down an obstacle. She bent over him eagerly and +her whole consciousness was centered in the words she desired him to +speak. + +Suddenly the features relaxed into an expression of rest and +satisfaction. There was something unearthly in the sudden smile that +flickered over the old waxen face--it was as strange and unnatural as +though the cold marble effigy upon a sepulchre had laughed aloud in the +gloom of an empty church. + +"I see. He will love you," said the tremulous tones. + +"Then it is he?" + +"It is he." + +With a suppressed cry of triumph Unorna lifted her head and stood +upright. Then she started violently and grew very pale. + +"You have probably killed him and spoiled everything," said a rich bass +voice at her elbow--the very sub-bass of all possible voices. + +Keyork Arabian was beside her. In her intense excitement she had not +heard him enter the room, and he had surprised her at once in the +breaking of their joint convention and in the revelation of her secret. +If Unorna could be said to know the meaning of the word fear in any +degree whatsoever, it was in relation to Keyork Arabian, the man who +during the last few years had been her helper and associate in the great +experiment. Of all men she had known in her life, he was the only one +whom she felt to be beyond the influence of her powers, the only one +whom she felt that she could not charm by word, or touch, or look. The +odd shape of his head, she fancied, figured the outline and proportions +of his intelligence, which was, as it were, pyramidal, standing upon a +base so broad and firm as to place the centre of its ponderous gravity +far beyond her reach to disturb. There was certainly no other being of +material reality that could have made Unorna start and turn pale by its +inopportune appearance. + +"The best thing you can do is to put him to sleep at once," said the +little man. "You can be angry afterwards, and, I thank heaven, so can +I--and shall." + +"Forget," said Unorna, once more laying her hand upon the waxen brow. +"Let it be as though I had not spoken with you. Drink, in your sleep, +of the fountain of life, take new strength into your body and new blood +into your heart. Live, and when I next wake you be younger by as many +months as there shall pass hours till then. Sleep." + +A low sigh trembled in the hoary beard. The eyelids drooped over the +sunken eyes, there was a slight motion of the limbs, and all was still, +save for the soft and regular breathing. + +"The united patience of the seven archangels, coupled with that of Job +and Simon Stylites, would not survive your acquaintance for a day," +observed Keyork Arabian. + +"Is he mine or yours?" Unorna asked, turning to him and pointing to the +sleeper. + +She was quite ready to face her companion after the first shock of his +unexpected appearance. His small blue eyes sparkled angrily. + +"I am not versed in the law concerning real estate in human kind in the +Kingdom of Bohemia," he answered. "You may have property in a couple of +hundredweight, more or less, of old bones rather the worse for the wear +and tear of a century, but I certainly have some ownership in the life. +Without me, you would have been the possessor of a remarkably fine +skeleton by this time--and of nothing more." + +As he spoke, his extraordinary voice ran over half a dozen notes of +portentous depth, like the opening of a fugue on the pedals of an organ. +Unorna laughed scornfully. + +"He is mine, Keyork Arabian, alive or dead. If the experiment fails, +and he dies, the loss is mine, not yours. Moreover, what I have done is +done, and I will neither submit to your reproaches nor listen to your +upbraidings. Is that enough?" + +"Of its kind, quite. I will build an altar to Ingratitude, we will bury +our friend beneath the shrine, and you shall serve in the temple. You +could deify all the cardinal sins if you would only give your attention +to the subject, merely by the monstrously imposing proportions you would +know how to give them." + +"Does it ease you to make such an amazing noise?" inquired Unorna, +raising her eyebrows. + +"Immensely. Our friend cannot hear it, and you can. You dare to tell me +that if he dies you are the only loser. Do fifty years of study count +for nothing? Look at me. I am an old man, and unless I find the secret +of life here, in this very room, before many years are over, I must +die--die, do you understand? Do you know what it means to die? How can +you comprehend that word--you girl, you child, you thing of five and +twenty summers!" + +"It was to be supposed that your own fears were at the root of your +anger," observed Unorna, sitting down upon her chair and calmly folding +her hands as though to wait until the storm should pass over. + +"Is there anything at the root of anything except Self? You moth, you +butterfly, you thread of floating gossamer! How can you understand the +incalculable value of Self--of that which is all to me and nothing to +you, or which, being yours, is everything to you and to me nothing? You +are so young--you still believe in things, and interests, and good and +evil, and love and hate, truth and falsehood, and a hundred notions +which are not facts, but only contrasts between one self and another! +What were you doing here when I found you playing with life and death, +perhaps with my life, for a gipsy trick, in the crazy delusion that this +old parcel of humanity can see the shadows of things which are not yet? +I saw, I heard. How could he answer anything save that which was in your +own mind, when you were forcing him with your words and your eyes to +make a reply of some sort, or perish? Ah! You see now. You understand +now. I have opened your eyes a little. Why did he hesitate, and suffer? +Because you asked that to which he knew there was no answer. And you +tortured him with your will until his individuality fell into yours, and +spoke your words." + +Unorna's head sank a little and she covered her eyes. The truth of what +he said flashed upon her suddenly and unexpectedly, bringing with it the +doubt which had left her at the moment when the sleeper had spoken. She +could not hide her discomfiture and Keyork Arabian saw his advantage. + +"And for what?" he asked, beginning to pace the broad room. "To know +whether a man will love you or not! You seem to have forgotten what +you are. Is not such a poor and foolish thing as love at the command of +those who can say to the soul, be this, or be that, and who are obeyed? +Have you found a second Keyork Arabian, over whom your eyes have no +power--neither the one nor the other?" + +He laughed rather brutally at the thought of her greatest physical +peculiarity, but then suddenly stopped short. She had lifted her face +and those same eyes were fastened upon him, the black and the gray, in a +look so savage and fierce that even he was checked, if not startled. + +"They are certainly very remarkable eyes," he said, more calmly, and +with a certain uneasiness which Unorna did not notice. "I wonder whom +you have found who is able to look you in the face without losing +himself. I suppose it can hardly be my fascinating self whom you wish to +enthrall," he added, conscious after a moment's trial that he was proof +against her influence. + +"Hardly," answered Unorna, with a bitter laugh. + +"If I were the happy man you would not need that means of bringing me to +your feet. It is a pity that you do not want me. We should make a very +happy couple. But there is much against me. I am an old man, Unorna. My +figure was never of divine proportions, and as for my face, Nature made +it against her will. I know all that--and yet, I was young once, and +eloquent. I could make love then--I believe that I could still if it +would amuse you." + +"Try it," said Unorna, who, like most people, could not long be angry +with the gnome-like little sage. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +"I could make love--yes, and since you tell me to try, I will." + +He came and stood before her, straightening his diminutive figure in a +comical fashion as though he were imitating a soldier on parade. + +"In the first place," he said, "in order to appreciate my skill, you +should realise the immense disadvantages under which I labour. I am a +dwarf, my dear Unorna. In the presence of that kingly wreck of a Homeric +man"--he pointed to the sleeper beside them--"I am a Thersites, if not +a pigmy. To have much chance of success I should ask you to close your +eyes, and to imagine that my stature matches my voice. That gift at +least, I flatter myself, would have been appreciated on the plains of +Troy. But in other respects I resemble neither the long-haired Greeks +nor the trousered Trojans. I am old and hideous, and in outward +appearance I am as like Socrates as in inward disposition I am totally +different from him. Admit, since I admit it, that I am the ugliest and +smallest man of your acquaintance." + +"It is not to be denied," said Unorna with a smile. + +"The admission will make the performance so much the more interesting. +And now, as the conjurer says when he begins, observe that there is no +deception. That is the figure of speech called lying, because there is +to be nothing but deception from beginning to end. Did you ever consider +the nature of a lie, Unorna? It is a very interesting subject." + +"I thought you were going to make love to me." + +"True; how easily one forgets those little things! And yet no woman ever +forgave a man who forgot to make love when she expected him to do so. +For a woman, who is a woman, never forgets to be exigent. And now there +is no reprieve, for I have committed myself, am sentenced, and +condemned to be made ridiculous in your eyes. Can there be anything more +contemptible, more laughable, more utterly and hopelessly absurd, than +an old and ugly man declaring his unrequited passion for a woman who +might be his granddaughter? Is he not like a hoary old owl, who leaves +his mousing to perch upon one leg and hoot love ditties at the evening +star, or screech out amorous sonnets to the maiden moon?" + +"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. He had the power of +making his speech sound like a deep, soft music. + +"For what is love?" he asked. "Is it a garment, a jewel, a fanciful +ornament which only boys and girls may wear upon a summer's holiday? May +we take it or leave it, as we please? Wear it, if it shows well upon our +beauty, or cast it off for others to put on when we limp aside out of +the race of fashion to halt and breathe before we die? Is love beauty? +Is love youth? Is love yellow hair or black? Is love the rose upon the +lip or the peach blossom in the cheek, that only the young may call it +theirs? Is it an outward grace, which can live but so long as the other +outward graces are its companions, to perish when the first gray hair +streaks the dark locks? Is it a glass, shivered by the first shock +of care as a mirror by a sword-stroke? Is it a painted mask, washed +colourless by the first rain of autumn tears? Is it a flower, so tender +that it must perish miserably in the frosty rime of earliest winter? Is +love the accident of youth, the complement of a fresh complexion, the +corollary of a light step, the physical concomitant of swelling pulses +and unstrained sinews?" + +Keyork Arabian laughed softly. Unorna was grave and looked up into his +face, resting her chin upon her hand. + +"If that is love, if that is the idol of your shrine, the vision of your +dreams, the familiar genius of your earthly paradise, why then, indeed, +he who worships by your side, and who would share the habitation of +your happiness, must wear Absalom's anointed curls and walk with Agag's +delicate step. What matter if he be but a half-witted puppet? He is +fair. What matter if he be foolish, faithless, forgetful, inconstant, +changeable as the tide of the sea? He is young. His youth shall cover +all his deficiencies and wipe out all his sins! Imperial love, monarch +and despot of the human soul, is become the servant of boys for the wage +of a girl's first thoughtless kiss. If that is love let it perish out of +the world, with the bloom of the wood violet in spring, with the flutter +of the bright moth in June, with the song of the nightingale and the +call of the mocking-bird, with all things that are fair and lovely and +sweet but for a few short days. If that is love, why then love never +made a wound, nor left a scar, nor broke a heart in this easy-going +rose-garden of a world. The rose blooms, blows, fades and withers and +feels nothing. If that is love, we may yet all develop into passionless +promoters of a flat and unprofitable commonwealth; the earth may yet be +changed to a sweetmeat for us to feed on, and the sea to sugary lemonade +for us to drink, as the mad philosopher foretold, and we may yet all be +happy after love has left us." + +Unorna smiled, while he laughed again. + +"Good," she said. "You tell me what love is not, but you have not told +me what it is." + +"Love is the immortal essence of mortal passion, together they are as +soul and body, one being; separate them, and the body without the soul +is a monster, the soul without the body is no longer human, nor earthly, +nor real to us at all, though still divine. Love is the world's maker, +master and destroyer, the magician whose word can change water to blood, +and blood to fire, the dove to a serpent, and the serpent to a dove--ay, +and can make of that same dove an eagle, with an eagle's beak, and +talons, and air-cleaving wing-stroke. Love is the spirit of life and the +angel of death. He speaks, and the thorny wilderness of the lonely heart +is become a paradise of flowers. He is silent, and the garden is but a +blackened desert over which a destroying flame has passed in the arms of +the east wind. Love stands at the gateway of each human soul, holding in +his hands a rose and a drawn sword--the sword is for the many, the rose +for the one." + +He sighed and was silent. Unorna looked at him curiously. + +"Have you ever loved, that you should talk like that?" she asked. He +turned upon her almost fiercely. + +"Loved? Yes, as you can never love; as you, in your woman's heart, can +never dream of loving--with every thought, with every fibre, with +every pulse, with every breath; with a love that is burning the old oak +through and through, root and branch, core and knot, to feathery ashes +that you may scatter with a sigh--the only sigh you will ever breathe +for me, Unorna. Have I loved? Can I love? Do I love to-day as I loved +yesterday and shall love to-morrow? Ah, child! That you should ask that, +with your angel's face, when I am in hell for you! When I would give my +body to death and my soul to darkness for a touch of your hand, for as +much kindness and gentleness in a word from your dear lips as you give +the beggars in the street! When I would tear out my heart with my hands +to feed the very dog that fawns on you--and who is more to you than +I, because he is yours, and all that is yours I love, and worship, and +adore!" + +Unorna had looked up and smiled at first, believing that it was all but +a comedy, as he had told her that it should be. But as he spoke, and the +strong words chased each other in the torrent of his passionate speech, +she was startled and surprised. There was a force in his language, a +fiery energy in his look, a ring of half-desperate hope in his deep +voice, which moved her to strange thoughts. His face, too, was changed +and ennobled, his gestures larger, even his small stature ceased, for +once, to seem dwarfish and gnome-like. + +"Keyork Arabian, is it possible that you love me?" she cried, in her +wonder. + +"Possible? True? There is neither truth nor possibility in anything else +for me, in anything, in any one, but you, Unorna. The service of my love +fills the days and the nights and the years with you--fills the world +with you only; makes heaven to be on earth, since heaven is but the air +that is made bright with your breath, as the temple of all temples is +but the spot whereon your dear feet stand. The light of life is where +you are, the darkness of death is everywhere where you are not. But I am +condemned to die, cut off, predestined to be lost--for you have no pity, +Unorna, you cannot find it in you to be sorry for the poor old man whose +last pulse will beat for you; whose last word will be your name; whose +last look upon your beauty will end the dream in which he lived his +life. What can it be to you, that I love you so? Why should it be +anything to you? When I am gone--with the love of you in my heart, +Unorna--when they have buried the ugly old body out of your sight, you +will not even remember that I was once your companion, still less that +I knelt before you, that I kissed the ground on which you stood; that I +loved you as men love whose hearts are breaking, that I touched the hem +of your garment and was for one moment young--that I besought you to +press my hand but once, with one thought of kindness, with one last and +only word of human pity--" + +He broke off suddenly, and there was a tremor in his voice which lent +intense expression to the words. He was kneeling upon one knee beside +Unorna, but between her and the light, so that she saw his face +indistinctly. She could not but pity him. She took his outstretched hand +in hers. + +"Poor Keyork!" she said, very kindly and gently. "How could I have ever +guessed all this?" + +"It would have been exceedingly strange if you had," answered Keyork, in +a tone that made her start. + +Then a magnificent peal of bass laughter rolled through the room, as the +gnome sprang suddenly to his feet. + +"Did I not warn you?" asked Keyork, standing back and contemplating +Unorna's surprised face with delight. "Did I not tell you that I was +going to make love to you? That I was old and hideous and had everything +against me? That it was all a comedy for your amusement? That there was +to be nothing but deception from beginning to end? That I was like a +decrepit owl screeching at the moon, and many other things to a similar +effect?" + +Unorna smiled somewhat thoughtfully. + +"You are the greatest of great actors, Keyork Arabian. There is +something diabolical about you. I sometimes almost think that you are +the devil himself!" + +"Perhaps I am," suggested the little man cheerfully. + +"Do you know that there is a horror about all this?" Unorna rose to her +feet. Her smile had vanished and she seemed to feel cold. + +As though nothing had happened, Keyork began to make his daily +examination of his sleeping patient, applying his thermometer to the +body, feeling the pulse, listening to the beatings of the heart with +his stethoscope, gently drawing down the lower lid of one of the eyes +to observe the colour of the membrane, and, in a word, doing all those +things which he was accustomed to do under the circumstances with a +promptness and briskness which showed how little he feared that the +old man would wake under his touch. He noted some of the results of his +observations in a pocket-book. Unorna stood still and watched him. + +"Do you remember ever to have been in the least degree like other +people?" she asked, speaking after a long silence, as he was returning +his notes to his pocket. + +"I believe not," he answered. "Nature spared me that indignity--or +denied me that happiness--as you may look at it. I am not like other +people, as you justly remark. I need not say that it is the other people +who are the losers." + +"The strange thing is, that you should be able to believe so much of +yourself when you find it so hard to believe good of your fellow-men." + +"I object to the expression, 'fellow-men,'" returned Keyork promptly. +"I dislike phrases, and, generally, maxims as a whole, and all their +component parts. A woman must have invented that particular phrase of +yours in order to annoy a man she disliked." + +"And why, if you please?" + +"Because no one ever speaks of 'fellow-women.' The question of woman's +duty to man has been amply discussed since the days of Menes the +Thinite--but no one ever heard of a woman's duty to her fellow-women; +unless, indeed, her duty is to try and outdo them by fair means or foul. +Then why talk of man and his fellow-men? I can put the wisest rule of +life into two short phrases." + +"Give me the advantage of your wisdom." + +"The first rule is, Beware of women." + +"And the second?" + +"Beware of men," laughed the little sage. "Observe the simplicity and +symmetry. Each rule has three words, two of which are the same in each, +so that you have the result of the whole world's experience at your +disposal at the comparatively small expenditure of one verb, one +preposition, and two nouns." + +"There is little room for love in your system," remarked Unorna, "for +such love, for instance, as you described to me a few minutes ago." + +"There is too much room for it in yours," retorted Keyork. "Your system +is constantly traversed in all directions by bodies, sometimes nebulous +and sometimes fiery, which move in unknown orbits at enormous rates of +speed. In astronomy they call them comets, and astronomers would be much +happier without them." + +"I am not an astronomer." + +"Fortunately for the peace of the solar system. You have been sending +your comets dangerously near to our sick planet," he added, pointing to +the sleeper. "If you do it again he will break up into asteroids. To use +that particularly disagreeable and suggestive word invented by men, he +will die." + +"He seems no worse," said Unorna, contemplating the massive, peaceful +face. + +"I do not like the word 'seems,'" answered Keyork. "It is the refuge +of inaccurate persons, unable to distinguish between facts and +appearances." + +"You object to everything to-day. Are there any words which I may use +without offending your sense of fitness in language?" + +"None which do not express a willing affirmation of all I say. I will +receive any original speech on your part at the point of the sword. +You have done enough damage to-day, without being allowed the luxury +of dismembering common sense. Seems, you say! By all that is unholy! By +Eblis, Ahriman, and the Three Black Angels! He is worse, and there is +no seeming. The heat is greater, the pulse is weaker, the heart flutters +like a sick bird." + +Unorna's face showed her anxiety. + +"I am sorry," she said, in a low voice. + +"Sorry! No doubt you are. It remains to be seen whether your sorrow +can be utilized as a simple, or macerated in tears to make a tonic, or +sublimated to produce a corrosive which will destroy the canker, death. +But be sorry by all means. It occupies your mind without disturbing +me, or injuring the patient. Be sure that if I can find an active +application for your sentiment, I will give you the rare satisfaction of +being useful." + +"You have the art of being the most intolerably disagreeable of living +men when it pleases you." + +"When you displease me, you should say. I warn you that if he dies--our +friend here--I will make further studies in the art of being unbearable +to you. You will certainly be surprised by the result." + +"Nothing that you could say or do would surprise me." + +"Indeed? We shall see." + +"I will leave you to your studies, then. I have been here too long as it +is." + +She moved and arranged the pillow under the head of the sleeping giant +and adjusted the folds of his robe. Her touch was tender and skilful in +spite of her ill-suppressed anger. Then she turned away and went towards +the door. Keyork Arabian watched her until her hand was upon the latch. +His sharp eyes twinkled, as though he expected something amusing to +occur. + +"Unorna!" he said, suddenly, in an altered voice. She stopped and looked +back. + +"Well?" + +"Do not be angry, Unorna. Do not go away like this." + +Unorna turned, almost fiercely, and came back a step. + +"Keyork Arabian, do you think you can play upon me as on an instrument? +Do you suppose that I will come and go at your word like a child--or +like a dog? Do you think you can taunt me at one moment, and flatter me +the next, and find my humour always at your command?" + +The gnome-like little man looked down, made a sort of inclination of his +short body, and laid his hand upon his heart. + +"I was never presumptuous, my dear lady. I never had the least intention +of taunting you, as you express it, and as for your humour--can you +suppose that I could expect to command, where it is only mine to obey?" + +"It is of no use to talk in that way," said Unorna, haughtily. "I am not +prepared to be deceived by your comedy this time." + +"Nor I to play one. Since I have offended you, I ask your pardon. +Forgive the expression, for the sake of the meaning; the thoughtless +word for the sake of the unworded thought." + +"How cleverly you turn and twist both thoughts and words!" + +"Do not be so unkind, dear friend." + +"Unkind to you? I wish I had the secret of some unkindness that you +should feel!" + +"The knowledge of what I can feel is mine alone," answered Keyork, with +a touch of sadness. "I am not a happy man. The world, for me, holds but +one interest and one friendship. Destroy the one, or embitter the other, +and Keyork's remnant of life becomes but a foretaste of death." + +"And that interest--that friendship--where are they?" asked Unorna in a +tone still bitter, but less scornful than before. + +"Together, in this room, and both in danger, the one through your young +haste and impetuosity, the other through my wretched weakness in being +made angry; forgive me, Unorna, as I ask forgiveness----" + +"Your repentance is too sudden; it savours of the death-bed." + +"Small wonder, when my life is in the balance." + +"Your life?" She uttered the question incredulously, but not without +curiosity. + +"My life--and for your word," he answered, earnestly. He spoke so +impressively, and in so solemn a tone, that Unorna's face became grave. +She advanced another step towards him, and laid her hand upon the back +of the chair in which she previously had sat. + +"We must understand each other--to-day or never," she said. "Either we +must part and abandon the great experiment--for, if we part, it must be +abandoned--" + +"We cannot part, Unorna." + +"Then, if we are to be associates and companions--" + +"Friends," said Keyork in a low voice. + +"Friends? Have you laid the foundation for a friendship between us? +You say that your life is in the balance. That is a figure of speech, I +suppose. Or has your comedy another act? I can believe well enough that +your greatest interest in life lies there, upon that couch, asleep. I +know that you can do nothing without me, as you know it yourself. But in +your friendship I can never trust--never!--still less can I believe that +any words of mine can affect your happiness, unless they be those you +need for the experiment itself. Those, at least, I have not refused to +pronounce." + +While she was speaking, Keyork began to walk up and down the room, in +evident agitation, twisting his fingers and bending down his head. + +"My accursed folly!" he exclaimed, as though speaking to himself. "My +damnable ingenuity in being odious! It is not to be believed! That a man +of my age should think one thing and say another--like a tetchy girl +or a spoilt child! The stupidity of the thing! And then, to have the +idiotic utterances of the tongue registered and judged as a confession +of faith--or rather, of faithlessness! But it is only just--it is only +right--Keyork Arabian's self is ruined again by Keyork Arabian's vile +speeches, which have no more to do with his self than the clouds on +earth have with the sun above them! Ruined, ruined--lost, this time. Cut +off from the only living being he respects--the only being whose +respect he covets; sent back to die in his loneliness, to perish like +a friendless beast, as he is, to the funereal music of his own +irrepressible snarling! To growl himself out of the world, like a +broken-down old tiger in the jungle, after scaring away all possible +peace and happiness and help with his senseless growls! Ugh! It is +perfectly just, it is absolutely right and supremely horrible to think +of! A fool to the last, Keyork, as you always were--and who would make a +friend of such a fool?" + +Unorna leaned upon the back of the chair watching him, and wondering +whether, after all, he were not in earnest this time. 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. His manner became very humble. + +"You are right, my dear lady," he said. "I have no claim to your +forbearance for my outrageous humours. I have offended you, insulted +you, spoken to you as no man should speak to any woman. I cannot even +ask you to forgive me, and, if I tell you that I am sorry, you will not +believe me. Why should you? But you are right. This cannot go on. Rather +than run the risk of again showing you my abominable temper, I will go +away." + +His voice trembled and his bright eyes seemed to grow dull and misty. + +"Let this be our parting," he continued, as though mastering his +emotion. "I have no right to ask anything, and yet I ask this of you. +When I have left you, when you are safe for ever from my humours and my +tempers and myself--then, do not think unkindly of Keyork Arabian. He +would have seemed the friend he is, but for his unruly tongue." + +Unorna hesitated a moment. Then she put out her hand, convinced of his +sincerity in spite of herself. + +"Let bygones be bygones, Keyork," she said. "You must not go, for I +believe you." + +At the words, the light returned to his eyes, and a look of +ineffable beatitude overspread the face which could be so immovably +expressionless. + +"You are as kind as you are good, Unorna, and as good as you are +beautiful," he said, and with a gesture which would have been courtly in +a man of nobler stature, but which was almost grotesque in such a dwarf, +he raised her fingers to his lips. + +This time, no peal of laugher followed to destroy the impression he had +produced upon Unorna. She let her hand rest in his a few seconds, and +then gently withdrew it. + +"I must be going," she said. + +"So soon?" exclaimed Keyork regretfully. "There were many things I had +wished to say to you to-day, but if you have no time----" + +"I can spare a few minutes," answered Unorna, pausing. "What is it?" + +"One thing is this." His face had again become impenetrable as a mask +of old ivory, and he spoke in his ordinary way. "This is the question. I +was in the Teyn Kirche before I came here." + +"In church!" exclaimed Unorna in some surprise, and with a slight smile. + +"I frequently go to church," answered Keyork gravely. "While there, I +met an old acquaintance of mine, a strange fellow whom I have not seen +for years. The world is very small. He is a great traveller--a wanderer +through the world." + +Unorna looked up quickly, and a very slight colour appeared in her +cheeks. + +"Who is he?" she asked, trying to seem indifferent. "What is his name?" + +"His name? It is strange, but I cannot recall it. He is very tall, wears +a dark beard, has a pale, thoughtful face. But I need not describe him, +for he told me that he had been with you this morning. That is not the +point." + +He spoke carelessly and scarcely glanced at Unorna while speaking. + +"What of him?" she inquired, trying to seem as indifferent as her +companion. + +"He is a little mad, poor man, that is all. It struck me that, if you +would, you might save him. I know something of his story, though not +much. He once loved a young girl, now doubtless dead, but whom he still +believes to be alive, and he spends--or wastes--his life in a useless +search for her. You might cure him of the delusion." + +"How do you know that the girl is dead?" + +"She died in Egypt, four years ago," answered Keyork. "They had taken +her there in the hope of saving her, for she was at death's door +already, poor child." + +"But if you convince him of that." + +"There is no convincing him, and if he were really convinced he would +die himself. I used to take an interest in the man, and I know that you +could cure him in a simpler and safer way. But of course it lies with +you." + +"If you wish it, I will try," Unorna answered, turning her face from the +light. "But he will probably not come back to me." + +"He will. I advised him very strongly to come back, very strongly +indeed. I hope I did right. Are you displeased?" + +"Not at all!" Unorna laughed a little. "And if he comes, how am I to +convince him that he is mistaken, and that the girl is dead?" + +"That is very simple. You will hypnotise him, he will yield very +easily, and you will suggest to him very forcibly to forget the girl's +existence. You can suggest to him to come back to-morrow and the next +day, or as often as you please, and you can renew the suggestion +each time. In a week he will have forgotten--as you know people can +forget--entirely, totally, without hope of recalling what is lost." + +"That is true," said Unorna, in a low voice. "Are you sure that the +effect will be permanent?" she asked with sudden anxiety. + +"A case of the kind occurred in Hungary last year. The cure was effected +in Pesth. I was reading it only a few months ago. The oblivion was still +complete, as long as six months after the treatment, and there seems no +reason to suppose that the patient's condition will change. I thought it +might interest you to try it." + +"It will interest me extremely. I am very grateful to you for telling me +about him." + +Unorna had watched her companion narrowly during the conversation, +expecting him to betray his knowledge of a connection between the +Wanderer's visit and the strange question she had been asking of the +sleeper when Keyork had surprised her. She was agreeably disappointed in +this however. He spoke with a calmness and ease of manner which disarmed +suspicion. + +"I am glad I did right," said he. + +He stood at the foot of the couch upon which the sleeper was lying, and +looked thoughtfully and intently at the calm features. + +"We shall never succeed in this way," he said at last. "This condition +may continue indefinitely, till you are old, and I--until I am older +than I am by many years. He may not grow weaker, but he cannot grow +stronger. Theories will not renew tissues." + +Unorna looked up. + +"That has always been the question," she answered. "At least, you have +told me so. Will lengthened rest and perfect nourishment alone give a +new impulse to growth or will they not?" + +"They will not. I am sure of it now. We have arrested decay, or made it +so slow as to be imperceptible. But we have made many attempts to renew +the old frame, and we are no farther advanced than we were nearly four +years ago. Theories will not make tissues." + +"What will?" + +"Blood," answered Keyork Arabian very softly. + +"I have heard of that being done for young people in illness," said +Unorna. + +"It has never been done as I would do it," replied the gnome, shaking +his head and gathering his great beard in his hand, as he gazed at the +sleeper. + +"What would you do?" + +"I would make it constant for a day, or for a week if I could--a +constant circulation; the young heart and the old should beat together; +it could be done in the lethargic sleep--an artery and a vein--a vein +and an artery--I have often thought of it; it could not fail. The new +young blood would create new tissue, because it would itself constantly +be renewed in the young body which is able to renew it, only expending +itself in the old. The old blood would itself become young again as it +passed to the younger man." + +"A man!" exclaimed Unorna. + +"Of course. An animal would not do, because you could not produce the +lethargy nor make use of suggestion for healing purposes--" + +"But it would kill him!" + +"Not at all, as I would do it, especially if the young man were very +strong and full of life. When the result is obtained, an antiseptic +ligature, suggestion of complete healing during sleep, proper +nourishment, such as we are giving at present, by recalling the patient +to the hypnotic state, sleep again, and so on; in eight and forty hours +your young man would be waked and would never know what had happened to +him--unless he felt a little older, by nervous sympathy," added the sage +with a low laugh. + +"Are you perfectly sure of what you say?" asked Unorna eagerly. + +"Absolutely. I have examined the question for years. There can be no +doubt of it. Food can maintain life, blood alone can renew it." + +"Have you everything you need here?" inquired Unorna. + +"Everything. There is no hospital in Europe that has the appliances we +have prepared for every emergency." + +He looked at her face curiously. It was ghastly pale with excitement. +The pupil of her brown eye was so widely expanded that the iris looked +black, while the aperture of the gray one was contracted to the size +of a pin's head, so that the effect was almost that of a white and +sightless ball. + +"You seem interested," said the gnome. + +"Would such a man--such a man as Israel Kafka answer the purpose?" she +asked. + +"Admirably," replied the other, beginning to understand. + +"Keyork Arabian," whispered Unorna, coming close to him and bending down +to his ear, "Israel Kafka is alone under the palm tree where I always +sit. He is asleep, and he will not wake." + +The gnome looked up and nodded gravely. But she was gone almost before +she had finished speaking the words. + +"As upon an instrument," said the little man, quoting Unorna's angry +speech. "Truly I can play upon you, but it is a strange music." + +Half an hour later Unorna returned to her place among the flowers, but +Israel Kafka was gone. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +The Wanderer, when Keyork Arabian had left him, had intended to revisit +Unorna without delay, but he had not proceeded far in the direction of +her house when he turned out of his way and entered a deserted street +which led towards the river. He walked slowly, drawing his furs closely +about him, for it was very cold. + +He found himself in one of those moments of life in which the +presentiment of evil almost paralyses the mind's power of making +any decision. In general, a presentiment is but the result upon the +consciousness of conscious or unconscious fear. This fear is very often +the natural consequence of the reaction which, in melancholy natures, +comes almost inevitably after a sudden and unexpected satisfaction +or after a period in which the hopes of the individual have been +momentarily raised by some unforeseen circumstance. It is by no means +certain that hope is of itself a good thing. The wise and mournful +soul prefers the blessedness of that non-expectancy which shall not be +disappointed, to the exhilarating pleasures of an anticipation which may +prove empty. In this matter lies one of the great differences between +the normal moral state of the heathen and that of the Christian. The +Greek hoped for all things in this world and for nothing in the next; +the Christian, on the contrary, looks for a happiness to come hereafter, +while fundamentally denying the reality of any earthly joy whatsoever +in the present. Man, however, is so constituted as to find it almost +impossible to put faith in either bliss alone, without helping his +belief by borrowing some little refreshment from the hope of the other. +The wisest of the Greeks believed the soul to be immortal; the sternest +of Christians cannot forget that once or twice in his life he had been +contemptibly happy, and condemns himself for secretly wishing that he +might be as happy again before all is over. Faith is the evidence of +things unseen, but hope is the unreasoning belief that unseen things may +soon become evident. The definition of faith puts earthly disappointment +out of the question; that of hope introduces it into human affairs as a +constant and imminent probability. + +The development of psychologic research in our day has proved beyond +a doubt that individuals of a certain disposition may be conscious of +events actually occurring, or which have recently occurred, at a great +distance; but it has not shown satisfactorily that things yet to happen +are foreshadowed by that restless condition of the sensibilities which +we call presentiment. We may, and perhaps must, admit that all that is +or has been produces a real and perceptible impression upon all else +that is. But there is as yet no good reason for believing that an +impression of what shall be can be conveyed by anticipation--without +reasoning--to the mind of man. + +But though the realisation of a presentiment may be as doubtful as any +event depending upon chance alone, yet the immense influence which a +mere presentiment may exercise is too well known to be denied. The human +intelligence has a strong tendency to believe in its own reasonings, +of which, indeed, the results are often more accurate and reliable than +those reached by the physical perceptions alone. The problems which can +be correctly solved by inspection are few indeed compared with those +which fall within the province of logic. Man trusts to his reason, and +then often confounds the impressions produced by his passions with the +results gained by semi-conscious deduction. His love, his hate, his +anger create fears, and these supply him with presentiments which he is +inclined to accept as so many well-reasoned grounds of action. If he is +often deceived, he becomes aware of his mistake, and, going to the other +extreme, considers a presentiment as a sort of warning that the contrary +of what he expects will take place; if he chances to be often right he +grows superstitious. + +The lonely man who was pacing the icy pavement of the deserted street on +that bitter winter's day felt the difficulty very keenly. He would not +yield and he could not advance. His heart was filled with forebodings +which his wisdom bade him treat with indifference, while his passion +gave them new weight and new horror with every minute that passed. + +He had seen with his eyes and heard with his ears. Beatrice had been +before him, and her voice had reached him among the voices of thousands, +but now, since the hours has passed and he had not found her, it was as +though he had been near her in a dream, and the strong certainty took +hold of him that she was dead and that he had looked upon her wraith in +the shadowy church. + +He was a strong man, not accustomed to distrust his senses, and his +reason opposed itself instantly to the suggestion of the supernatural. +He had many times, on entering a new city, felt himself suddenly elated +by the irresistible belief that his search was at an end, and that +within a few hours he must inevitably find her whom he had sought so +long. Often as he passed through the gates of some vast burying-place, +he had almost hesitated to walk through the silent ways, feeling all at +once convinced that upon the very first headstone he was about to +see the name that was ever in his heart. But the expectation of +final defeat, like the anticipation of final success, had been always +deceived. Neither living nor dead had he found her. + +Two common, reasonable possibilities lay before him, and two only. He +had either seen Beatrice, or he had not. If she had really been in the +Teyn Kirche, she was in the city and not far from him. If she had not +been there, he had been deceived by an accidental but extraordinary +likeness. Within the logical concatenation of cause and effect there was +no room for any other supposition, and it followed that his course was +perfectly clear. He must continue his search until he should find the +person he had seen, and the result would be conclusive, for he would +again see the same face and hear the same voice. Reason told him that he +had in all likelihood been mistaken after all. Reason reminded him that +the church had been dark, the multitude of worshippers closely +crowded together, the voices that sang almost innumerable and wholly +undistinguishable from each other. Reason showed him a throng of +possibilities, all pointing to an error of his perceptions and all in +direct contradiction with the one fact which his loving instinct held +for true. + +The fear of evil, the presentiment of death, defied logic and put its +own construction and interpretation upon the strange event. He neither +believed, nor desired to believe, in a supernatural visitation, yet +the inexplicable certainty of having seen a ghostly vision overwhelmed +reason and all her arguments. Beatrice was dead. Her spirit had passed +in that solemn hour when the Wanderer had stood in the dusky church; he +had looked upon her shadowy wraith, and had heard the echo of a voice +from beyond the stars, whose crystal tones already swelled the diviner +harmony of an angelic strain. + +The impression was so strong at first as to be but one step removed from +conviction. The shadow of a great mourning fell upon him, of a grief +too terrible for words, too solemn for tears, too strong to find any +expression save in death itself. He walked heavily, bending his head, +his eyes half closed as though in bodily pain, the icy pavement rang +like iron under his tread, the frozen air pierced through him, as his +sorrow pierced his heart, the gloom of the fast-sinking winter's day +deepened as the darkness in his own soul. He, who was always alone, knew +at last what loneliness could mean. While she had lived she had been +with him always, a living, breathing woman, visible to his inner eyes, +speaking to his inward hearing, waking in his sleepless love. He had +sought her with restless haste and untiring strength through the length +and breadth of the whole world, but yet she had never left him, he had +never been separated from her for one moment, never, in the years of his +wandering, had he entered the temple of his heart without finding her +in its most holy place. Men had told him that she was dead, but he had +looked within himself and had seen that she was still alive; the dread +of reading her sacred name carved upon the stone that covered her +resting-place, had chilled him and made his sight tremble, but he had +entered the shrine of his soul and had found her again, untouched by +death, unchanged by years, living, loved, and loving. But now, when +he shut out the dismal street from view, and went to the sanctuary and +kneeled upon the threshold, he saw but a dim vision, as of something +lying upon an altar in the dark, something shrouded in white, something +shapely and yet shapeless, something that had been and was not any more. + +He reached the end of the street, but he felt a reluctance to leave +it, and turned back again, walking still more slowly and heavily than +before. So far as any outward object or circumstance could be said to be +in harmony with his mood, the dismal lane, the failing light, the bitter +air, were at that moment sympathetic to him. The tomb itself is not more +sepulchral than certain streets and places in Prague on a dark +winter's afternoon. In the certainty that the last and the greatest of +misfortunes had befallen him, the Wanderer turned back into the gloomy +by-way as the pale, wreathing ghosts, fearful of the sharp daylight +and the distant voices of men, sink back at dawn into the graves out +of which they have slowly risen to the outer air in the silence of the +night. + +Death, the arch-steward of eternity, walks the bounds of man's entailed +estate, and the headstones of men's graves are landmarks in the great +possession committed to his stewardship, enclosing within their narrow +ring the wretched plot of land which makes up all of life's inheritance. +From ever to always the generations of men do bondsmen's service in that +single field, to plough it and sow it, and harrow it and water it, to +lay the sickle to the ripe corn if so be that their serfdom falls in the +years of plenty and the ear is full, to eat the bread of tears, if +their season of servitude be required of them in a time of scarcity and +famine. Bondsmen of death, from birth, they are sent forth out of the +sublime silence of the pathless forest which hems in the open glebe +land of the present and which is eternity, past and to come; bondsmen +of death, from youth to age, they join in the labour of the field, +they plough, they sow, they reap, perhaps, tears they shed many, and of +laughter there is also a little amongst them; bondsmen of death, to the +last, they are taken in the end, when they have served their tale of +years, many or few, and they are led from furrow and grass land, willing +or unwilling, mercifully or cruelly, to the uttermost boundary, and they +are thrust out quickly into the darkness whence they came. For their +place is already filled, and the new husbandmen, their children, have in +their turn come into the field, to eat of the fruit they sowed, to sow +in turn a seed of which they themselves shall not see the harvest, whose +sheaves others shall bind, whose ears others shall thresh, and of whose +corn others shall make bread after them. With our eyes we may yet see +the graves of two hundred generations of men, whose tombs serve but to +mark that boundary more clearly, whose fierce warfare, when they fought +against the master, could not drive back that limit by a handbreadth, +whose uncomplaining labour, when they accepted their lot patiently, +earned them not one scant foot of soil wherewith to broaden their +inheritance as reward for their submission; and of them all, neither +man nor woman was ever forgotten in the day of reckoning, nor was one +suffered to linger in the light. Death will bury a thousand generations +more, in graves as deep, strengthening year by year the strong chain of +his grim landmarks. He will remember us every one when the time comes; +to some of us he will vouchsafe a peaceful end, but some shall pass +away in mortal agony, and some shall be dragged unconscious to the other +side; but all must go. Some shall not see him till he is at hand, and +some shall dream of him in year-long dreams of horror, to be taken +unawares at the last. He will remember us every one and will come to us, +and the place of our rest shall be marked for centuries, for years, or +for seconds, for each a stone, or a few green sods laid upon a mound +beneath the sky, or the ripple on a changing wave when the loaded sack +has slipped from the smooth plank, and the sound of a dull splash has +died away in the wind. There be strong men, as well as weak, who shudder +and grow cold when they think of that yet undated day which must close +with its black letter their calendar of joy and sorrow; there are +weaklings, as well as giants, who fear death for those they love, +but who fear not anything else at all. The master treats courage and +cowardice alike; Achilles and Thersites must alike perish, and none will +be so bold as to say that he can tell the dust of the misshapen varlet +from the ashes of the swift-footed destroyer, whose hair was once so +bright, whose eyes were so fierce, whose mighty heart was so slothless, +so wrathful, so inexorable and so brave. + +The Wanderer was of those who dread nothing save for the one +dearly-beloved object, but who, when that fear is once roused by a real +or an imaginary danger, can suffer in one short moment the agony which +should be distributed through a whole lifetime. The magnitude of his +passion could lend to the least thought or presentiment connected with +it the force of a fact and the overwhelming weight of a real calamity. + +In order to feel any great or noble passion a man must have an +imagination both great and sensitive in at least one direction. The +execution of a rare melody demands as a prime condition an instrument +of wide compass and delicate construction, and one of even more rich and +varied capabilities is needed to render those grand harmonies which are +woven in the modulation of sonorous chords. A skilful hand may draw a +scale from wooden blocks set upon ropes of straw, but the great musician +must hold the violin, or must feel the keys of the organ under his +fingers and the responsive pedals at his feet, before he can expect to +interpret fittingly the immortal thought of the composer. The strings +must vibrate in perfect tune, the priceless wood must be seasoned and +penetrated with the melodies of years, and scores of years, the latent +music must be already trembling to be free, before the hand that draws +the bow can command the ears and hearts of those who hear. So, too, +love, the chief musician of this world, must find an instrument worthy +of his touch before he can show all his power, and make heart and soul +ring with the lofty strains of a sublime passion. Not every one knows +what love means; few indeed know all that love can mean. There is no +more equality among men than there is likeness between them, and no two +are alike. The many have little, the few have much. To the many is given +the faint perception of higher things, which is either the vestige, or +the promise, of a nobler development, past or yet to come. As through a +veil they see the line of beauty which it is not theirs to trace; as +in a dream they hear the succession of sweet tones which they can +themselves never bring together, though their half-grown instinct feels +a vague satisfaction in the sequence; as from another world, they listen +to the poet's song, wondering, admiring, but powerless over the great +instrument of human speech, from whose 15,000 keys their touch can +draw but the dull, tuneless prose of daily question and answer; as in a +mirage of things unreal, they see the great deeds that are done in +their time for love or hate, for race or country, for ambition and for +vengeance, but though they see the result, and know the motive, the +inward meaning and spirit of it all escapes them. It is theirs to be, +and existence is in itself their all. To think, to create, to act, to +feel can be only for the few. To one is given the transcendent genius +that turns the very stones along life's road to precious gems of +thought; whose gift it is to find speech in dumb things and eloquence in +the ideal half of the living world; to whom sorrow is a melody and joy +sweet music; to whom the humblest effort of a humble life can furnish +an immortal lyric, and in whom one thought of the Divine can inspire a +sublime hymn. Another stoops and takes a handful of clay from the earth, +and with the pressure of his fingers moulds it to the reality of an +unreal image seen in dreams; or, standing before the vast, rough +block of marble, he sees within the mass the perfection of a faultless +form--he lays the chisel to the stone, the mallet strikes the steel, one +by one the shapeless fragments fly from the shapely limbs, the +matchless curves are uncovered, the breathing mouth smiles through the +petrifaction of a thousand ages, the shroud of stone falls from +the godlike brow, and the Hermes of Olympia stands forth in all his +deathless beauty. Another is born to the heritage of this world's power, +fore-destined to rule and fated to destroy; the naked sword of destiny +lies in his cradle; the axe of a king-maker awaits the awakening of his +strength; the sceptre of supreme empire hangs within his reach. Unknown, +he dreams and broods over the future; unheeded, he begins to move among +his fellows; a smile, half of encouragement, half of indifference, +greets his first effort; he advances a little farther, and thoughtful +men look grave, another step, and suddenly all mankind cries out and +faces him and would beat him back; but it is too late; one struggle +more, and the hush of a great and unknown fear falls on the wrangling +nations; they are silent, and the world is his. He is the man who +is already thinking when others have scarcely begun to feel; who is +creating before the thoughts of his rivals have reached any conclusion; +who acts suddenly, terribly and irresistibly, before their creations +have received life. And yet, the greatest and the richest inheritance of +all is not his, for it has fallen to another, to the man of heart, and +it is the inheritance of the kingdom of love. + +In all ages the reason of the world has been at the mercy of brute +force. The reign of law has never had more than a passing reality, and +never can have more than that so long as man is human. The individual +intellect and the aggregate intelligence of nations and races have alike +perished in the struggles of mankind, to revive again, indeed, but as +surely to be again put to the edge of the sword. Here and there great +thoughts and great masterpieces have survived the martyrdom of a +thinker, the extinction of a school, the death of a poet, the wreck of a +high civilisation. Socrates is murdered with the creed of immortality on +his very lips; hardly had he spoken the wonderful words recorded in the +_Phaedo_ when the fatal poison sent its deathly chill through his limbs; +the Greeks are gone, yet the Hermes of Olympia remains, mutilated and +maimed, indeed, but faultless still, and still supreme. The very name +of Homer is grown wellnigh as mythic as his blindness. There are those +to-day who, standing by the grave of William Shakespeare, say boldly +that he was not the creator of the works that bear his name. And still, +through the centuries, Achilles wanders lonely by the shore of the +sounding sea; Paris loves, and Helen is false; Ajax raves, and Odysseus +steers his sinking ship through the raging storm. Still, Hamlet the +Avenger swears, hesitates, kills at last, and then himself is slain; +Romeo sighs in the ivory moonlight, and love-bound Juliet hears the +triumphant lark carolling his ringing hymn high in the cool morning +air, and says it is the nightingale--Immortals all, the marble god, the +Greek, the Dane, the love-sick boy, the maiden foredoomed to death. But +how short is the roll-call of these deathless ones! Through what raging +floods of destruction have they lived, through what tempests have they +been tossed, upon what inhospitable shores have they been cast up by +the changing tides of time! Since they were called to life by the +great, half-nameless departed, how often has their very existence been +forgotten by all but a score in tens of millions? Has it been given to +those embodied thoughts of transcendent genius to ride in the whirlwind +of men's passions or to direct the stormy warfare of half frantic +nations? Since they were born in all their bright perfection, to live +on in unchanging beauty, violence has ruled the world; many a time since +then the sword has mown down its harvest of thinkers, many a time has +the iron harrow of war torn up and scarred the face of the earth. Athens +still stands in broken loveliness, and the Tiber still rolls its tawny +waters heavily through Rome; but Rome and Athens are to-day but places +of departed spirits; they are no longer the seats of life, their broken +hearts are petrified. All men may see the ports through which the +blood flowed to the throbbing centre, the traces of the mighty arteries +through which it was driven to the ends of the earth. But the blood is +dried up, the hearts are broken, and though in their stony ruins those +dead world-hearts be grander and more enduring than any which in our +time are whole and beating, yet neither their endurance nor their +grandeur have saved them from man, the destroyer, nor was the beauty +of their thoughts or the thoughtfully-devised machinery of their +civilisation a shield against a few score thousand rough-hammered +blades, wielded by rough-hewn mortals who recked neither of intellect +nor of civilisation, nor yet of beauty, being but very human men, full +of terribly strong and human passions. Look where you will, throughout +the length and breadth of all that was the world five thousand, or five +hundred years ago; everywhere passion has swept thought before it, and +belief, reason. And we, too, with our reason and our thoughts, shall be +swept from existence and the memory of it. Is this the age of reason, +and is this the reign of law? In the midst of this civilisation of ours +three millions of men lie down nightly by their arms, men trained to +handle rifle and sword, taught to destroy and to do nothing else; and +nearly as many more wait but a summons to leave their homes and join the +ranks. And often it is said that we are on the eve of a universal war. +At the command of a few individuals, at the touch of a few wires, more +than five millions of men in the very prime and glory of strength, +armed as men never were armed since time began, will arise and will kill +civilisation and thought, as both the one and the other have been slain +before by fewer hands and less deadly weapons. Is this reason, or is +this law? Passion rules the world, and rules alone. And passion is +neither of the head, nor of the hand, but of the heart. Passion cares +nothing for the mind. Love, hate, ambition, anger, avarice, either +make a slave of intelligence to serve their impulses, or break down its +impotent opposition with the unanswerable argument of brute force, and +tear it to pieces with iron hands. + +Love is the first, the greatest, the gentlest, the most cruel, the most +irresistible of passions. In his least form he is mighty. A little love +has destroyed many a great friendship. The merest outward semblance of +love has made such havoc as no intellect could repair. The reality has +made heroes and martyrs, traitors and murderers, whose names will not +be forgotten, for glory or for shame. Helen is not the only woman whose +smile has kindled the beacon of a ten years' war, nor Antony the only +man who has lost the world for a caress. It may be that the Helen who +shall work our destruction is even now twisting and braiding her golden +hair; it may be that the new Antony, who is to lose this same old world +again, already stands upon the steps of Cleopatra's throne. Love's day +is not over yet, nor has man outgrown the love of woman. + +But the power to love greatly is a gift, differing much in kind, though +little in degree, from the inspiration of the poet, the genius of the +artist, or the unerring instinct and eagle's glance of the conqueror; +for conqueror, artist and poet are moved by passion and not by reason, +which is but their servant in so far as it can be commanded to move +others, and their deadliest enemy when it would move themselves. Let the +passion and the instrument but meet, being suited to each other, and all +else must go down before them. Few, indeed, are they to whom is given +that rich inheritance, and they themselves alone know all their wealth, +and all their misery, all the boundless possibilities of happiness that +are theirs, and all the dangers and the terrors that beset their path. +He who has won woman in the face of daring rivals, of enormous odds, of +gigantic obstacles, knows what love means; he who has lost her, having +loved her, alone has measured with his own soul the bitterness of +earthly sorrow, the depth of total loneliness, the breadth of the +wilderness of despair. And he who has sorrowed long, who has long been +alone, but who has watched the small, twinkling ray still burning upon +the distant border of his desert--the faint glimmer of a single star +that was still above the horizon of despair--he only can tell what utter +darkness can be upon the face of the earth when that last star has +set for ever. With it are gone suddenly the very quarters and cardinal +points of life's chart, there is no longer any right hand or any left, +any north or south, any rising of the sun or any going down, any forward +or backward direction in his path, any heaven above, or any hell below. +The world has stood still and there is no life in the thick, black +stillness. Death himself is dead, and one living man is forgotten +behind, to mourn him as a lost friend, to pray that some new destroyer, +more sure of hand than death himself, may come striding through the +awful silence to make an end at last of the tormented spirit, to bear it +swiftly to the place where that last star ceased to shine, and to let it +down into the restful depths of an unremembering eternity. But into +that place, which is the soul of man, no destroyer can penetrate; that +solitary life neither the sword, nor pestilence, nor age, nor eternity +can extinguish; that immortal memory no night can obscure. There was a +beginning indeed, but end there can be none. + +Such a man was the Wanderer, as he paced the deserted street in the +cruel, gloomy cold of the late day. Between his sight and the star of +his own hope an impenetrable shadow had arisen, so that he saw it no +more. The memory of Beatrice was more than ever distinct to his inner +sense, but the sudden presentiment of her death, real in its working as +any certainty, had taken the reality of her from the ground on which he +stood. For that one link had still been between them. Somewhere, near +or far, during all these years, she, too, had trodden the earth with +her light footsteps, the same universal mother earth on which they both +moved and lived. The very world was hers, since she was touching it, +and to touch it in his turn was to feel her presence. For who could +tell what hidden currents ran in the secret depths, or what mysterious +interchange of sympathy might not be maintained through them? The air +itself was hers, since she was somewhere breathing it; the stars, for +she looked on them; the sun, for it warmed her; the cold of winter, +for it chilled her too; the breezes of spring, for they fanned her pale +cheek and cooled her dark brow. All had been hers, and at the thought +that she had passed away, a cry of universal mourning broke from the +world she had left behind, and darkness descended upon all things, as a +funeral pall. + +Cold and dim and sad the ancient city had seemed before, but it was a +thousandfold more melancholy now, more black, more saturated with the +gloom of ages. From time to time the Wanderer raised his heavy lids, +scarcely seeing what was before him, conscious of nothing but the horror +which had so suddenly embraced his whole existence. Then, all at once, +he was face to face with some one. A woman stood still in the way, a +woman wrapped in rich furs, her features covered by a dark veil which +could not hide the unequal fire of the unlike eyes so keenly fixed on +his. + +"Have you found her?" asked the soft voice. + +"She is dead," answered the Wanderer, growing very white. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +During the short silence which followed, and while the two were still +standing opposite to each other, the unhappy man's look did not change. +Unorna saw that he was sure of what he said, and a thrill of triumph, as +jubilant as his despair was profound ran through her. If she had cared +to reason with herself and to examine into her own sincerity, she would +have seen that nothing but genuine passion, good or bad, could have lent +the assurance of her rival's death such power to flood the dark street +with sunshine. But she was already long past doubt upon that question. +The enchanter had bound her heart with his spells at the first glance, +and the wild nature was already on fire. For one instant the light shot +from her eyes, and then sank again as quickly as it had come. She had +other impulses than those of love, and subtle gifts of perception +that condemned her to know the truth, even when the delusion was most +glorious. He was himself deceived, and she knew it. Beatrice might, +indeed, have died long ago. She could not tell. But as she sought in the +recesses of his mind, she saw that he had no certainty of it, she saw +the black presentiment between him and the image, for she could see the +image too. She saw the rival she already hated, not receiving a vision +of the reality, but perceiving it through his mind, as it had always +appeared to him. For one moment she hesitated still, and she knew +that her whole life was being weighed in the trembling balance of that +hesitation. For one moment her face became an impenetrable mask, her +eyes grew dull as uncut jewels, her breathing ceased, her lips were set +like cold marble. Then the stony mask took life again, the sight grew +keen, and a gentle sigh stirred the chilly air. + +"She is not dead." + +"Not dead!" The Wanderer started, but fully two seconds after she had +spoken, as a man struck by a bullet in battle, in whom the suddenness of +the shock has destroyed the power of instantaneous sensation. + +"She is not dead. You have dreamed it," said Unorna, looking at him +steadily. + +He pressed his hand to his forehead and then moved it, as though +brushing away something that troubled him. + +"Not dead? Not dead!" he repeated, in changing tones. + +"Come with me. I will show her to you." + +He gazed at her and his senses reeled. Her words sounded like rarest +music in his ear; in the darkness of his brain a soft light began to +diffuse itself. + +"Is it possible? Have I been mistaken?" he asked in a low voice, as +though speaking to himself. + +"Come!" said Unorna again very gently. + +"Whither? With you? How can you bring me to her? What power have you to +lead the living to the dead?" + +"To the living. Come." + +"To the living--yes. I have dreamed an evil dream--a dream of death. She +is not--no, I see it now. She is not dead. She is only very far from +me, very, very far. And yet it was this morning--but I was mistaken, +deceived by some faint likeness. Ah, God! I thought I knew her face! +What is it that you want with me?" + +He asked the question as though again suddenly aware of Unorna's +presence. She had lifted her veil and her eyes drew his soul into their +mysterious depths. + +"She calls you. Come." + +"She? She is not here. What can you know of her? Why do you look at me +so?" + +He felt an unaccountable uneasiness under her gaze, like a warning of +danger not far off. The memory of his meeting with her on that same +morning was not clear at that moment, but he had not forgotten the odd +disturbance of his faculties which had distressed him at the time. He +was inclined to resist any return of the doubtful state and to oppose +Unorna's influence. He felt the fascination of her glance, and he +straightened himself rather proudly and coldly as though to withdraw +himself from it. It was certain that Unorna, at the surprise of meeting +her, had momentarily dispelled the gloomy presentiment which had +given him such terrible pain. And yet, even his disturbed and anxious +consciousness found it more than strange that she should thus press him +to go with her, and so boldly promise to bring him to the object of his +search. He resisted her, and found that resistance was not easy. + +"And yet," said she, dropping her eyes and seeming to abandon the +attempt, "you said that if you failed to-day you would come back to me. +Have you succeeded, that you need no help?" + +"I have not succeeded." + +"And if I had not come to you--if I had not met you here, you would have +failed for the last time. You would have carried with you the conviction +of her death to the moment of your own." + +"It was a horrible delusion, but since it was a delusion it would have +passed away in time." + +"With your life, perhaps. 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. Her strong will was suddenly veiled by the most gentle and +womanly manner, and a little shiver, real or feigned, passed over her as +she drew the folds of her fur more closely round her. The man before her +could resist the aggressive manifestation of her power, but he was far +too courteous to refuse her request. + +"Which way?" he asked quietly. + +"To the river," she answered. + +He turned and took his place by her side. For some moments they walked +on in silence. It was already almost twilight. + +"How short the days are!" exclaimed Unorna, rather suddenly. + +"How long, even at their shortest!" replied her companion. + +"They might be short--if you would." + +He did not answer her, though he glanced quickly at her face. She was +looking down at the pavement before her, as though picking her way, for +there were patches of ice upon the stones. She seemed very quiet. He +could not guess that her heart was beating violently, and that she found +it hard to say six words in a natural tone. + +So far as he himself was concerned he was in no humour for talking. He +had seen almost everything in the world, and had read or heard almost +everything that mankind had to say. The streets of Prague had no +novelty for him, and there was no charm in the chance acquaintance of a +beautiful woman, to bring words to his lips. Words had long since grown +useless in the solitude of a life that was spent in searching for one +face among the millions that passed before his sight. Courtesy had +bidden him to walk with her, because she had asked it, but courtesy did +not oblige him to amuse her, he thought, and she had not the power that +Keyork Arabian had to force him into conversation, least of all into +conversing upon his own inner life. He regretted the few words he had +spoken, and would have taken them back, had it been possible. He felt no +awkwardness in the long silence. + +Unorna for the first time in her life felt that she had not full control +of her faculties. She who was always so calm, so thoroughly mistress of +her own powers, whose judgment Keyork Arabian could deceive, but whose +self-possession he could not move, except to anger, was at the present +moment both weak and unbalanced. Ten minutes earlier she had fancied +that it would be an easy thing to fix her eyes on his and to cast the +veil of a half-sleep over his already half-dreaming senses. She had +fancied that it would be enough to say "Come," and that he would follow. +She had formed the bold scheme of attaching him to herself, by visions +of the woman whom he loved as she wished to be loved by him. She +believed that if he were once in that state she could destroy the old +love for ever, or even turn it to hate, at her will. And it had seemed +easy. That morning, when he had first come to her, she had fastened her +glance upon him more than once, and she had seen him turn a shade paler, +had noticed the drooping of his lids and the relaxation of his hands. +She had sought him in the street, guided by something surer than +instinct, she had found him, had read his thoughts, and had felt him +yielding to her fixed determination. Then, suddenly, her power had left +her, and as she walked beside him, she knew that if she looked into his +face she would blush and be confused like a shy girl. She almost wished +that he would leave her without a word and without an apology. + +It was not possible, however, to prolong the silence much longer. A +vague fear seized her. Had she really lost all her dominating strength +in the first moments of the first sincere passion she had ever felt? +Was she reduced to weakness by his presence, and unable so much as to +sustain a fragmentary conversation, let alone suggesting to his mind +the turn it should take? She was ashamed of her poverty of spirit in the +emergency. She felt herself tongue-tied, and the hot blood rose to her +face. He was not looking at her, but she could not help fancying that he +knew her secret embarrassment. She hung her head and drew her veil down +so that it should hide even her mouth. + +But her trouble increased with every moment, for each second made it +harder to break the silence. She sought madly for something to say, +and she knew that her cheeks were on fire. Anything would do, no +matter what. The sound of her own voice, uttering the commonest of +commonplaces, would restore her equanimity. But that simple, almost +meaningless phrase would not be found. She would stammer, if she tried +to speak, like a child that has forgotten its lesson and fears the +schoolmaster as well as the laughter of its schoolmates. It would be so +easy if he would say something instead of walking quietly by her side, +suiting his pace to hers, shifting his position so that she might step +upon the smoothest parts of the ill-paved street, and shielding her, as +it were, from the passers-by. There was a courteous forethought for her +convenience and safety in every movement of his, a something which a +woman always feels when traversing a crowded thoroughfare by the side of +a man who is a true gentleman in every detail of life, whether husband, +or friend, or chance acquaintance. For the spirit of the man who +is really thoughtful for woman, as well as sincerely and genuinely +respectful in his intercourse with them, is manifest in his smallest +outward action. + +While every step she took increased the violence of the passion which +had suddenly swept away her strength, every instant added to her +confusion. She was taken out of the world in which she was accustomed +to rule, and was suddenly placed in one where men are men, and women are +women, and in which social conventionalities hold sway. She began to +be frightened. The walk must end, and at the end of it they must part. +Since she had lost her power over him he might go away, for there would +be nothing to bring him to her. She wondered why he would not speak, and +her terror increased. She dared not look up, lest she should find him +looking at her. + +Then they emerged from the street and stood by the river, in a lonely +place. The heavy ice was gray with old snow in some places and black in +others, where the great blocks had been cut out in long strips. It was +lighter here. A lingering ray of sunshine, forgotten by the departing +day, gilded the vast walls and turrets of venerable Hradschin, far +above them on the opposite bank, and tinted the sharp dark spires of +the half-built cathedral which crowns the fortress. The distant ring of +fast-moving skates broke the stillness. + +"Are you angry with me?" asked Unorna, almost humbly, and hardly knowing +what she said. The question had risen to her lips without warning, and +was asked almost unconsciously. + +"I do not understand. Angry? At what? Why should you think I am angry?" + +"You are so silent," she answered, regaining courage from the mere sound +of her own words. "We have been walking a long time, and you have said +nothing. I thought you were displeased." + +"You must forgive me. I am often silent." + +"I thought you were displeased," she repeated. "I think that you were, +though you hardly knew it. I should be very sorry if you were angry." + +"Why would you be sorry?" asked the Wanderer with a civil indifference +that hurt Unorna more than any acknowledgment of his displeasure could +have done. + +"Because I would help you, if you would let me." + +He looked at her with sudden keenness. In spite of herself she blushed +and turned her head away. He hardly noticed the fact, and, if he had, +would assuredly not have put upon it any interpretation approaching to +the truth. He supposed that she was flushed with walking. + +"No one has ever helped me, least of all in the way you mean," he said. +"The counsels of wise men--of the wisest--have been useless, as well as +the dreams of women who fancy they have the gift of mental sight beyond +the limit of bodily vision." + +"Who fancy they see!" exclaimed Unorna, almost glad to find that she was +still strong enough to feel annoyance at the slight. + +"I beg your pardon. I do not mean to doubt your powers, of which I have +had no experience." + +"I did not offer to see for you. I did not offer you a dream." + +"Would you show me that which I already see, waking and sleeping? Would +you bring to my hearing the sound of a voice which I can hear even now? +I need no help for that." + +"I can do more than that--for you." + +"And why for me?" he asked with some curiosity. + +"Because--because you are Keyork Arabian's friend." She glanced at his +face, but he showed no surprise. + +"You have seen him this afternoon, of course," he remarked. + +And odd smile passed over Unorna's face. + +"Yes. I have seen him this afternoon. He is a friend of mine, and of +yours--do you understand?" + +"He is the wisest of men," said the Wanderer. "And also the maddest," he +added thoughtfully. + +"And you think it was in his madness, rather than in his wisdom, that he +advised you to come to me?" + +"Possibly. In his belief in you, at least." + +"And that may be madness?" She was gaining courage. + +"Or wisdom--if I am mad. He believes in you. That is certain." + +"He has no beliefs. Have you known him long, and do not know that? With +him there is nothing between knowledge and ignorance." + +"And he knows, of course, by experience what you can do and what you +cannot do?" + +"By very long experience, as I know him." + +"Neither your gifts nor his knowledge of them can change dreams to +facts." + +Unorna smiled again. + +"You can produce a dream--nothing more," continued the Wanderer, drawn +at last into argument. "I, too, know something of these things. The +wisdom of the Egyptians is not wholly lost yet. You may possess some +of it, as well as the undeveloped power which could put all their magic +within your reach if you knew how to use it. Yet a dream is a dream." + +"Philosophers have disputed that," answered Unorna. "I am no +philosopher, but I can overthrow the results of all their disputations." + +"You can do this. If I resign my will into your keeping you can cause +me to dream. You can call up vividly before me the remembered and +unremembered sights of my life. You can make me see clearly the sights +impressed upon your own memory. You might do that, and yet you could +be showing me nothing which I do not see now before me--of those things +which I care to see." + +"But suppose that you were wrong, and that I had no dream to show you, +but a reality?" + +She spoke the words very earnestly, gazing into his eyes at last without +fear. Something in her tone struck him and fixed his attention. + +"There is no sleep needed to see realities," he said. + +"I did not say that there was. I only asked you to come with me to the +place where she is." + +The Wanderer started slightly and forgot all the instinct of opposition +to her which he had felt so strongly before. + +"Do you mean that you know--that you can take me to her----" he could +not find words. A strange, overmastering astonishment took possession +of him, and with it came wild hope and the wilder longing to reach its +realisation instantly. + +"What else could I have meant? What else did I say?" Her eyes were +beginning to glitter in the gathering dusk. + +The Wanderer no longer avoided their look, but he passed his hand over +his brow, as though dazed. + +"I only asked you to come with me," she repeated softly. "There is +nothing supernatural about that. When I saw that you did not believe me +I did not try to lead you then, though she is waiting for you. She bade +me bring you to her." + +"You have seen her? You have talked with her? She sent you? Oh, for +God's sake, come quickly!--come, come!" + +He put out his hand as though to take hers and lead her away. She +grasped it eagerly. He had not seen that she had drawn off her glove. He +was lost. Her eyes held him and her fingers touched his bare wrist. His +lids drooped and his will was hers. In the intolerable anxiety of the +moment he had forgotten to resist, he had not even thought of resisting. + +There were great blocks of stone in the desolate place, landed there +before the river had frozen for a great building, whose gloomy, +unfinished mass stood waiting for the warmth of spring to be completed. +She led him by the hand, passive and obedient as a child, to a sheltered +spot and made him sit down upon one of the stones. It was growing dark. + +"Look at me," she said, standing before him, and touching his brow. He +obeyed. + +"You are the image in my eyes," she said, after a moment's pause. + +"Yes. I am the image in your eyes," he answered in a dull voice. + +"You will never resist me again, I command it. Hereafter it will be +enough for me to touch your hand, or to look at you, and if I say, +'Sleep,' you will instantly become the image again. Do you understand +that?" + +"I understand it." + +"Promise!" + +"I promise," he replied, without perceptible effort. + +"You have been dreaming for years. From this moment you must forget all +your dreams." + +His face expressed no understanding of what she said. She hesitated +a moment and then began to walk slowly up and down before him. His +half-glazed look followed her as she moved. She came back and laid her +hand upon his head. + +"My will is yours. You have no will of your own. You cannot think +without me," She spoke in a tone of concentrated determination, and a +slight shiver passed over him. + +"It is of no use to resist, for you have promised never to resist me +again," she continued. "All that I command must take place in your mind +instantly, without opposition. Do you understand?" + +"Yes," he answered, moving uneasily. + +For some seconds she again held her open palm upon his head. She seemed +to be evoking all her strength for a great effort. + +"Listen to me, and let everything I say take possession of your mind for +ever. My will is yours, you are the image in my eyes, my word is your +law. You know what I please that you should know. You forget what I +command you to forget. You have been mad these many years, and I am +curing you. You must forget your madness. You have now forgotten it. I +have erased the memory of it with my hand. There is nothing to remember +any more." + +The dull eyes, deep-set beneath the shadows of the overhanging brow, +seemed to seek her face in the dark, and for the third time there was +a nervous twitching of the shoulders and limbs. Unorna knew the symptom +well, but had never seen it return so often, like a protest of the body +against the enslaving of the intelligence. She was nervous in spite +of her success. The immediate results of hypnotic suggestion are +not exactly the same in all cases, even in the first moments; its +consequences may be widely different with different individuals. Unorna, +indeed, possessed an extraordinary power, but on the other hand she had +to deal with an extraordinary organisation. She knew this instinctively, +and endeavoured to lead the sleeping mind by degrees to the condition in +which she wished it to remain. + +The repeated tremor in the body was the outward sign of a mental +resistance which it would not be easy to overcome. The wisest course was +to go over the ground already gained. This she was determined to do by +means of a sort of catechism. + +"Who am I?" she asked. + +"Unorna," answered the powerless man promptly, but with a strange air of +relief. + +"Are you asleep?" + +"No." + +"Awake?" + +"No." + +"In what state are you?" + +"I am an image." + +"And where is your body?" + +"Seated upon that stone." + +"Can you see your face?" + +"I see it distinctly. The eyes in the body are glassy." + +"The body is gone now. You do not see it any more. Is that true?" + +"It is true. I do not see it. I see the stone on which it was sitting." + +"You are still in my eyes. Now"--she touched his head again--"now, you +are no longer an image. You are my mind." + +"Yes. I am your mind." + +"You, my Mind, know that I met to-day a man called the Wanderer, whose +body you saw when you were in my eyes. Do you know that or not?" + +"I know it. I am your mind." + +"You know, Mind, that the man was mad. He had suffered for many years +from a delusion. In pursuit of the fixed idea he had wandered far +through the world. Do you know whither his travels had led him?" + +"I do not know. That is not in your mind. You did not know it when I +became your mind." + +"Good. Tell me, Mind, what was this man's delusion?" + +"He fancied that he loved a woman whom he could not find." + +"The man must be cured. You must know that he was mad and is now sane. +You, my Mind, must see that it was really a delusion. You see it now." + +"Yes. I see it." + +Unorna watched the waking sleeper narrowly. It was now night, but the +sky had cleared and the starlight falling upon the snow in the lonely, +open place, made it possible to see very well. Unorna seemed as +unconscious of the bitter cold as her subject, whose body was in a +state past all outward impressions. So far she had gone through all the +familiar process of question and answer with success, but this was not +all. She knew that if, when he awoke, the name he loved still remained +in his memory, the result would not be accomplished. She must +produce entire forgetfulness, and to do this, she must wipe out every +association, one by one. She gathered her strength during a short pause. +She was greatly encouraged by the fact that the acknowledgment of the +delusion had been followed by no convulsive reaction in the body. She +was on the very verge of a complete triumph, and the concentration of +her will during a few moments longer might win the battle. + +She could not have chosen a spot better suited for her purpose. Within +five minutes' walk of streets in which throngs of people were moving +about, the scene which surrounded her was desolate and almost wild. The +unfinished building loomed like a ruin behind her; the rough hewn blocks +lay like boulders in a stony desert; the broad gray ice lay like a floor +of lustreless iron before her under the uncertain starlight. Only afar +off, high up in the mighty Hradschin, lamps gleamed here and there from +the windows, the distant evidences of human life. All was still. Even +the steely ring of the skates had ceased. + +"And so," she continued, presently, "this man's whole life has been a +delusion, ever since he began to fancy in the fever of an illness that +he loved a certain woman. Is this clear to you, my Mind?" + +"It is quite clear," answered the muffled voice. + +"He was so utterly mad that he even gave that woman a name--a name, when +she had never existed except in his imagination." + +"Except in his imagination," repeated the sleeper, without resistance. + +"He called her Beatrice. The name was suggested to him because he had +fallen ill in a city of the South where a woman called Beatrice +once lived and was loved by a great poet. That was the train of +self-suggestion in his delirium. Mind, do you understand?" + +"He suggested to himself the name in his illness." + +"In the same way that he suggested to himself the existence of the woman +whom he afterwards believed he loved?" + +"In exactly the same way." + +"It was all a curious and very interesting case of auto-hypnotic +suggestion. It made him very mad. He is now cured of it. Do you see that +he is cured?" + +The sleeper gave no answer. The stiffened limbs did not move, indeed, +nor did the glazed eyes reflect the starlight. But he gave no answer. +The lips did not even attempt to form words. Had Unorna been less +carried away by the excitement in her own thoughts, or less absorbed in +the fierce concentration of her will upon its passive subject, she would +have noticed the silence and would have gone back again over the old +ground. As it was, she did not pause. + +"You understand therefore, my Mind, that this Beatrice was entirely the +creature of the man's imagination. Beatrice does not exist, because she +never existed. Beatrice never had any real being. Do you understand?" + +This time she waited for an answer, but none came. + +"There never was any Beatrice," she repeated firmly, laying her hand +upon the unconscious head and bending down to gaze into the sightless +eyes. + +The answer did not come, but a shiver like that of an ague shook the +long, graceful limbs. + +"You are my Mind," she said fiercely. "Obey me! There never was any +Beatrice, there is no Beatrice now, and there never can be." + +The noble brow contracted in a look of agonising pain, and the +whole frame shook like an aspen leaf in the wind. The mouth moved +spasmodically. + +"Obey me! Say it!" cried Unorna with passionate energy. + +The lips twisted themselves, and the face was as gray as the gray snow. + +"There is--no--Beatrice." The words came out slowly, and yet not +distinctly, as though wrung from the heart by torture. + +Unorna smiled at last, but the smile had not faded from her lips when +the air was rent by a terrible cry. + +"By the Eternal God of Heaven!" cried the ringing voice. "It is a +lie!--a lie!--a lie!" + +She who had never feared anything earthly or unearthly shrank back. She +felt her heavy hair rising bodily upon her head. + +The Wanderer had sprung to his feet. The magnitude and horror of the +falsehood spoken had stabbed the slumbering soul to sudden and terrible +wakefulness. The outline of his tall figure was distinct against the +gray background of ice and snow. He was standing at his full height, his +arms stretched up to heaven, his face luminously pale, his deep eyes +on fire and fixed upon her face, forcing back her dominating will upon +itself. But he was not alone! + +"Beatrice!" he cried in long-drawn agony. + +Between him and Unorna something passed by, something dark and soft and +noiseless, that took shape slowly--a woman in black, a veil thrown back +from her forehead, her white face turned towards the Wanderer, her white +hands hanging by her side. She stood still, and the face turned, and the +eyes met Unorna's, and Unorna knew that it was Beatrice. + +There she stood, between them, motionless as a statue, impalpable as +air, but real as life itself. The vision, if it was a vision, lasted +fully a minute. Never, to the day of her death, was Unorna to forget +that face, with its deathlike purity of outline, with its unspeakable +nobility of feature. + +It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. A low broken sound of pain +escaped from the Wanderer's lips, and with his arms extended he fell +forwards. The strong woman caught him and he sank to the ground gently, +in her arms, his head supported upon her shoulder, as she kneeled under +the heavy weight. + +There was a sound of quick footsteps on the frozen snow. A Bohemian +watchman, alarmed by the loud cry, was running to the spot. + +"What has happened?" he asked, bending down to examine the couple. + +"My friend has fainted," said Unorna calmly. "He is subject to it. You +must help me to get him home." + +"Is it far?" asked the man. + +"To the House of the Black Mother of God." + + + +CHAPTER IX + +The principal room of Keyork Arabian's dwelling was in every way +characteristic of the man. In the extraordinary confusion which at first +disturbed a visitor's judgment, some time was needed to discover the +architectural bounds of the place. The vaulted roof was indeed apparent, +as well as small portions of the wooden flooring. Several windows, which +might have been large had they filled the arched embrasures in which +they were set, admitted the daylight when there was enough of it in +Prague to serve the purpose of illumination. So far as could be seen +from the street, they were commonplace windows without shutters and with +double casements against the cold, but from within it was apparent that +the tall arches in the thick walls had been filled in with a thinner +masonry in which the modern frames were set. So far as it was possible +to see, the room had but two doors; the one, masked by a heavy curtain +made of a Persian carpet, opened directly upon the staircase of the +house; the other, exactly opposite, gave access to the inner apartments. +On account of its convenient size, however, the sage had selected for +his principal abiding place this first chamber, which was almost large +enough to be called a hall, and here he had deposited the extraordinary +and heterogeneous collection of objects, or, more property speaking, of +remains, upon the study of which he spent a great part of his time. + +Two large tables, three chairs and a divan completed the list of all +that could be called furniture. The tables were massive, dark, and +old-fashioned; the feet at each end consisted of thick flat boards sawn +into a design of simple curves, and connected by strong crosspieces +keyed to them with large wooden bolts. The chairs were ancient folding +stools, with movable backs and well-worn cushions of faded velvet. +The divan differed in no respect from ordinary oriental divans in +appearance, and was covered with a stout dark Bokhara carpet of no great +value; but so far as its use was concerned, the disorderly heaps of +books and papers that lay upon it showed that Keyork was more inclined +to make a book-case of it than a couch. + +The room received its distinctive character however neither from its +vaulted roof, nor from the deep embrasures of its windows, nor from +its scanty furniture, but from the peculiar nature of the many curious +objects, large and small, which hid the walls and filled almost all +the available space on the floor. It was clear that every one of the +specimens illustrated some point in the great question of life and death +which formed the chief study of Keyork Arabian's latter years; for by +far the greater number of the preparations were dead bodies, of men, +of women, of children, of animals, to all of which the old man had +endeavoured to impart the appearance of life, and in treating some of +which he had attained results of a startling nature. The osteology of +man and beast was indeed represented, for a huge case, covering one +whole wall, was filled to the top with a collection of many hundred +skulls of all races of mankind, and where real specimens were missing, +their place was supplied by admirable casts of craniums; but this +reredos, so to call it, of bony heads, formed but a vast, grinning +background for the bodies which stood and sat and lay in half-raised +coffins and sarcophagi before them, in every condition produced by +various known and lost methods of embalming. There were, it is true, +a number of skeletons, disposed here and there in fantastic attitudes, +gleaming white and ghostly in their mechanical nakedness, the bones of +human beings, the bones of giant orang-outangs, of creatures large and +small down to the flimsy little framework of a common bull frog, strung +on wires as fine as hairs, which squatted comfortably upon an old book +near the edge of a table, as though it had just skipped to that point in +pursuit of a ghostly fly and was pausing to meditate a farther spring. +But the eye did not discover these things at the first glance. Solemn, +silent, strangely expressive, lay three slim Egyptians, raised at an +angle as though to give them a chance of surveying their fellow-dead, +the linen bandages unwrapped from their heads and arms and shoulders, +their jet-black hair combed and arranged and dressed by Keyork's hand, +their faces softened almost to the expression of life by one of his +secret processes, their stiffened joints so limbered by his art that +their arms had taken natural positions again, lying over the edges of +the sarcophagi in which they had rested motionless and immovable through +thirty centuries. For the man had pursued his idea in every shape +and with every experiment, testing, as it were, the potential +imperishability of the animal frame by the degree of life-like plumpness +and softness and flexibility which it could be made to take after a +mummification of three thousand years. And he had reached the conclusion +that, in the nature of things, the human body might vie, in resisting +the mere action of time, with the granite of the pyramids. Those had +been his earliest trials. The results of many others filled the room. +Here a group of South Americans, found dried in the hollow of an +ancient tree, had been restored almost to the likeness of life, and were +apparently engaged in a lively dispute over the remains of a meal--as +cold as themselves and as human. There, towered the standing body of +an African, leaning upon a knotted club, fierce, grinning, lacking only +sight in the sunken eyes to be terrible. There again, surmounting a +lay figure wrapped in rich stuffs, smiled the calm and gentle face of a +Malayan lady--decapitated for her sins, so marvellously preserved +that the soft dark eyes still looked out from beneath the heavy, +half-drooping lids, and the full lips, still richly coloured, parted a +little to show the ivory teeth. Other sights there were, more ghastly +still, triumphs of preservation, if not of semi-resuscitation, over +decay, won on its own most special ground. Triumphs all, yet almost +failures in the eyes of the old student, they represented the mad +efforts of an almost supernatural skill and superhuman science to +revive, if but for one second, the very smallest function of the living +body. Strange and wild were the trials he had made; many and great +the sacrifices and blood offerings lavished on his dead in the hope +of seeing that one spasm which would show that death might yet be +conquered; many the engines, the machines, the artificial hearts, the +applications of electricity that he had invented; many the powerful +reactives he had distilled wherewith to excite the long dead nerves, +or those which but two days had ceased to feel. The hidden essence +was still undiscovered, the meaning of vitality eluded his profoundest +study, his keenest pursuit. The body died, and yet the nerves could +still be made to act as though alive for the space of a few hours--in +rare cases for a day. With his eyes he had seen a dead man spring half +across a room from the effects of a few drops of musk--on the first day; +with his eyes he had seen the dead twist themselves, and move and grin +under the electric current--provided it had not been too late. But that +"too late" had baffled him, and from his first belief that life might +be restored when once gone, he had descended to what seemed the simpler +proposition of the two, to the problem of maintaining life indefinitely +so long as its magic essence lingered in the flesh and blood. And now he +believed that he was very near the truth; how terribly near he had yet +to learn. + +On that evening when the Wanderer fell to the earth before the shadow of +Beatrice, Keyork Arabian sat alone in his charnel-house. The brilliant +light of two powerful lamps illuminated everything in the place, for +Keyork loved light, like all those who are intensely attached to life +for its own sake. The yellow rays flooded the life-like faces of his +dead companions, and streamed upwards to the heterogeneous objects that +filled the shelves almost to the spring of the vault--objects which all +reminded him of the conditions of lives long ago extinct, endless heaps +of barbarous weapons, of garments of leather and of fish skin, Amurian, +Siberian, Gothic, Mexican, and Peruvian; African and Red Indian +masks, models of boats and canoes, sacred drums, Liberian idols, Runic +calendars, fiddles made of human skulls, strange and barbaric ornaments, +all producing together an amazing richness of colour--all things in +which the man himself had taken but a passing interest, the result of +his central study--life in all its shapes. + +He sat alone. The African giant looked down at his dwarf-like form +as though in contempt of such half-grown humanity; the Malayan lady's +bodiless head turned its smiling face towards him; scores of dead +beings seemed to contemplate half in pity, half in scorn, their would-be +reviver. Keyork Arabian was used to their company and to their silence. +Far beyond the common human horror of dead humanity, if one of them had +all at once nodded to him and spoken to him he would have started with +delight and listened with rapture. But they were all still dead, and +they neither spoke or moved a finger. A thought that had more hope in it +than any which had passed through his brain for many years now occupied +and absorbed him. A heavy book lay open on the table by his side, and +from time to time he glanced at a phrase which seemed to attract him. +It was always the same phrase, and two words alone sufficed to bring +him back to contemplation of it. Those two words were "Immortality" +and "Soul." He began to speak aloud to himself, being by nature fond of +speech. + +"Yes. The soul is immortal. I am quite willing to grant that. But it +does not in any way follow that it is the source of life, or the seat +of intelligence. The Buddhists distinguished it even from the +individuality. And yet life holds it, and when life ends it takes its +departure. How soon? I do not know. It is not a condition of life, +but life is one of its conditions. Does it leave the body when life is +artificially prolonged in a state of unconsciousness--by hypnotism, +for instance? Is it more closely bound up with animal life, or with +intelligence? If with either, has it a definite abiding place in the +heart, or in the brain? Since its presence depends directly on life, so +far as I know, it belongs to the body rather than to the brain. I once +made a rabbit live an hour without its head. With a man that experiment +would need careful manipulation--I would like to try it. Or is it all +a question of that phantom, Vitality? Then the presence of the soul +depends upon the potential excitability of the nerves, and, as far as +we know, it must leave the body not more than twenty-four hours after +death, and it certainly does not leave the body at the moment of dying. +But if of the nerves, then what is the condition of the soul in the +hypnotic state? Unorna hypnotises our old friend there--and our young +one, too. For her, they have nerves. At her touch they wake, they sleep, +they move, they feel, they speak. But they have no nerves for me. I can +cut them with knives, burn them, turn the life-blood of the one into +the arteries of the other--they feel nothing. If the soul is of the +nerves--or of the vitality, then they have souls for Unorna, and none +for me. That is absurd. Where is that old man's soul? He has slept for +years. Has not his soul been somewhere else in the meanwhile? If we +could keep him asleep for centuries, or for scores of centuries, like +that frog found alive in a rock, would his soul--able by the hypothesis +to pass through rocks or universes--stay by him? Could an ingenious +sinner escape damnation for a few thousand years by being hypnotised? +Verily the soul is a very unaccountable thing, and what is still more +unaccountable is that I believe in it. Suppose the case of the ingenious +sinner. Suppose that he could not escape by his clever trick. Then +his soul must inevitably taste the condition of the damned while he is +asleep. But when he is waked at last, and found to be alive, his soul +must come back to him, glowing from the eternal flames. Unpleasant +thought! Keyork Arabian, you had far better not go to sleep at present. +Since all that is fantastic nonsense, on the face of it, I am inclined +to believe that the presence of the soul is in some way a condition +requisite for life, rather than depending upon it. I wish I could buy a +soul. It is quite certain that life is not a mere mechanical or chemical +process. I have gone too far to believe that. Take man at the very +moment of death--have everything ready, do what you will--my artificial +heart is a very perfect instrument, mechanically speaking--and how long +does it take to start the artificial circulation through the carotid +artery? Not a hundredth part so long a time as drowned people often lie +before being brought back, without a pulsation, without a breath. Yet +I never succeeded, though I have made the artificial heart work on a +narcotised rabbit, and the rabbit died instantly when I stopped the +machine, which proves that it was the machine that kept it alive. +Perhaps if one applied it to a man just before death he might live on +indefinitely, grow fat and flourish so long as the glass heart worked. +Where would his soul be then? In the glass heart, which would have +become the seat of life? Everything, sensible or absurd, which I can +put into words makes the soul seem an impossibility--and yet there is +something which I cannot put into words, but which proves the soul's +existence beyond all doubt. I wish I could buy somebody's soul and +experiment with it." + +He ceased and sat staring at his specimens, going over in his memory the +fruitless experiments of a lifetime. A loud knocking roused him from his +reverie. He hastened to open the door and was confronted by Unorna. +She was paler than usual, and he saw from her expression that there was +something wrong. + +"What is the matter?" he asked, almost roughly. + +"He is in a carriage downstairs," she answered quickly. "Something has +happened to him. I cannot wake him, you must take him in--" + +"To die on my hands? Not I!" laughed Keyork in his deepest voice. "My +collection is complete enough." + +She seized him suddenly by both arms, and brought her face near to his. + +"If you dare to speak of death----" + +She grew intensely white, with a fear she had not before known in her +life. Keyork laughed again, and tried to shake himself free of her grip. + +"You seem a little nervous," he observed calmly. "What do you want of +me?" + +"Your help, man, and quickly! Call your people! Have him carried +upstairs! Revive him! do something to bring him back!" + +Keyork's voice changed. + +"Is he in real danger?" he asked. "What have you done to him?" + +"Oh, I do not know what I have done!" cried Unorna desperately. "I do +not know what I fear----" + +She let him go and leaned against the doorway, covering her face with +her hands. Keyork stared at her. He had never seen her show so much +emotion before. Then he made up his mind. He drew her into his room and +left her standing and staring at him while he thrust a few objects into +his pockets and threw his fur coat over him. + +"Stay here till I come back," he said, authoritatively, as he went out. + +"But you will bring him here?" she cried, suddenly conscious of his +going. + +The door had already closed. She tried to open it, in order to follow +him, but she could not. The lock was of an unusual kind, and either +intentionally or accidentally Keyork had shut her in. For a few moments +she tried to force the springs, shaking the heavy wood work a very +little in the great effort she made. Then, seeing that it was useless, +she walked slowly to the table and sat down in Keyork's chair. + +She had been in the place before, and she was as free from any +unpleasant fear of the dead company as Keyork himself. To her, as to +him, they were but specimens, each having a peculiar interest, as a +thing, but all destitute of that individuality, of that grim, latent +malice, of that weird, soulless, physical power to harm, with which +timid imaginations endow dead bodies. + +She scarcely gave them a glance, and she certainly gave them no thought. +She sat before the table, supporting her head in her hands and trying +to think connectedly of what had just happened. She knew well enough how +the Wanderer had lain upon the frozen ground, his head supported on her +knee, while the watchman had gone to call a carriage. She remembered how +she had summoned all her strength and had helped to lift him in, as few +women could have done. She remembered every detail of the place, and +everything she had done, even to the fact that she had picked up his hat +and a stick he had carried and had taken them into the vehicle with her. +The short drive through the ill-lighted streets was clear to her. She +could still feel the pressure of his shoulder as he had leaned heavily +against her; she could see the pale face by the fitful light of the +lanterns as they passed, and of the lamps that flashed in front of the +carriage with each jolting of the wheels over the rough paving-stones. +She remembered exactly what she had done, her efforts to wake him, at +first regular and made with the certainty of success, then more and more +mad as she realised that something had put him beyond the sphere of her +powers for the moment, if not for ever; his deathly pallor, his chilled +hands, his unnatural stillness--she remembered it all, as one remembers +circumstances in real life a moment after they have taken place. But +there remained also the recollection of a single moment during which +her whole being had been at the mercy of an impression so vivid that +it seemed to stand alone divested of any outward sensations by which +to measure its duration. She, who could call up visions in the minds of +others, who possessed the faculty of closing her bodily eyes in order to +see distant places and persons in the state of trance, she, who expected +no surprises in her own act, had seen something very vividly, which +she could not believe had been a reality, and which she yet could not +account for as a revelation of second sight. That dark, mysterious +presence that had come bodily, yet without a body, between her and the +man she loved was neither a real woman, nor the creation of her own +brain, nor a dream seen in hypnotic state. She had not the least idea +how long it had stood there; it seemed an hour, and it seemed but a +second. But that incorporeal thing had a life and a power of its own. +Never before had she felt that unearthly chill run through her, nor +that strange sensation in her hair. It was a thing of evil omen, and the +presage was already about to be fulfilled. The spirit of the dark woman +had arisen at the sound of the words in which he denied her; she had +risen and had come to claim her own, to rob Unorna of what seemed most +worth coveting on earth--and she could take him, surely, to the place +whence she came. How could Unorna tell that he was not already gone, +that his spirit had not passed already, even when she was lifting his +weight from the ground? + +At the despairing thought she started and looked up. She had almost +expected to see that shadow beside her again. But there was nothing. +The lifeless bodies stood motionless in their mimicry of life under the +bright light. The swarthy negro frowned, the face of the Malayan woman +wore still its calm and gentle expression. Far in the background the +rows of gleaming skulls grinned, as though at the memory of their four +hundred lives; the skeleton of the orang-outang stretched out its long +bony arms before it; the dead savages still squatted round the remains +of their meal. The stillness was oppressive. + +Unorna rose to her feet in sudden anxiety. She did not know how long +she had been alone. She listened anxiously at the door for the sound +of footsteps on the stairs, but all was silent. Surely, Keyork had not +taken him elsewhere, to his lodgings, where he would not be cared for. +That was impossible. She must have heard the sound of the wheels as +the carriage drove away. She glanced at the windows and saw that the +casements were covered with small, thick curtains which would muzzle +the sound. She went to the nearest, thrust the curtain aside, opened the +inner and the second glass and looked out. Though the street below was +dim, she could see well enough that the carriage was no longer there. +It was the bitterest night of the year and the air cut her like a knife, +but she would not draw back. She strained her sight in both directions, +searching in the gloom for the moving lights of a carriage, but she saw +nothing. At last she shut the window and went back to the door. They +must be on the stairs, or still below, perhaps, waiting for help to +carry him up. The cold might kill him in his present state, a cold that +would kill most things exposed to it. Furiously she shook the door. It +was useless. She looked about for an instrument to help her strength. +She could see nothing--no--yes--there was the iron-wood club of the +black giant. She went and took it from his hand. The dead thing trembled +all over, and rocked as though it would fall, and wagged its great head +at her, but she was not afraid. She raised the heavy club and struck +upon the door, upon the lock, upon the panels with all her might. The +terrible blows sent echoes down the staircase, but the door did not +yield, nor the lock either. Was the door of iron and the lock of +granite? she asked herself. Then she heard a strange, sudden noise +behind her. She turned and looked. The dead negro had fallen bodily from +his pedestal to the floor, with a dull, heavy thud. She did not desist, +but struck the oaken planks again and again with all her strength. Then +her arms grew numb and she dropped the club. It was all in vain. Keyork +had locked her in and had taken the Wanderer away. + +She went back to her seat and fell into an attitude of despair. The +reaction from the great physical efforts she had made overcame her. It +seemed to her that Keyork's only reason for taking him away must be that +he was dead. Her head throbbed and her eyes began to burn. The great +passion had its will of her and stabbed her through and through with +such pain as she had never dreamed of. The horror of it all was too deep +for tears, and tears were by nature very far from her eyes at all times. +She pressed her hands to her breast and rocked herself gently backwards +and forwards. There was no reason left in her. To her there was no +reason left in anything if he were gone. And if Keyork Arabian could not +cure him, who could? She knew now what that old prophecy had meant, +when they had told her that love would come but once, and that the +chief danger of her life lay in a mistake on that decisive day. Love had +indeed come upon her like a whirlwind, he had flashed upon her like +the lightning, she had tried to grasp him and keep him, and he was gone +again--for ever. Gone through her own fault, through her senseless folly +in trying to do by art what love would have done for himself. Blind, +insensate, mad! She cursed herself with unholy curses, and her beautiful +face was strained and distorted. With unconscious fingers she tore at +her heavy hair until it fell about her like a curtain. In the raging +thirst of a great grief for tears that would not flow she beat her +bosom, she beat her face, she struck with her white forehead the heavy +table before her, she grasped her own throat, as though she would tear +the life out of herself. Then again her head fell forward and her body +swayed regularly to and fro, and low words broke fiercely from her +trembling lips now and then, bitter words of a wild, strong language in +which it is easier to curse than to bless. As the sudden love that had +in a few hours taken such complete possession of her was boundless, so +its consequences were illimitable. In a nature strange to fear, the fear +for another wrought a fearful revolution. Her anger against herself was +as terrible as her fear for him she loved was paralysing. The instinct +to act, the terror lest it should be too late, the impossibility of +acting at all so long as she was imprisoned in the room, all three came +over her at once. + +The mechanical effort of rocking her body from side to side brought no +rest; the blow she struck upon her breast in her frenzy she felt no more +than the oaken door had felt those she had dealt it with the club. She +could not find even the soothing antidote of bodily pain for her intense +moral suffering. Again the time passed without her knowing or guessing +of its passage. + +Driven to desperation she sprang at last from her seat and cried aloud. + +"I would give my soul to know that he is safe!" + +The words had not died away when a low groan passed, as it were, round +the room. The sound was distinctly that of a human voice, but it seemed +to come from all sides at once. Unorna stood still and listened. + +"Who is in this room?" she asked in loud clear tones. + +Not a breath stirred. She glanced from one specimen to another, as +though suspecting that among the dead some living being had taken a +disguise. But she knew them all. There was nothing new to her there. She +was not afraid. Her passion returned. + +"My soul!--yes!" she cried again, leaning heavily on the table, "I would +give it if I could know, and it would be little enough!" + +Again that awful sound filled the room, and rose now almost to a wail +and died away. + +Unorna's brow flushed angrily. In the direct line of her vision stood +the head of the Malayan woman, its soft, embalmed eyes fixed on hers. + +"If there are people hidden here," cried Unorna fiercely, "let them show +themselves! let them face me! I say it again--I would give my immortal +soul!" + +This time Unorna saw as well as heard. The groan came, and the wail +followed it and rose to a shriek that deafened her. And she saw how +the face of the Malayan woman changed; she saw it move in the bright +lamp-light, she saw the mouth open. Horrified, she looked away. Her eyes +fell upon the squatting savages--their heads were all turned towards +her, she was sure that she could see their shrunken chests heave as they +took breath to utter that terrible cry again and again; even the fallen +body of the African stirred on the floor, not five paces from her. Would +their shrieking never stop? All of them--every one--even to the white +skulls high up in the case; not one skeleton, not one dead body that did +not mouth at her and scream and moan and scream again. + +Unorna covered her ears with her hands to shut out the hideous, +unearthly noise. She closed her eyes lest she should see those dead +things move. Then came another noise. Were they descending from their +pedestals and cases and marching upon her, a heavy-footed company of +corpses? + +Fearless to the last, she dropped her hands and opened her eyes. + +"In spite of you all," she cried defiantly, "I will give my soul to have +him safe!" + +Something was close to her. She turned and saw Keyork Arabian at her +elbow. There was an odd smile on his usually unexpressive face. + +"Then give me that soul of yours, if you please," he said. "He is quite +safe and peacefully asleep. You must have grown a little nervous while I +was away." + + + +CHAPTER X + +Unorna let herself sink into a chair. She stared almost vacantly at +Keyork, then glanced uneasily at the motionless specimens, then stared +at him again. + +"Yes," she said at last. "Perhaps I was a little nervous. Why did you +lock me in? I would have gone with you. I would have helped you." + +"An accident--quite an accident," answered Keyork, divesting himself of +his fur coat. "The lock is a peculiar one, and in my hurry I forgot to +show you the trick of it." + +"I tried to get out," said Unorna with a forced laugh. "I tried to +break the door down with a club. I am afraid I have hurt one of your +specimens." + +She looked about the room. Everything was in its usual position, except +the body of the African. She was quite sure that when she had head that +unearthly cry, the dead faces had all been turned towards her. + +"It is no matter," replied Keyork in a tone of indifference which was +genuine. "I wish somebody would take my collection off my hands. I +should have room to walk about without elbowing a failure at every +step." + +"I wish you would bury them all," suggested Unorna, with a slight +shudder. + +Keyork looked at her keenly. + +"Do you mean to say that those dead things frightened you?" he asked +incredulously. + +"No; I do not. I am not easily frightened. But something odd +happened--the second strange thing that has happened this evening. Is +there any one concealed in this room?" + +"Not a rat--much less a human being. Rats dislike creosote and corrosive +sublimate, and as for human beings----" + +He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. + +"Then I have been dreaming," said Unorna, attempting to look relieved. +"Tell me about him. Where is he?" + +"In bed--at his hotel. He will be perfectly well to-morrow." + +"Did he wake?" she asked anxiously. + +"Yes. We talked together." + +"And he was in his right mind?" + +"Apparently. But he seems to have forgotten something." + +"Forgotten? What? That I had made him sleep?" + +"Yes. He had forgotten that too." + +"In Heaven's name, Keyork, tell me what you mean! Do not keep me--" + +"How impatient women are!" exclaimed Keyork with exasperating calm. +"What is it that you most want him to forget?" + +"You cannot mean----" + +"I can, and I do. He has forgotten Beatrice. For a witch--well, you are +a very remarkable one, Unorna. As a woman of business----" He shook his +head. + +"What do you mean, this time? What did you say?" Her questions came in +a strained tone and she seemed to have difficulty in concentrating her +attention, or in controlling her emotions, or both. + +"You paid a large price for the information," observed Keyork. + +"What price? What are you speaking of? I do not understand." + +"Your soul," he answered, with a laugh. "That was what you offered to +any one who would tell you that the Wanderer was safe. I immediately +closed with your offer. It was an excellent one for me." + +Unorna tapped the table impatiently. + +"It is odd that a man of your learning should never be serious," she +said. + +"I supposed that you were serious," he answered. "Besides, a bargain +is a bargain, and there were numerous witnesses to the transaction," he +added, looking round the room at his dead specimens. + +Unorna tried to laugh with him. + +"Do you know, I was so nervous that I fancied all those creatures were +groaning and shrieking and gibbering at me, when you came in." + +"Very likely they were," said Keyork Arabian, his small eyes twinkling. + +"And I imagined that the Malayan woman opened her mouth to scream, and +that the Peruvian savages turned their heads; it was very strange--at +first they groaned, and then they wailed, and then they howled and +shrieked at me." + +"Under the circumstances, that is not extraordinary." + +Unorna stared at him rather angrily. He was jesting, of course, and she +had been dreaming, or had been so overwrought by excitement as to have +been made the victim of a vivid hallucination. Nevertheless there was +something disagreeable in the matter-of-fact gravity of his jest. + +"I am tired of your kind of wit," she said. + +"The kind of wit which is called wisdom is said to be fatiguing," he +retorted. + +"I wish you would give me an opportunity of being wearied in that way." + +"Begin by opening your eyes to facts, then. It is you who are trying +to jest. It is I who am in earnest. Did you, or did you not, offer your +soul for a certain piece of information? Did you, or did you not, hear +those dead things moan and cry? Did you, or did you not, see them move?" + +"How absurd!" cried Unorna. "You might as well ask whether, when one +is giddy, the room is really going round? Is there any practical +difference, so far as sensation goes, between a mummy and a block of +wood?" + +"That, my dear lady, is precisely what we do not know, and what we most +wish to know. Death is not the change which takes place at a moment +which is generally clearly defined, when the heart stops beating, and +the eye turns white, and the face changes colour. Death comes some time +after that, and we do not know exactly when. It varies very much in +different individuals. You can only define it as the total and final +cessation of perception and apperception, both functions depending on +the nerves. In ordinary cases Nature begins of herself to destroy the +nerves by a sure process. But how do you know what happens when decay +is not only arrested but prevented before it has begun? How can you +foretell what may happen when a skilful hand has restored the tissues of +the body to their original flexibility, or preserved them in the state +in which they were last sensitive?" + +"Nothing can ever make me believe that a mummy can suddenly hear and +understand," said Unorna. "Much less that it can move and produce +a sound. I know that the idea has possessed you for many years, but +nothing will make me believe it possible." + +"Nothing?" + +"Nothing short of seeing and hearing." + +"But you have seen and heard." + +"I was dreaming." + +"When you offered your soul?" + +"Not then, perhaps. I was only mad then." + +"And on the ground of temporary insanity you would repudiate the +bargain?" + +Unorna shrugged her shoulders impatiently and did not answer. Keyork +relinquished the fencing. + +"It is of no importance," he said, changing his tone. "Your dream--or +whatever it was--seems to have been the second of your two experiences. +You said there were two, did you not? What was the first?" + +Unorna sat silent for some minutes, as though collecting her thoughts. +Keyork, who never could have enough light, busied himself with another +lamp. The room was now brighter than it generally was in the daytime. + +Unorna watched him. She did not want to make confidences to him, and yet +she felt irresistibly impelled to do so. He was a strange compound of +wisdom and levity, in her opinion, and his light-hearted moods were +those which she most resented. She was never sure whether he was in +reality tactless, or frankly brutal. She inclined to the latter view of +his character, because he always showed such masterly skill in excusing +himself when he had gone too far. Neither his wisdom nor his love of +jesting explained to her the powerful attraction he exercised over her +whole nature, and of which she was, in a manner, ashamed. She could +quarrel with him as often as they met, and yet she could not help being +always glad to meet him again. She could not admit that she liked him +because she dominated him; on the contrary, he was the only person she +had ever met over whom she had no influence whatever, who did as he +pleased without consulting her, and who laughed at her mysterious power +so far as he himself was concerned. Nor was her liking founded upon any +consciousness of obligation. If he had helped her to the best of his +ability in the great experiment, it was also clear enough that he had +the strongest personal interest in doing so. He loved life with a mad +passion for its own sake, and the only object of his study was to find +a means of living longer than other men. All the aims and desires and +complex reasonings of his being tended to this simple expression--the +wish to live. To what idolatrous self-worship Keyork Arabian might be +capable of descending, if he ever succeeded in eliminating death from +the equation of his immediate future, it was impossible to say. The +wisdom of ages bids us beware of the man of one idea. He is to be feared +for his ruthlessness, for his concentration, for the singular strength +he has acquired in the centralization of his intellectual power, and +because he has welded, as it were, the rough metal of many passions and +of many talents into a single deadly weapon which he wields for a single +purpose. Herein lay, perhaps, the secret of Unorna's undefined fear of +Keyork and of her still less definable liking for him. + +She leaned one elbow on the table and shaded her eyes from the brilliant +light. + +"I do not know why I should tell you," she said at last. "You will only +laugh at me, and then I shall be angry, and we shall quarrel as usual." + +"I may be of use," suggested the little man gravely. "Besides, I have +made up my mind never to quarrel with you again, Unorna." + +"You are wise, my dear friend. It does no good. As for your being of use +in this case, the most I can hope is that you may find me an explanation +of something I cannot understand." + +"I am good at that. I am particularly good at explanations--and, +generally, at all _post facto_ wisdom." + +"Keyork, do you believe that the souls of the dead can come back and be +visible to us?" + +Keyork Arabian was silent for a few seconds. + +"I know nothing about it," he answered. + +"But what do you think?" + +"Nothing. Either it is possible, or it is not, and until the one +proposition or the other is proved I suspend my judgment. Have you seen +a ghost?" + +"I do not know. I have seen something----" She stopped, as though the +recollections were unpleasant. + +"Then" said Keyork, "the probability is that you saw a living person. +Shall I sum up the question of ghosts for you?" + +"I wish you would, in some way that I can understand." + +"We are, then, in precisely the same position with regard to the belief +in ghosts which we occupy towards such questions as the abolition of +death. The argument in both cases is inductive and all but conclusive. +We do not know of any case, in the two hundred generations of men, more +or less, with whose history we are in some degree acquainted, of any +individual who has escaped death. We conclude that all men must die. +Similarly, we do not know certainly--not from real, irrefutable evidence +at least--that the soul of any man or woman dead has ever returned +visibly to earth. We conclude, therefore, that none ever will. There +is a difference in the two cases, which throws a slight balance of +probability on the side of the ghost. Many persons have asserted that +they have seen ghosts, though none have ever asserted that men do not +die. For my own part, I have had a very wide, practical, and intimate +acquaintance with dead people--sometimes in very queer places--but I +have never seen anything even faintly suggestive of a ghost. Therefore, +my dear lady, I advise you to take it for granted that you have seen a +living person." + +"I never shivered with cold and felt my hair rise upon my head at the +sight of any living thing," said Unorna dreamily, and still shading her +eyes with her hand. + +"But might you not feel that if you chanced to see some one whom you +particularly disliked?" asked Keyork, with a gentle laugh. + +"Disliked?" repeated Unorna in a harsh voice. She changed her position +and looked at him. "Yes, perhaps that is possible. I had not thought of +that. And yet--I would rather it had been a ghost." + +"More interesting, certainly, and more novel," observed Keyork, slowly +polishing his smooth cranium with the palm of his hand. His head, and +the perfect hemisphere of his nose, reflected the light like ivory balls +of different sizes. + +"I was standing before him," said Unorna. "The place was lonely and +it was already night. The stars shone on the snow, and I could see +distinctly. Then she--that woman--passed softly between us. He cried +out, calling her by name, and then fell forward. After that, the woman +was gone. What was it that I saw?" + +"You are quite sure that it was not really a woman?" + +"Would a woman, and of all women that one, have come and gone without a +word?" + +"Not unless she is a very singularly reticent person," answered Keyork, +with a laugh. "But you need not go so far as the ghost theory for an +explanation. You were hypnotised, my dear friend, and he made you see +her. That is as simple as anything need be." + +"But that is impossible, because----" Unorna stopped and changed colour. + +"Because you had hypnotised him already," suggested Keyork gravely. + +"The thing is not possible," Unorna repeated, looking away from him. + +"I believe it to be the only natural explanation. You had made him +sleep. You tried to force his mind to something contrary to its firmest +beliefs. I have seen you do it. He is a strong subject. His mind +rebelled, yielded, then made a final and desperate effort, and then +collapsed. That effort was so terrible that it momentarily forced your +will back upon itself, and impressed his vision on your sight. There are +no ghosts, my dear colleague. There are only souls and bodies. If the +soul can be defined as anything it can be defined as Pure Being in the +Mode of Individuality but quite removed from the Mode of Matter. As for +the body--well, there it is before you, in a variety of shapes, and in +various states of preservation, as incapable of producing a ghost as +a picture or a statue. You are altogether in a very nervous condition +to-day. It is really quite indifferent whether that good lady be alive +or dead." + +"Indifferent!" exclaimed Unorna fiercely. Then she was silent. + +"Indifferent to the validity of the theory. If she is dead, you did not +see her ghost, and if she is alive you did not see her body, because, +if she had been there in the flesh, she would have entered into an +explanation--to say the least. Hypnosis will explain anything and +everything, without causing you a moment's anxiety for the future." + +"Then I did not hear shrieks and moans, nor see your specimens moving +when I was here along just now?" + +"Certainly not! Hypnosis again. Auto-hypnosis this time. You should +really be less nervous. You probably stared at the lamp without +realising the fact. You know that any shining object affects you in +that way, if you are not careful. It is a very bright lamp, too. +Instantaneous effect--bodies appear to move and you hear unearthly +yells--you offer your soul for sale and I buy it, appearing in the nick +of time? If your condition had lasted ten seconds longer you would have +taken me for his majesty and lived, in imagination, through a dozen +years or so of sulphurous purgatorial treatment under my personal +supervision, to wake up and find yourself unscorched--and unredeemed, as +ever." + +"You are a most comforting person, Keyork," said Unorna, with a faint +smile. "I only wish I could believe everything you tell me." + +"You must either believe me or renounce all claim to intelligence," +answered the little man, climbing from his chair and sitting upon the +table at her elbow. His short, sturdy legs swung at a considerable +height above the floor, and he planted his hands firmly upon the board +on either side of him. The attitude was that of an idle boy, and was +so oddly out of keeping with his age and expression that Unorna almost +laughed as she looked at him. + +"At all events," he continued, "you cannot doubt my absolute sincerity. +You come to me for an explanation. I give you the only sensible one that +exists, and the only one which can have a really sedative effect upon +your excitement. Of course, if you have any especial object in +believing in ghosts--if it affords you any great and lasting pleasure to +associate, in imagination, with spectres, wraiths, and airily-malicious +shadows, I will not cross your fancy. To a person of solid nerves +a banshee may be an entertaining companion, and an apparition in a +well-worn winding-sheet may be a pretty toy. For all I know, it may be +a delight to you to find your hair standing on end at the unexpected +appearance of a dead woman in a black cloak between you and the person +with whom you are engaged in animated conversation. All very well, as +a mere pastime, I say. But if you find that you are reaching a point on +which your judgment is clouded, you had better shut up the magic lantern +and take the rational view of the case." + +"Perhaps you are right." + +"Will you allow me to say something very frank, Unorna?" asked Keyork +with unusual diffidence. + +"If you can manage to be frank without being brutal." + +"I will be short, at all events. It is this. I think you are becoming +superstitious." He watched her closely to see what effect the speech +would produce. She looked up quickly. + +"Am I? What is superstition?" + +"Gratuitous belief in things not proved." + +"I expected a different definition from you." + +"What did you expect me to say?" + +"That superstition is belief." + +"I am not a heathen," observed Keyork sanctimoniously. + +"Far from it," laughed Unorna. "I have heard that devils believe and +tremble." + +"And you class me with those interesting things, my dear friend?" + +"Sometimes: when I am angry with you." + +"Two or three times a day, then? Not more than that?" inquired the sage, +swinging his heels, and staring at the rows of skulls in the background. + +"Whenever we quarrel. It is easy for you to count the occasions." + +"Easy, but endless. Seriously, Unorna, I am not the devil. I can prove +it to you conclusively on theological grounds." + +"Can you? They say that his majesty is a lawyer, and a successful one, +in good practice." + +"What caused Satan's fall? Pride. Then pride is his chief +characteristic. Am I proud, Unorna? The question is absurd, I have +nothing to be proud of--a little old man with a gray beard, of whom +nobody ever heard anything remarkable. No one ever accused me of pride. +How could I be proud of anything? Except of your acquaintance, my dear +lady," he added gallantly, laying his hand on his heart, and leaning +towards her as he sat. + +Unorna laughed at the speech, and threw back her dishevelled hair with a +graceful gesture. Keyork paused. + +"You are very beautiful," he said thoughtfully, gazing at her face and +at the red gold lights that played in the tangled tresses. + +"Worse and worse!" she exclaimed, still laughing. "Are you going to +repeat the comedy you played so well this afternoon, and make love to me +again?" + +"If you like. But I do not need to win your affections now." + +"Why not?" + +"Have I not bought your soul, with everything in it, like a furnished +house?" he asked merrily. + +"Then you are the devil after all?" + +"Or an angel. Why should the evil one have a monopoly in the +soul-market? But you remind me of my argument. You would have distracted +Demosthenes in the heat of a peroration, or Socrates in the midst of his +defence, if you had flashed that hair of yours before their old eyes. +You have almost taken the life out of my argument. I was going to say +that my peculiarity is not less exclusive than Lucifer's, though it +takes a different turn. I was going to confess with the utmost frankness +and the most sincere truth that my only crime against Heaven is a most +perfect, unswerving, devotional love for my own particular Self. In that +attachment I have never wavered yet--but I really cannot say what may +become of Keyork Arabian if he looks at you much longer." + +"He might become a human being," suggested Unorna. + +"How can you be so cruel as to suggest such a horrible possibility?" +cried the gnome with a shudder, either real or extremely well feigned. + +"You are betraying yourself, Keyork. You must control your feelings +better, or I shall find out the truth about you." + +He glanced keenly at her, and was silent for a while. Unorna rose slowly +to her feet, and standing beside him, began to twist her hair into a +great coil upon her head. + +"What made you let it down?" asked Keyork with some curiosity, as he +watched her. + +"I hardly know," she answered, still busy with the braids. "I was +nervous, I suppose, as you say, and so it got loose and came down." + +"Nervous about our friend?" + +She did not reply, but turned from him with a shake of the head and took +up her fur mantle. + +"You are not going?" said Keyork quietly, in a tone of conviction. + +She started slightly, dropped the sable, and sat down again. + +"No," she said, "I am not going yet. I do not know what made me take my +cloak." + +"You have really no cause for nervousness now that it is all over," +remarked the sage, who had not descended from his perch on the table. +"He is very well. It is one of those cases which are interesting as +being new, or at least only partially investigated. We may as well speak +in confidence, Unorna, for we really understand each other. Do you not +think so?" + +"That depends on what you have to say." + +"Not much--nothing that ought to offend you. You must consider, my +dear," he said, assuming an admirably paternal tone, "that I might be +your father, and that I have your welfare very much at heart, as well as +your happiness. You love this man--no, do not be angry, do not interrupt +me. You could not do better for yourself, nor for him. I knew him years +ago. He is a grand man--the sort of man I would like to be. Good. You +find him suffering from a delusion, or a memory, whichever it be. Not +only is this delusion--let us call it so--ruining his happiness and +undermining his strength, but so long as it endures, it also completely +excludes the possibility of his feeling for you what you feel for him. +Your own interest coincides exactly with the promptings of real, human +charity. And yours is in reality a charitable nature, dear Unorna, +though you are sometimes a little hasty with poor old Keyork. Good +again. You, being moved by a desire for this man's welfare, most kindly +and wisely take steps to cure him of his madness. The delusion is +strong, but your will is stronger. The delusion yields after a violent +struggle during which it has even impressed itself upon your own senses. +The patient is brought home, properly cared for, and disposed to +rest. Then he wakes, apparently of his own accord, and behold! he is +completely cured. Everything has been successful, everything is perfect, +everything has followed the usual course of such mental cures by means +of hypnosis. The only thing I do not understand is the waking. That is +the only thing which makes me uneasy for the future, until I can see it +properly explained. He had no right to wake without your suggestion, if +he was still in the hypnotic state; and if he had already come out of +the hypnotic state by a natural reaction, it is to be feared that the +cure may not be permanent." + +Unorna had listened attentively, as she always did when Keyork delivered +himself of a serious opinion upon a psychiatric case. Her eyes gleamed +with satisfaction as he finished. + +"If that is all that troubles you," she said, "you may set your mind +at rest. After he had fallen, and while the watchman was getting the +carriage, I repeated my suggestion and ordered him to wake without pain +in an hour." + +"Perfect! Splendid!" cried Keyork, clapping his hands loudly together. +"I did you an injustice, my dear Unorna. You are not so nervous as I +thought, since you forgot nothing. What a woman! Ghost-proof, and able +to think connectedly even at such a moment! But tell me, did you not +take the opportunity of suggesting something else?" His eyes twinkled +merrily, as he asked the question. + +"What do you mean?" inquired Unorna, with sudden coldness. + +"Oh, nothing so serious as you seem to think. I was only wondering +whether a suggestion of reciprocation might not have been wise." + +She faced him fiercely. + +"Hold your peace, Keyork Arabian!" she cried. + +"Why?" he asked with a bland smile, swinging his little legs and +stroking his long beard. + +"There is a limit! Must you for ever be trying to suggest, and trying +to guide me in everything I do? It is intolerable! I can hardly call my +soul my own!" + +"Hardly, considering my recent acquisition of it," returned Keyork +calmly. + +"That wretched jest is threadbare." + +"A jest! Wretched? And threadbare, too? Poor Keyork! His wit is failing +at last." + +He shook his head in mock melancholy over his supposed intellectual +dotage. Unorna turned away, this time with the determination to leave +him. + +"I am sorry if I have offended you," he said, very meekly. "Was what I +said so very unpardonable?" + +"If ignorance is unpardonable, as you always say, then your speech +is past forgiveness," said Unorna, relenting by force of habit, but +gathering her fur around her. "If you know anything of women--" + +"Which I do not," observed the gnome in a low-toned interruption. + +"Which you do not--you would know how much such love as you advise me to +manufacture by force of suggestion could be worth in a woman's eyes. You +would know that a woman will be loved for herself, for her beauty, for +her wit, for her virtues, for her faults, for her own love, if you will, +and by a man conscious of all his actions and free of his heart; not by +a mere patient reduced to the proper state of sentiment by a trick of +hypnotism, or psychiatry, or of whatever you choose to call the effect +of this power of mine which neither you, nor I, nor any one can explain. +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." + +"So you are a fatalist, Unorna," observed her companion, still stroking +and twisting his beard. "It is strange that we should differ upon so +many fundamental questions, you and I, and yet be such good friends. Is +it not?" + +"The strangest thing of all is that I should submit to your exasperating +ways as I do." + +"It does not strike me that it is I who am quarrelling this time," said +Keyork. + +"I confess, I would almost prefer that to your imperturbable coolness. +What is this new phase? You used not to be like this. You are planning +some wickedness. I am sure of it." + +"And that is all the credit I get for keeping my temper! Did I not say a +while ago that I would never quarrel with you again?" + +"You said so, but--" + +"But you did not expect me to keep my word," said Keyork, slipping from +his seat on the table with considerable agility and suddenly standing +close before her. "And do you not yet know that when I say a thing I do +it, and that when I have got a thing I keep it?" + +"So far as the latter point is concerned, I have nothing to say. But you +need not be so terribly impressive; and unless you are going to break +your word, by which you seem to set such store, and quarrel with me, you +need not look at me so fiercely." + +Keyork suddenly let his voice drop to its deepest and most vibrating +key. + +"I only want you to remember this," he said. "You are not an ordinary +woman, as I am not an ordinary man, and the experiment we are making +together is an altogether extraordinary one. I have told you the truth. +I care for nothing but my individual self, and I seek nothing but the +prolongation of life. If you endanger the success of the great trial +again, as you did to-day, and if it fails, I will never forgive you. +You will make an enemy of me, and you will regret it while you live, +and longer than that, perhaps. So long as you keep the compact there +is nothing I will not do to help you--nothing within the bounds of your +imagination. And I can do much. Do you understand?" + +"I understand that you are afraid of losing my help." + +"That is it--of losing your help. I am not afraid of losing you--in the +end." + +Unorna smiled rather scornfully at first, as she looked down upon the +little man's strange face and gazed fearlessly into his eyes. But as she +looked, the smile faded, and the colour slowly sank from her face, +until she was very pale. And as she felt herself losing courage before +something which she could not understand, Keyork's eyes grew brighter +and brighter till they glowed like drops of molten metal. A sound as of +many voices wailing in agony rose and trembled and quavered in the air. +With a wild cry, Unorna pressed her hands to her ears and fled towards +the entrance. + +"You are very nervous to-night," observed Keyork, as he opened the door. + +Then he went silently down the stairs by her side and helped her into +the carriage, which had been waiting since his return. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +A month had passed since the day on which Unorna had first seen the +Wanderer, and since the evening when she had sat so long in conversation +with Keyork Arabian. The snow lay heavily on all the rolling moorland +about Prague, covering everything up to the very gates of the black +city; and within, all things were as hard and dark and frozen as ever. +The sun was still the sun, no doubt, high above the mist and the gloom +which he had no power to pierce, but no man could say that he had seen +him in that month. At long intervals indeed, a faint rose-coloured glow +touched the high walls of the Hradschin and transfigured for an instant +the short spires of the unfinished cathedral, hundreds of feet above +the icebound river and the sepulchral capital; sometimes, in the dim +afternoons, a little gold filtered through the heavy air and tinged the +snow-steeples of the Teyn Kirche, and yellowed the stately tower of +the town hall; but that was all, so far as the moving throngs of silent +beings that filled the streets could see. The very air men breathed +seemed to be stiffening with damp cold. For that is not the glorious +winter of our own dear north, where the whole earth is a jewel of +gleaming crystals hung between two heavens, between the heaven of the +day, and the heaven of the night, beautiful alike in sunshine and in +starlight, under the rays of the moon, at evening and again at dawn; +where the pines and hemlocks are as forests of plumes powdered thick +with dust of silver; where the black ice rings like a deep-toned bell +beneath the heel of the sweeping skate--the ice that you may follow a +hundred miles if you have breath and strength; where the harshest voice +rings musically among the icicles and the snow-laden boughs; where the +quick jingle of sleigh bells far off on the smooth, deep track brings +to the listener the vision of our own merry Father Christmas, with snowy +beard, and apple cheeks, and peaked fur cap, and mighty gauntlets, +and hampers and sacks full of toys and good things and true northern +jollity; where all is young and fresh and free; where eyes are bright +and cheeks are red, and hands are strong and hearts are brave; where +children laugh and tumble in the diamond dust of the dry, driven snow; +where men and women know what happiness can mean; where the old are as +the giant pines, green, silver-crowned landmarks in the human forest, +rather than as dried, twisted, sapless trees fit only to be cut down and +burned, in that dear north to which our hearts and memories still turn +for refreshment, under the Indian suns, and out of the hot splendour of +calm southern seas. The winter of the black city that spans the frozen +Moldau is the winter of the grave, dim as a perpetual afternoon in a +land where no lotus ever grew, cold with the unspeakable frigidness of a +reeking air that thickens as oil but will not be frozen, melancholy as a +stony island of death in a lifeless sea. + +A month had gone by, and in that time the love that had so suddenly +taken root in Unorna's heart had grown to great proportions as love will +when, being strong and real, it is thwarted and repulsed at every turn. +For she was not loved. She had destroyed the idol and rooted out the +memory of it, but she could not take its place. She had spoken the truth +when she had told Keyork that she would be loved for herself, or not at +all, and that she would use neither her secret arts nor her rare gifts +to manufacture a semblance when she longed for a reality. + +Almost daily she saw him. As in a dream he came to her and sat by her +side, hour after hour, talking of many things, calm, apparently, and +satisfied in her society, but strangely apathetic and indifferent. +Never once in those many days had she seen his pale face light up with +pleasure, nor his deep eyes show a gleam of interest; never had the tone +of his voice been disturbed in its even monotony; never had the touch of +his hand, when they met and parted, felt the communication of the thrill +that ran through hers. + +It was very bitter, for Unorna was proud with the scarcely reasoning +pride of a lawless, highly gifted nature, accustomed to be obeyed and +little used to bending under any influence. She brought all the skill +she could command to her assistance; she talked to him, she told him of +herself, she sought his confidence, she consulted him on every matter, +she attempted to fascinate his imagination with tales of a life which +even he could never have seen; she even sang to him old songs and +snatches of wonderful melodies which, in her childhood, had still +survived the advancing wave of silence that has overwhelmed the Bohemian +people within the memory of living man, bringing a change into the daily +life and temperament of a whole nation which is perhaps unparalleled in +any history. He listened, he smiled, he showed a faint pleasure and a +great understanding in all these things, and he came back day after +day to talk and listen again. But that was all. She felt that she could +amuse him without charming him. + +And Unorna suffered terribly. Her cheek grew thinner and her eyes +gleamed with sudden fires. She was restless, and her beautiful hands, +from seeming to be carved in white marble, began to look as though they +were chiselled out of delicate transparent alabaster. She slept little +and thought much, and if she did not shed tears, it was because she +was too strong to weep for pain and too proud to weep from anger and +disappointment. And yet her resolution remained firm, for it was part +and parcel of her inmost self, and was guarded by pride on the one hand +and an unalterable belief in fate on the other. + +To-day they sat together, as they had so often sat, among the flowers +and the trees in the vast conservatory, she in her tall, carved chair +and he upon a lower seat before her. They had been silent for some +minutes. It was not yet noon, but it might have been early morning in a +southern island, so soft was the light, so freshly scented the air, so +peaceful the tinkle of the tiny fountain. Unorna's expression was sad, +as she gazed in silence at the man she loved. There was something gone +from his face, she thought, since she had first seen him, and it was to +bring that something back that she would give her life and her soul if +she could. + +Suddenly her lips moved and a sad melody trembled in the air. Unorna +sang, almost as though singing to herself. The Wanderer's deep eyes met +hers and he listened. + + "When in life's heaviest hour + Grief crowds upon the heart + One wondrous prayer + My memory repeats. + + "The harmony of the living words + Is full of strength to heal, + There breathes in them a holy charm + Past understanding. + + "Then, as a burden from my soul, + Doubt rolls away, + And I believe--believe in tears, + And all is light--so light!" + +She ceased, and his eyes were still upon her, calm, thoughtful, +dispassionate. The colour began to rise in her cheek. She looked down +and tapped upon the carved arm of the chair with an impatient gesture +familiar to her. + +"And what is that one prayer?" asked the Wanderer. "I knew the song long +ago, but I have never guessed what that magic prayer can be like." + +"It must be a woman's prayer; I cannot tell you what it is." + +"And are you so sad to-day, Unorna? What makes you sing that song?" + +"Sad? No, I am not sad," she answered with an effort. "But the words +rose to my lips and so I sang." + +"They are pretty words," said her companion, almost indifferently. "And +you have a very beautiful voice," he added thoughtfully. + +"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. He gazed at the plants, and his glance +wandered from one to the other, as though he did not see them, being +lost in meditation. The voice had been calm and clear as ever, but it +was the first time he had ever said so much, and Unorna's heart stood +still, half fire and half ice. She could not speak. + +"You are very much to me," he said again, at last. "Since I have been +in this place a change has come over me. I seem to myself to be a man +without an object, without so much as a real thought. Keyork tells me +that there is something wanting, that the something is woman, and that +I ought to love. I cannot tell. I do not know what love is, and I never +knew. Perhaps it is the absence of it that makes me what I am--a body +and an intelligence without a soul. Even the intelligence I begin to +doubt. What sense has there ever been in all my wanderings? Why have I +been in every place, in every city? What went I forth to see? Not even a +reed shaken by the wind! I have spoken all languages, read thousands of +books, known men in every land--and for what? It is as though I had once +had an object in it all, though I know that there was none. But I have +realised the worthlessness of my life since I have been here. Perhaps +you have shown it to me, or helped me to see it. I cannot tell. I ask +myself again and again what it was all for, and I ask in vain. I am +lonely, indeed, in the world, but it has been my own choice. I remember +that I had friends once, when I was younger, but I cannot tell what has +become of one of them. They wearied me, perhaps, in those days, and the +weariness drove me from my own home. For I have a home, Unorna, and I +fancy that when old age gets me at last I shall go there to die, in one +of those old towers by the northern sea. I was born there, and there +my mother died and my father, before I knew them; it is a sad place! +Meanwhile, I may have thirty years, or forty, or even more to live. +Shall I go on living this wandering, aimless life? And if not what shall +I do? Love, says Keyork Arabian--who never loved anything but himself, +but to whom that suffices, for it passes the love of woman!" + +"That is true, indeed," said Unorna in a low voice. + +"And what he says might be true also, if I were capable of loving. But +I feel that I am not. I am as incapable of that as of anything else. I +ought to despise myself, and yet I do not. I am perfectly contented, and +if I am not happy I at least do not realise what unhappiness means. Am I +not always of the same even temper?" + +"Indeed you are." 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. "Even if I had, +what right have I to make myself the judge of your life?" + +"The right of friendship," answered the Wanderer very quietly. "You are +my best friend, Unorna." + +Unorna's anger rose within her. She remembered how in that very place, +and but a month earlier, she had offered Israel Kafka her friendship, +and it was as though a heavy retribution were now meted out to her for +her cruelty on that day. She remembered his wrath and his passionate +denunciations of friendship, his scornful refusal, his savage attempt to +conquer her will, his failure and his defeat. She remembered how she had +taken her revenge, delivering him over in his sleep to Keyork Arabian's +will. She wished that, like him, she could escape from the wound of the +word in a senseless lethargy of body and mind. She knew now what he had +suffered, for she suffered it all herself. He, at least, had been free +to speak his mind, to rage and storm and struggle. She must sit still +and hide her agony, at the risk of losing all. She bit her white lips +and turned her head away, and was silent. + +"You are my best friend," the Wanderer repeated in his calm voice, +and every syllable pierced her like a glowing needle. "And does not +friendship give rights which ought to be used? If, as I think, Unorna, +you look upon me as an idler, as a worthless being, as a man without as +much as the shadow of a purpose in the world, it is but natural that you +should despise me a little, even though you may be very fond of me. Do +you not see that?" + +Unorna stared at him with an odd expression for a moment. + +"Yes--I am fond of you!" she exclaimed, almost harshly. Then she +laughed. He seemed not to notice her tone. + +"I never knew what friendship was before," he went on. "Of course, as +I said, I had friends when I was little more than a boy, boys and young +men like myself, and our friendship came to this, that we laughed, and +feasted and hunted together, and sometimes even quarrelled, and caring +little, thought even less. But in those days there seemed to be nothing +between that and love, and love I never understood, that I can remember. +But friendship like ours, Unorna, was never dreamed of among us. Such +friendship as this, when I often think that I receive all and give +nothing in return." + +Again Unorna laughed, so strangely that the sound of her own voice +startled her. + +"Why do you laugh like that?" he asked. + +"Because what you say is so unjust to yourself," she answered, nervously +and scarcely seeing him where he sat. "You seem to think it is all on +your side. And yet, I just told you that I was fond of you." + +"I think it is a fondness greater than friendship that we feel for each +other," he said, presently, thrusting the probe of a new hope into the +tortured wound. + +"Yes?" she spoke faintly, with averted face. + +"Something more--a stronger tie, a closer bond. Unorna, do you believe +in the migration of the soul throughout ages, from one body to another?" + +"Sometimes," she succeeded in saying. + +"I do not believe in it," he continued. "But I see well enough how men +may, since I have known you. We have grown so intimate in these few +weeks, we seem to understand each other so wholly, with so little +effort, we spend such happy, peaceful hours together every day, that +I can almost fancy our two selves having been together through a whole +lifetime in some former state, living together, thinking together, +inseparable from birth, and full of an instinctive, mutual +understanding. I do not know whether that seems an exaggeration to you +or not. Has the same idea ever crossed your mind?" + +She said something, or tried to say something, but the words were +inaudible; he interpreted them as expressive of assent, and went on, in +a musing tone, as though talking quite as much to himself as to her. + +"And that is the reason why it seems as though we must be more than +friends, though we have known each other so short a time. Perhaps it is +too much to say." + +He hesitated, and paused. Unorna breathed hard, not daring to think of +what might be coming next. He talked so calmly, in such an easy tone, +it was impossible that he could be making love. She remembered the +vibrations in his voice when, a month ago, he had told her his story. +She remembered the inflection of the passionate cry he had uttered when +he had seen the shadow of Beatrice stealing between them, she knew the +ring of his speech when he loved, for she had heard it. It was not there +now. And yet, the effort not to believe would have been too great for +her strength. + +"Nothing that you could say would be--" she stopped herself--"would pain +me," she added, desperately, in the attempt to complete the sentence. + +He looked somewhat surprised, and then smiled. + +"No. I shall never say anything, nor do anything, which could give you +pain. What I meant was this. I feel towards you, and with you, as I can +fancy a man might feel to a dear sister. Can you understand that?" + +In spite of herself she started. He had but just said that he would +never give her pain. He did not guess what cruel wounds he was +inflicting now. + +"You are surprised," he said, with intolerable self-possession. "I +cannot wonder. I remember to have very often thought that there are few +forms of sentimentality more absurd than that which deceives a man into +the idea that he can with impunity play at being a brother to a young +and beautiful woman. I have always thought so, and I suppose that in +whatever remains of my indolent intelligence I think so still. But +intelligence is not always so reliable as instinct. I am not young +enough nor foolish enough either, to propose that we should swear +eternal brother-and-sisterhood--or perhaps I am not old enough, who can +tell? Yet I feel how perfectly safe it would be for either of us." + +The steel had been thrust home, and could go no farther. Unorna's +unquiet temper rose at his quiet declaration of his absolute security. +The colour came again to her cheek, a little hotly, and though there +was a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke, yet her eyes flashed +beneath the drooping lids. + +"Are you sure it would be safe?" she asked. + +"For you, of course there can be no danger possible," he said, in +perfect simplicity of good faith. "For me--well, I have said it. I +cannot imagine love coming near me in any shape, by degrees or unawares. +It is a strange defect in my nature, but I am glad of it since it makes +this pleasant life possible." + +"And why should you suppose that there is no danger for me?" asked +Unorna, with a quick glance and a silvery laugh. She was recovering her +self-possession. + +"For you? Why should there be? How could there be? No woman ever loved +me, then why should you? Besides--there are a thousand reasons, one +better than the other." + +"I confess I would be glad to hear a few of them, my friend. You were +good enough just now to call me young and beautiful. You are young too, +and certainly not repulsive in appearance. You are gifted, you have led +an interesting life--indeed, I cannot help laughing when I think how +many reasons there are for my falling in love with you. But you are very +reassuring, you tell me there is no danger. I am willing to believe." + +"It is safe to do that," answered the Wanderer with a smile, "unless you +can find at least one reason far stronger than those you give. Young +and passably good-looking men are not rare, and as for men of genius who +have led interesting lives, many thousands have been pointed out to me. +Then why, by any conceivable chance, should your choice fall on me?" + +"Perhaps because I am so fond of you already," said Unorna, looking away +lest her eyes should betray what was so far beyond fondness. "They say +that the most enduring passions are either born in a single instant, +or are the result of a treacherously increasing liking. Take the latter +case. Why is it impossible, for you or for me? We are slipping from mere +liking into friendship, and for all I know we may some day fall headlong +from friendship into love. It would be very foolish no doubt, but it +seems to me quite possible. Do you not see it?" + +The Wanderer laughed lightly. It was years since he had laughed, until +this friendship had begun. + +"What can I say?" he asked. "If you, the woman, acknowledge yourself +vulnerable, how can I, the man, be so discourteous as to assure you that +I am proof? And yet, I feel that there is no danger for either of us." + +"You are still sure?" + +"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. +"But to you--what would the world say, if it learned that you were in +love with Unorna, that you were married to the Witch?" + +"The world? What is the world to me, or what am I to it? What is my +world? If it is anything, it consists of a score of men and women who +chance to be spending their allotted time on earth in that corner of +the globe in which I was born, who saw me grow to manhood, and who most +inconsequently arrogate to themselves the privilege of criticising my +actions, as they criticise each other's; who say loudly that this is +right and that is wrong, and who will be gathered in due time to their +insignificant fathers with their own insignificance thick upon them, as +is meet and just. If that is the world I am not afraid of its judgments +in the very improbable case of my falling in love with you." + +Unorna shook her head. There was a momentary relief in discussing the +consequences of a love not yet born in him. + +"That would not be all," she said. "You have a country, you have a home, +you have obligations--you have all those things which I have not." + +"And not one of those which you have." + +She glanced at him again, for there was a truth in the words which hurt +her. Love, at least, was hers in abundance, and he had it not. + +"How foolish it is to talk like this!" she exclaimed. "After all, when +people love, they care very little what the world says. If I loved any +one"--she tried to laugh carelessly--"I am sure I should be indifferent +to everything or every one else." + +"I am sure you would be," assented the Wanderer. + +"Why?" She turned rather suddenly upon him. "Why are you sure?" + +"In the first place because you say so, and secondly because you have +the kind of nature which is above common opinion." + +"And what kind of nature may that be?" + +"Enthusiastic, passionate, brave." + +"Have I so many good qualities?" + +"I am always telling you so." + +"Does it give you pleasure to tell me what you think of me?" + +"Does it pain you to hear it?" asked the Wanderer, somewhat surprised at +the uncertainty of her temper, and involuntarily curious as to the cause +of the disturbance. + +"Sometimes it does," Unorna answered. + +"I suppose I have grown awkward and tactless in my lonely life. You must +forgive me if I do not understand my mistake. But since I have annoyed +you, I am sorry for it. Perhaps you do not like such speeches because +you think I am flattering you and turning compliments. You are wrong if +you think that. I am sincerely attached to you, and I admire you very +much. May I not say as much as that?" + +"Does it do any good to say it?" + +"If I may speak of you at all I may express myself with pleasant +truths." + +"Truths are not always pleasant. Better not to speak of me at any time." + +"As you will," answered the Wanderer bending his head as though in +submission to her commands. But he did not continue the conversation, +and a long silence ensued. + +He wandered what was passing in her mind, and his reflections led to no +very definite result. Even if the idea of her loving him had presented +itself to his intelligence he would have scouted it, partly on the +ground of its apparent improbability, and partly, perhaps, because +he had of late grown really indolent, and would have resented any +occurrence which threatened to disturb the peaceful, objectless course +of his days. He put down her quick changes of mood to sudden caprice, +which he excused readily enough. + +"Why are you so silent?" Unorna asked, after a time. + +"I was thinking of you," he answered, with a smile. "And since you +forbade me to speak of you, I said nothing." + +"How literal you are!" she exclaimed impatiently. + +"I could see no figurative application of your words," he retorted, +beginning to be annoyed at her prolonged ill humour. + +"Perhaps there was none." + +"In that case--" + +"Oh, do not argue! I detest argument in all shapes, and most of all when +I am expected to answer it. You cannot understand me--you never will--" +She broke off suddenly and looked at him. + +She was angry with him, with herself, with everything, and in her anger +she loved him tenfold better than before. Had he not been blinded by his +own absolute coldness he must have read her heart in the look she gave +him, for his eyes met hers. But he saw nothing. The glance had been +involuntary, but Unorna was too thoroughly a woman not to know all that +it had expressed and would have conveyed to the mind of any one not +utterly incapable of love, all that it might have betrayed even to this +man who was her friend and talked of being her brother. She realised +with terrible vividness the extent of her own passion and the appalling +indifference of its objet. A wave of despair rose and swept over her +heart. Her sight grew dim and she was conscious of sharp physical pain. +She did not even attempt to speak, for she had no thoughts which could +take the shape of words. She leaned back in her chair, and tried to draw +her breath, closing her eyes, and wishing she were alone. + +"What is the matter?" asked the Wanderer, watching her in surprise. + +She did not answer. He rose and stood beside her, and lightly touched +her hand. + +"Are you ill?" he asked again. + +She pushed him away, almost roughly. + +"No," she answered shortly. + +Then, all at once, as though repenting of her gesture, her hand sought +his again, pressed it hard for a moment, and let it fall. + +"It is nothing," she said. "It will pass. Forgive me." + +"Did anything I said----" he began. + +"No, no; how absurd!" + +"Shall I go. Yes, you would rather be alone----" he hesitated. + +"No--yes--yes, go away and come back later. It is the heat perhaps; is +it not hot here?" + +"I daresay," he answered absently. + +He took her hand and then left her, wondering exceedingly over a matter +which was of the simplest. + +It was some time before Unorna realised that he was gone. She had +suffered a severe shock, not to be explained by any word or words +which he had spoken, as much as by the revelation of her own utter +powerlessness, of her total failure to touch his heart, but most +directly of all the consequence of a sincere passion which was assuming +dangerous proportions and which threatened to sweep away even her pride +in its irresistible course. + +She grew calmer when she found herself alone, but in a manner she grew +also more desperate. A resolution began to form itself in her mind +which she would have despised and driven out of her thoughts a few hours +earlier; a resolution destined to lead to strange results. She began to +think of resorting once more to a means other than natural in order to +influence the man she loved. + +In the first moments she had felt sure of herself, and the certainty +that the Wanderer had forgotten Beatrice as completely as though she had +never existed had seemed to Unorna a complete triumph. With little or no +common vanity she had nevertheless felt sure that the man must love +her for her own sake. She knew, when she thought of it, that she was +beautiful, unlike other women, and born to charm all living things. +She compared in her mind the powers she controlled at will, and the +influence she exercised without effort over every one who came near +her. It had always seemed to her enough to wish in order to see the +realisation of her wishes. But she had herself never understood how +closely the wish was allied with the despotic power of suggestion which +she possessed. But in her love she had put a watch over her mysterious +strength and had controlled it, saying that she would be loved for +herself or not at all. She had been jealous of every glance, lest it +should produce a result not natural. She had waited to be won, instead +of trying to win. She had failed, and passion could be restrained no +longer. + +"What does it matter how, if only he is mine!" she exclaimed fiercely, +as she rose from her carved chair an hour after he had left her. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Israel Kafka found himself seated in the corner of a comfortable +carriage with Keyork Arabian at his side. He opened his eyes quite +naturally, and after looking out of the window stretched himself as +far as the limits of the space would allow. He felt very weak and very +tired. The bright colour had left his olive cheeks, his lips were pale +and his eyes heavy. + +"Travelling is very tiring," he said, glancing at Keyork's face. + +The old man rubbed his hands briskly and laughed. + +"I am as fresh as ever," he answered. "It is true that I have the +happy faculty of sleeping when I get a chance and that no preoccupation +disturbs my appetite." + +Keyork Arabian was in a very cheerful frame of mind. He was conscious +of having made a great stride towards the successful realisation of his +dream. Israel Kafka's ignorance, too, amused him, and gave him a fresh +and encouraging proof of Unorna's amazing powers. + +By a mere exercise of superior will this man, in the very prime of youth +and strength, had been deprived of a month of his life. Thirty days were +gone, as in the flash of a second, and with them was gone also something +less easily replaced, or at least more certainly missed. In Kafka's mind +the passage of time was accounted for in a way which would have +seemed supernatural twenty years ago, but which at the present day is +understood in practice if not in theory. For thirty days he had been +stationary in one place, almost motionless, an instrument in Keyork's +skilful hands, a mere reservoir of vitality upon which the sage had +ruthlessly drawn to the fullest extent of its capacities. He had been +fed and tended in his unconsciousness, he had, unknown to himself, +opened his eyes at regular intervals, and had absorbed through his ears +a series of vivid impressions destined to disarm his suspicions, when +he was at last allowed to wake and move about the world again. With +unfailing forethought Keyork had planned the details of a whole series +of artificial reminiscences, and at the moment when Kafka came to +himself in the carriage the machinery of memory began to work as Keyork +had intended that it should. + +Israel Kafka leaned back against the cushions and reviewed his life +during the past month. He remembered very well the afternoon when, +after a stormy interview with Unorna, he had been persuaded by Keyork to +accompany the latter upon a rapid southward journey. He remembered how +he had hastily packed together a few necessaries for the expedition, +while Keyork stood at his elbow advising him what to take and what to +leave, with the sound good sense of an experienced traveller, and he +could almost repeat the words of the message he had scrawled on a sheet +of paper at the last minute to explain his sudden absence from his +lodging--for the people of the house had all been away when he was +packing his belongings. Then the hurry of the departure recalled itself +to him, the crowds of people at the Franz Josef station, the sense +of rest in finding himself alone with Keyork in a compartment of the +express train; after that he had slept during most of the journey, +waking to find himself in a city of the snow-driven Tyrol. With +tolerable distinctness he remembered the sights he had seen, and +fragments of conversation--then another departure, still southward, +the crossing of the Alps, Italy, Venice--a dream of water and sun and +beautiful buildings, in which the varied conversational powers of his +companion found constant material. As a matter of fact the conversation +was what was most clearly impressed upon Kafka's mind, as he recalled +the rapid passage from one city to another, and realised how many +places he had visited in one short month. From Venice southwards, +again, Florence, Rome, Naples, Sicily, by sea to Athens and on to +Constantinople, familiar to him already from former visits--up the +Bosphorus, by the Black Sea to Varna, and then, again, a long period of +restful sleep during the endless railway journey--Pesth, Vienna, rapidly +revisited and back at last to Prague, to the cold and the gray snow and +the black sky. It was not strange, he thought, that his recollections +of so many cities should be a little confused. A man would need a fine +memory to catalogue the myriad sights which such a trip offers to the +eye, the innumerable sounds, familiar and unfamiliar, which strike +the ear, the countless sensations of comfort, discomfort, pleasure, +annoyance and admiration, which occupy the nerves without intermission. +There was something not wholly disagreeable in the hazy character of the +retrospect, especially to a nature such as Kafka's, full of undeveloped +artistic instincts and of a passionate love of all sensuous beauty, +animate and inanimate. The gorgeous pictures rose one after the other +in his imagination, and satisfied a longing of which he felt that he had +been vaguely aware before beginning the journey. None of these lacked +reality, any more than Keyork himself, thought it seemed strange to the +young man that he should actually have seen so much in so short a time. + +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. It had taken place in Palermo. The heat +had seemed intense by contrast with the bitter north he had left behind. +Keyork had gone out and he had been alone in a strange hotel. His head +swam in the stifling scirocco. He had sent for a local physician, and +the old-fashioned doctor had then and there taken blood from his arm. +He had lost so much that he had fainted. The doctor had been gone when +Keyork returned, and the sage had been very angry, abusing in most +violent terms the ignorance which could still apply such methods. Israel +Kafka knew that the lancet had left a wound on his arm and that the +scar was still visible. He remembered, too, that he had often felt tired +since, and that Keyork had invariably reminded him of the circumstances, +attributing to it the weariness from which he suffered, and indulging +each time in fresh abuse of the benighted doctor. + +Very skilfully had the whole story been put together in all its minutest +details, carefully thought out and written down in the form of a +journal before it had been impressed upon his sleeping mind with all +the tyrannic force of Unorna's strong will. And there was but little +probability that Israel Kafka would ever learn what had actually been +happening to him while he fancied that he had been travelling swiftly +from place to place. He could still wonder, indeed, that he should +have yielded so easily to Keyork's pressing invitation to accompany the +latter upon such an extraordinary flight, but he remembered then his +last interview with Unorna and it seemed almost natural that in his +despair he should have chosen to go away. Not that his passion for +the woman was dead. Intentionally, or by an oversight, Unorna had not +touched upon the question of his love for her, in the course of her +otherwise well-considered suggestions. Possibly she had believed that +the statement she had forced from his lips was enough and that he would +forget her without any further action on her part. Possibly, too, Unorna +was indifferent and was content to let him suffer, believing that his +devotion might still be turned to some practical use. However that may +be, when Israel Kafka opened his eyes in the carriage he still loved +her, though he was conscious that in his manner of loving a change had +taken place, of which he was destined to realise the consequences before +another day had passed. + +When Keyork answered his first remark, he turned and looked at the old +man. + +"I suppose you are tougher than I," he said, languidly. "You will hardly +believe it, but I have been dozing already, here, in the carriage, since +we left the station." + +"No harm in that. Sleep is a great restorative," laughed Keyork. + +"Are you so glad to be in Prague again?" asked Kafka. "It is a +melancholy place. But you laugh as though you actually liked the sight +of the black houses and the gray snow and the silent people." + +"How can a place be melancholy? The seat of melancholy is the liver. +Imagine a city with a liver--of brick and mortar, or stone and cement, +a huge mass of masonry buried in its centre, like an enormous fetish, +exercising a mysterious influence over the city's health--then you may +imagine a city as suffering from melancholy." + +"How absurd!" + +"My dear boy, I rarely say absurd things," answered Keyork +imperturbably. "Besides, as a matter of fact, there is nothing absurd. +But you suggested rather a fantastic idea to my imagination. The brick +liver is not a bad conception. Far down in the bowels of the earth, in +a black cavern hollowed beneath the lowest foundations of the oldest +church, the brick liver was built by the cunning magicians of old, to +last for ever, to purify the city's blood, to regulate the city's life, +and in a measure to control its destinies by means of its passions. A +few wise men have handed down the knowledge of the brick liver to each +other from generation to generation, but the rest of the inhabitants are +ignorant of its existence. 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. + +"It is a very practical idea," continued Keyork, amused with his own +fancies, "and it will yet be carried out. The great cities of the +next century will each have a liver of brick and mortar and iron and +machinery, a huge mechanical purifier. You smile! Ah, my dear boy, truth +and phantasm are very much the same to you! You are too young. How +can you be expected to care for the great problem of problems, for the +mighty question of prolonging life?" + +Keyork laughed again, with a meaning in his laughter which escaped his +companion altogether. + +"How can you be expected to care?" he repeated. "And yet men used to say +that it was the duty of strong youth to support the trembling weakness +of feeble old age." + +His eyes twinkled with a diabolical mirth. + +"No," said Kafka. "I do not care. Life is meant to be short. Life is +meant to be storm, broken with gleams of love's sunshine. Why prolong +it? If it is unhappy you would only draw out the unhappiness to greater +lengths, and such joy as it has is joy only because it is quick, sudden, +violent. I would concentrate a lifetime into an instant, if I could, +and then die content in having suffered everything, enjoyed everything, +dared everything in the flash of a great lightning between two total +darknesses. But to drag on through slow sorrows, or to crawl through a +century of contentment--never! Better be mad, or asleep, and unconscious +of the time." + +"You are a very desperate person!" exclaimed Keyork. "If you had the +management of this unstable world you would make it a very convulsive +and nervous place. We should all turn into flaming ephemerides, +fluttering about the crater of a perpetually active volcano. I prefer +the system of the brick liver. There is more durability in it." + +The carriage stopped before the door of Kafka's dwelling. Keyork got out +with him and stood upon the pavement while the porter took the slender +luggage into the house. He smiled as he glanced at the leathern +portmanteau which was supposed to have made such a long journey while +it had in reality lain a whole month in a corner of Keyork's great room +behind a group of specimens. He had opened it once or twice in that +time, had disturbed the contents and had thrown in a few objects from +his heterogeneous collection, as reminiscences of the places visited +in imagination by Kafka, and of the acquisition of which the latter was +only assured in his sleeping state. They would constitute a tangible +proof of the journey's reality in case the suggestion proved less +thoroughly successful than was hoped, and Keyork prided himself upon +this supreme touch. + +"And now," he said, taking Kafka's hand, "I would advise you to rest as +long as you can. I suppose that it must have been a fatiguing trip for +you, though I myself am as fresh as a May morning. There is nothing +wrong with you, but you are tired. Repose, my dear boy, repose, and +plenty of it. That infernal Sicilian doctor! I shall never forgive him +for bleeding you as he did. There is nothing so weakening. Good-bye--I +shall hardly see you again to-day, I fancy." + +"I cannot tell," answered the young man absently. "But let me thank +you," he added, with a sudden consciousness of obligation, "for your +pleasant company, and for making me go with you. I daresay it has done +me good, though I feel unaccountably tired--I feel almost old." + +His tired eyes and haggard face showed that this at least was no +illusion. 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. + +"He will not die this time," remarked Keyork Arabian to himself, as he +sent the carriage away and began to walk towards his own home. "Not +this time. But it was a sharp strain, and it would not be safe to try it +again." + +He thrust his gloved hands into the pockets of his fur coat, so that the +stick he held stood upright against his shoulder in a rather military +fashion. The fur cap sat a little to one side on his strange head, his +eyes twinkled, his long white beard waved in the cold wind, and his +whole appearance was that of a jaunty gnome-king, well satisfied with +the inspection of his treasure chamber. + +And he had cause for satisfaction, as he knew well enough when he +thought of the decided progress made in the great experiment. The cost +at which that progress had been obtained was nothing. Had Israel Kafka +perished altogether under the treatment he had received, Keyork Arabian +would have bestowed no more attention upon the catastrophe than would +have been barely necessary in order to conceal it and to protect himself +and Unorna from the consequences of the crime. In the duel with death, +the life of one man was of small consequence, and Keyork would have +sacrificed thousands to his purposes with equal indifference to their +intrinsic value and with a proportionately greater interest in the +result to be attained. There was a terrible logic in his mental process. +Life was a treasure literally inestimable in value. Death was the +destroyer of this treasure, devised by the Supreme Power as a sure means +of limiting man's activity and intelligence. To conquer Death on his own +ground was to win the great victory over that Power, and to drive back +to an indefinite distance the boundaries of human supremacy. + +It was assuredly not for the sake of benefiting mankind at large that +he pursued his researches at all sacrifices and at all costs. The +prime object of all his consideration was himself, as he unhesitatingly +admitted on all occasions, conceiving perhaps that it was easier to +defend such a position than to disclaim it. There could be no doubt +that in the man's enormous self-estimation, the Supreme Power occupied a +place secondary to Keyork Arabian's personality, and hostile to it. And +he had taken up arms, as Lucifer, assuming his individual right to live +in spite of God, Man and Nature, convinced that the secret could be +discovered and determined to find it and to use it, no matter at what +price. In him there was neither ambition, nor pride, nor vanity in the +ordinary meaning of these words. For passion ceases with the cessation +of comparison between man and his fellows, and Keyork Arabian +acknowledged no ground for such a comparison in his own case. He had +matched himself in a struggle with the Supreme Power, and, directly, +with that Power's only active representative on earth, with death. +It was well said of him that he had no beliefs, for he knew of no +intermediate position between total suspension of judgment, and the +certainty of direct knowledge. And it was equally true that he was no +atheist, as he had sanctimoniously declared of himself. He admitted +the existence of the Power; he claimed the right to assail it, and he +grappled with the greatest, the most terrible, the most universal and +the most stupendous of Facts, which is the Fact that all men die. Unless +he conquered, he must die also. He was past theories, as he was beyond +most other human weaknesses, and facts had for him the enormous value +they acquire in the minds of men cut off from all that is ideal. + +In Unorna he had found the instrument he had sought throughout half a +lifetime. With her he had tried the great experiment and pushed it to +the very end; and when he conducted Israel Kafka to his home, he already +knew that the experiment had succeeded. His plan was a simple one. He +would wait a few months longer for the final result, he would select his +victim, and with Unorna's help he would himself grow young again. + +"And who can tell," he asked himself, "whether the life restored by such +means may not be more resisting and stronger against deathly influences +than before? Is it not true that the older we grow the more slowly +we grow old? Is not the gulf which divides the infant from the man of +twenty years far wider than that which lies between the twentieth and +the fortieth years, and that again more full of rapid change than the +third score? Take, too, the wisdom of my old age as against the folly +of a scarce grown boy, shall not my knowledge and care and forethought +avail to make the same material last longer on the second trial than on +the first?" + +No doubt of that, he thought, as he walked briskly along the pavement +and entered his own house. In his great room he sat down by the table +and fell into a long meditation upon the most immediate consequences of +his success in the difficult undertaking he had so skilfully brought +to a conclusion. His eyes wandered about the room from one specimen to +another, and from time to time a short, scornful laugh made his white +beard quiver. As he had said once to Unorna, the dead things reminded +him of many failures; but he had never before been able to laugh at +them and at the unsuccessful efforts they represented. It was different +to-day. Without lifting his head he turned up his bright eyes, under the +thick, finely-wrinkled lids, as though looking upward toward that Power +against which he strove. The glance was malignant and defiant, human and +yet half-devilish. Then he looked down again, and again fell into deep +thought. + +"And if it is to be so," he said at last, rising suddenly and letting +his open hand fall upon the table, "even then, I am provided. She cannot +free herself from that bargain, at all events." + +Then he wrapped his furs around him and went out again. Scarce a hundred +paces from Unorna's door he met the Wanderer. He looked up into the +cold, calm face, and put out his hand, with a greeting. + +"You look as though you were in a very peaceful frame of mind," observed +Keyork. + +"Why should I be anything but peaceful?" asked the other, "I have +nothing to disturb me." + +"True, true. You possess a very fine organisation. I envy you your +magnificent constitution, my dear friend. I would like to have some of +it, and grow young again." + +"On your principle of embalming the living, I suppose." + +"Exactly," answered the sage with a deep, rolling laugh. "By the bye, +have you been with our friend Unorna? I suppose that is a legitimate +question, though you always tell me I am tactless." + +"Perfectly legitimate, my dear Keyork. Yes, I have just left her. It is +like a breath of spring morning to go there in these days." + +"You find it refreshing?" + +"Yes. There is something about her that I could describe as soothing, if +I were aware of ever being irritable, which I am not." + +Keyork smiled and looked down, trying to dislodge a bit of ice from the +pavement with the point of his stick. + +"Soothing--yes. That is just the expression. Not exactly the quality +most young and beautiful women covet, eh? But a good quality in its way, +and at the right time. How is she to-day?" + +"She seemed to have a headache--or she was oppressed by the heat. +Nothing serious, I fancy, but I came away, as I fancied I was tiring +her." + +"Not likely," observed Keyork. "Do you know Israel Kafka?" he asked +suddenly. + +"Israel Kafka," repeated the Wanderer thoughtfully, as though searching +in his memory. + +"Then you do not," said Keyork. "You could only have seen him since you +have been here. He is one of Unorna's most interesting patients, and +mine as well. He is a little odd." + +Keyork tapped his ivory forehead significantly with one finger. + +"Mad," suggested the Wanderer. + +"Mad, if you prefer the term. He has fixed ideas. In the first place, +he imagines that he has just been travelling with me in Italy, and is +always talking of our experiences. Humour him, if you meet him. He is in +danger of being worse if contradicted." + +"Am I likely to meet him?" + +"Yes. He is often here. His other fixed idea is that he loves Unorna to +distraction. He has been dangerously ill during the last few weeks but +is better now, and he may appear at any moment. Humour him a little if +he wearies you with his stories. That is all I ask. Both Unorna and I +are interested in the case." + +"And does not Unorna care for him at all?" inquired the other +indifferently. + +"No, indeed. On the contrary, she is annoyed at his insistance, but sees +that it is a phase of insanity and hopes to cure it before long." + +"I see. What is he like? I suppose he is an Israelite." + +"From Moravia--yes. The wreck of a handsome boy," said Keyork +carelessly. "This insanity is an enemy of good looks. The nerves give +way--then the vitality--the complexion goes--men of five and twenty +years look old under it. But you will see for yourself before long. +Good-bye. I will go in and see what is the matter with Unorna." + +They parted, the Wanderer continuing on his way along the street with +the same calm, cold, peaceful expression which had elicited Keyork's +admiration, and Keyork himself going forward to Unorna's door. His face +was very grave. He entered the house by a small side door and ascended +by a winding staircase directly to the room from which, an hour or two +earlier, he had carried the still unconscious Israel Kafka. Everything +was as he had left it, and he was glad to be certified that Unorna had +not disturbed the aged sleeper in his absence. Instead of going to her +at once he busied himself in making a few observations and in putting +in order certain of his instruments and appliances. Then at last he went +and found Unorna. She was walking up and down among the plants and he +saw at a glance that something had happened. Indeed the few words spoken +by the Wanderer had suggested to him the possibility of a crisis, and he +had purposely lingered in the inner apartment, in order to give her time +to recover her self-possession. She started slightly when he entered, +and her brows contracted, but she immediately guessed from his +expression that he was not in one of his aggressive moods. + +"I have just rectified a mistake which might have had rather serious +consequences," he said, stopping before her and speaking earnestly and +quietly. + +"A mistake?" + +"We remembered everything, except that our wandering friend and Kafka +were very likely to meet, and that Kafka would in all probability refer +to his delightful journey to the south in my company." + +"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. "How came we to be so +imprudent! One word, and he might have suspected--" + +"He could not have suspected all," answered Keyork. "No man could +suspect that." + +"Nevertheless, I suppose what we have done is not exactly--justifiable." + +"Hardly. It is true that criminal law has not yet adjusted itself to +meet questions of suggestion and psychic influence, but it draws +the line, most certainly, somewhere between these questions and the +extremity to which we have gone. Happily the law is at an immeasurable +distance from science, and here, as usual in such experiments, no one +could prove anything, owing to the complete unconsciousness of the +principal witnesses." + +"I do not like to think that we have been near to such trouble," said +Unorna. + +"Nor I. It was fortunate that I met the Wanderer when I did." + +"And the other? Did he wake as I ordered him to do? Is all right? Is +there no danger of his suspecting anything?" + +It seemed as though Unorna had momentarily forgotten that such a +contingency might be possible, and her anxiety returned with the +recollection. Keyork's rolling laughter reverberated among the plants +and filled the whole wide hall with echoes. + +"No danger there," he answered. "Your witchcraft is above criticism. +Nothing of that kind that you have ever undertaken has failed." + +"Except against you," said Unorna, thoughtfully. + +"Except against me, of course. How could you ever expect anything of the +kind to succeed against me, my dear lady?" + +"And why not? After all, in spite of our jesting, you are not a +supernatural being." + +"That depends entirely on the interpretation you give to the word +supernatural. But, my dear friend and colleague, let us not deceive +each other, though we are able between us to deceive other people into +believing almost anything. There is nothing in all this witchcraft of +yours but a very powerful moral influence at work--I mean apart from the +mere faculty of clairvoyance which is possessed by hundreds of common +somnambulists, and which, in you, is a mere accident. The rest, this +hypnotism, this suggestion, this direction of others' wills, is a +moral affair, a matter of direct impression produced by words. Mental +suggestion may in rare cases succeed, when the person to be influenced +is himself a natural clairvoyant. But these cases are not worth taking +into consideration. Your influence is a direct one, chiefly exercised by +means of your words and through the impression of power which you +know how to convey in them. It is marvellous, I admit. But the very +definition puts me beyond your power." + +"Why?" + +"Because there is not a human being alive, and I do not believe that a +human being ever lived, who had the sense of independent individuality +which I have. Let a man have the very smallest doubt concerning his own +independence--let that doubt be ever so transitory and produced by any +accident whatsoever--and he is at your mercy." + +"And you are sure that no accident could shake your faith in yourself?" + +"My consciousness of myself, you mean. No. I am not sure. But, my dear +Unorna, I am very careful in guarding against accidents of all sorts, +for I have attempted to resuscitate a great many dead people and I have +never succeeded, and I know that a false step on a slippery staircase +may be quite as fatal as a teaspoonful of prussic acid--or an unrequited +passion. I avoid all these things and many others. If I did not, and if +you had any object in getting me under your influence, you would +succeed sooner or later. Perhaps the day is not far distant when I will +voluntarily sleep under your hand." + +Unorna glanced quickly at him. + +"And in that case," he added, "I am sure you could make me believe +anything you pleased." + +"What are you trying to make me understand?" she asked, suspiciously, +for he had never before spoken of such a possibility. + +"You look anxious and weary," he said in a tone of sympathy in which +Unorna could not detect the least false modulation, though she fancied +from his fixed gaze that he meant her to understand something which he +could not say. "You look tired," he continued, "though it is becoming +to your beauty to be pale--I always said so. I will not weary you. I was +only going to say that if I were under your influence--you might easily +make me believe that you were not yourself, but another woman--for the +rest of my life." + +They stood looking at each other in silence during several seconds. Then +Unorna seemed to understand what he meant. + +"Do you really believe that is possible?" she asked earnestly. + +"I know it. I know of a case in which it succeeded very well." + +"Perhaps," she said, thoughtfully. "Let us go and look at him." + +She moved in the direction of the aged sleeper's room and they both left +the hall together. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Unorna was superstitious, as Keyork Arabian had once told her. She +did not thoroughly understand herself and she had very little real +comprehension of the method by which she produced such remarkable +results. She was gifted with a sensitive and active imagination, which +supplied her with semi-mystic formulae of thought and speech in place +of reasoned explanations, and she undoubtedly attributed much of her own +power to supernatural influences. In this respect, at least, she was +no farther advanced than the witches of older days, and if her inmost +convictions took a shape which would have seemed incomprehensible to +those predecessors of hers, this was to be attributed in part to the +innate superiority of her nature, and partly, also, to the high degree +of cultivation in which her mental faculties had reached development. + +Keyork Arabian might spend hours in giving her learned explanations of +what she did, but he never convinced her. Possibly he was not convinced +himself, and he still hesitated, perhaps, between the two great theories +advanced to explain the phenomena of hypnotism. He had told her that he +considered her influence to be purely a moral one, exerted by means of +language and supported by her extraordinary concentrated will. But +it did not follow that he believed what he told her, and it was not +improbable that he might have his own doubts on the subject--doubts +which Unorna was not slow to suspect, and which destroyed for her the +whole force of his reasoning. She fell back upon a sort of grossly +unreasonable mysticism, combined with a blind belief in those hidden +natural forces and secret virtues of privileged objects, which formed +the nucleus of mediaeval scientific research. The field is a fertile +one for the imagination and possesses a strange attraction for certain +minds. There are men alive in our own time to whom the transmutation of +metals does not seem an impossibility, nor the brewing of the elixir of +life a matter to be scoffed at as a matter of course. The world is full +of people who, in their inmost selves, put faith in the latent qualities +of precious stones and amulets, who believe their fortunes, their +happiness, and their lives to be directly influenced by some trifling +object which they have always upon them. We do not know enough to state +with assurance that the constant handling of any particular metal, or +gem, may not produce a real and invariable corresponding effect upon +the nerves. But we do know most positively that, when the belief in such +talismans is once firmly established, the moral influence they exert +upon men through the imagination is enormous. From this condition of +mind to that in which auguries are drawn from outward and apparently +accidental circumstances, is but a step. If Keyork Arabian inclined to +the psychic rather than to the physical school in his view of Unorna's +witchcraft and in his study of hypnotism in general, his opinion +resulted naturally from his great knowledge of mankind, and of the +unacknowledged, often unsuspected, convictions which in reality direct +mankind's activity. It was this experience, too, and the certainty to +which it had led him, that put him beyond the reach of Unorna's power so +long as he chose not to yield himself to her will. Her position was +in reality diametrically opposed to his, and although he repeated his +reasonings to her from time to time, he was quite indifferent to the +nature of her views, and never gave himself any real trouble to make her +change them. The important point was that she should not lose anything +of the gifts she possessed, and Keyork was wise enough to see that the +exercise of them depended in a great measure upon her own conviction +regarding their exceptional nature. + +Unorna herself believed in everything which strengthened and developed +that conviction, and especially in the influences of time and place. It +appeared to her a fortunate circumstance, when she at last determined +to overcome her pride, that the resolution should have formed itself +exactly a month after she had so successfully banished the memory of +Beatrice from the mind of the man she loved. She felt sure of producing +a result as effectual if, this time, she could work the second change +in the same place and under the same circumstances as the first. And to +this end everything was in her favour. She needed not to close her eyes +to fancy that thirty days had not really passed between then and now, as +she left her house in the afternoon with the Wanderer by her side. + +He had come back and had found her once more herself, calm, collected, +conscious of her own powers. No suspicion of the real cause of the +disturbance he had witnessed crossed his mind, still less could he guess +what thing she meditated as she directed their walk towards that lonely +place by the river which had been the scene of her first great effort. +She talked lightly as they went, and he, in that strange humour of +peaceful, well-satisfied indifference which possessed him, answered her +in the same strain. It was yet barely afternoon, but there was already a +foretaste of coming evening in the chilly air. + +"I have been thinking of what you said this morning," she said, suddenly +changing the current of the conversation. "Did I thank you for your +kindness?" She smiled as she laid her hand gently upon his arm, to cross +a crowded street, and she looked up into his quiet face. + +"Thank me? For what? On the contrary--I fancied that I had annoyed you." + +"Perhaps I did not quite understand it all at first," she answered +thoughtfully. "It is hard for a woman like me to realise what it would +be to have a brother--or a sister, or any one belonging to me. I needed +to think of the idea. Do you know that I am quite alone in the world?" + +The Wanderer had accepted her as he found her, strangely alone, +indeed, and strangely independent of the world, a beautiful, singularly +interesting woman, doing good, so far as he knew, in her own way, +separated from ordinary existence by some unusual circumstances, and +elevated above ordinary dangers by the strength and the pride of her own +character. And yet, indolent and indifferent as he had grown of late, he +was conscious of a vague curiosity in regard to her story. Keyork either +really knew nothing, or pretended to know nothing of her origin. + +"I see that you are alone," said the Wanderer. "Have you always been +so?" + +"Always. I have had an odd life. You could not understand it, if I told +you of it." + +"And yet I have been lonely too--and I believe I was once unhappy, +though I cannot think of any reason for it." + +"You have been lonely--yes. But yours was another loneliness more +limited, less fatal, more voluntary. It must seem strange to you--I do +not even positively know of what nation I was born." + +Her companion looked at her in surprise, and his curiosity increased. + +"I know nothing of myself," she continued. "I remember neither father +nor mother. I grew up in the forest, among people who did not love me, +but who taught me, and respected me as though I were their superior, and +who sometimes feared me. When I look back, I am amazed at their learning +and their wisdom--and ashamed of having learned so little." + +"You are unjust to yourself." + +Unorna laughed. + +"No one ever accused me of that," she said. "Will you believe it? I do +not even know where that place was. I cannot tell you even the name of +the kingdom in which it lay. I learned a name for it and for the forest, +but those names are in no map that has ever fallen into my hands. I +sometimes feel that I would go to the place if I could find it." + +"It is very strange. And how came you here?" + +"I was told the time had come. We started at night. It was a long +journey, and I remember feeling tired as I was never tired before or +since. They brought me here, they left me in a religious house among +nuns. Then I was told that I was rich and free. My fortune was brought +with me. That, at least, I know. But those who received it and who take +care of it for me, know no more of its origin than I myself. Gold tells +no tales, and the secret has been well kept. I would give much to know +the truth--when I am in the humour." + +She sighed, and then laughed again. + +"You see why it is that I find the idea of a brother so hard to +understand," she added, and then was silent. + +"You have all the more need of understanding it, my dear friend," the +Wanderer answered, looking at her thoughtfully. + +"Yes--perhaps so. I can see what friendship is. I can almost guess what +it would be to have a brother." + +"And have you never thought of more than that?" He asked the question +in his calmest and most friendly tone, somewhat deferentially as though +fearing lest it should seem tactless and be unwelcome. + +"Yes, I have thought of love also," she answered, in a low voice. But +she said nothing more, and they walked on for some time in silence. + +They came out upon the open place by the river which she remembered +so well. Unorna glanced about her and her face fell. The place was the +same, but the solitude was disturbed. It was not Sunday as it had been +on that day a month ago. All about the huge blocks of stone, groups +of workmen were busy with great chisels and heavy hammers, hewing and +chipping and fashioning the material that it might be ready for use in +the early spring. Even the river was changed. Men were standing upon the +ice, cutting it into long symmetrical strips, to be hauled ashore. Some +of the great pieces were already separated from the main ice, and sturdy +fellows, clad in dark woollen, were poling them over the dark water to +the foot of the gently sloping road where heavy carts stood ready to +receive the load when cut up into blocks. The dark city was taking in a +great provision of its own coldness against the summer months. + +Unorna looked about her. Everywhere there were people at work, and she +was more disappointed than she would own to herself at the invasion of +the solitude. The Wanderer looked from the stone-cutters to the ice-men +with a show of curiosity. + +"I have not seen so much life in Prague for many a day," he observed. + +"Let us go," answered Unorna, nervously. "I do not like it. I cannot +bear the sight of people to-day." + +They turned in a new direction, Unorna guiding her companion by a +gesture. They were near to the Jewish quarter, and presently were +threading their way through narrow and filthy streets thronged with +eager Hebrew faces, and filled with the hum of low-pitched voices +chattering together, not in the language of the country, but in a base +dialect of German. They were in the heart of Prague, in that dim quarter +which is one of the strongholds of the Israelite, whence he directs +great enterprises and sets in motion huge financial schemes, in which +Israel sits, as a great spider in the midst of a dark web, dominating +the whole capital with his eagle's glance and weaving the destiny of the +Bohemian people to suit his intricate speculations. For throughout the +length and breadth of Slavonic and German Austria the Jew rules, and +rules alone. + +Unorna gathered her furs more closely about her, in evident disgust at +her surroundings, but still she kept on her way. Her companion, scarcely +less familiar with the sights of Prague than she herself, walked by her +side, glancing carelessly at the passing people, at the Hebrew signs, at +the dark entrances that lead to courts within courts and into labyrinths +of dismal lanes and passages, looking at everything with the same serene +indifference, and idly wondering what made Unorna choose to walk that +way. Then he saw that she was going towards the cemetery. They +reached the door, were admitted and found themselves alone in the vast +wilderness. + +In the midst of the city lies the ancient burial ground, now long +disused but still undisturbed, many acres of uneven land, covered so +thickly with graves, and planted so closely with granite and sandstone +slabs, that the paths will scarce allow two persons to walk side by +side. The stones stand and lie in all conceivable positions, erect, +slanting at every angle, prostrate upon the earth or upon others already +fallen before them--two, three, and even four upon a grave, where +generations of men have been buried one upon the other--stones large +and small, covered with deep-cut inscriptions in the Hebrew character, +bearing the sculpture of two uplifted hands, wherever the Kohns, the +children of the tribe of Aaron, are laid to rest, or the gracefully +chiselled ewer of the Levites. Here they lie, thousands upon thousands +of dead Jews, great and small, rich and poor, wise and ignorant, +neglected individually, but guarded as a whole with all the tenacious +determination of the race to hold its own, and to preserve the +sacredness of its dead. In the dim light of the winter's afternoon it +is as though a great army of men had fallen fighting there, and had +been turned to stone as they fell. Rank upon rank they lie, with that +irregularity which comes of symmetry destroyed, like columns and files +of soldiers shot down in the act of advancing. And in winter, the gray +light falling upon the untrodden snow throws a pale reflection upwards +against each stone, as though from the myriad sepulchres a faintly +luminous vapour were rising to the outer air. Over all, the rugged +brushwood and the stunted trees intertwine their leafless branches and +twigs in a thin, ghostly network of gray, that clouds the view of the +farther distance without interrupting it, a forest of shadowy skeletons +clasping fleshless, bony hands one with another, from grave to grave, as +far as the eye can see. + +The stillness in the place is intense. Not a murmur of distant life from +the surrounding city disturbs the silence. At rare intervals a strong +breath of icy wind stirs the dead branches and makes them crack and +rattle against the gravestones and against each other as in a dance of +death. It is a wild and dreary place. In the summer, indeed, the thick +leafage lends it a transitory colour and softness, but in the depth of +winter, when there is nothing to hide the nakedness of truth, when the +snow lies thick upon the ground and the twined twigs and twisted +trunks scarce cast a tracery of shadow under the sunless sky, the utter +desolation and loneliness of the spot have a horror of their own, not to +be described, but never to be forgotten. + +Unorna walked forward in silence, choosing a path so narrow that +her companion found himself obliged to drop behind and follow in her +footsteps. In the wildest part of this wilderness of death there is a +little rising of the ground. Here both the gravestones and the stunted +trees are thickest, and the solitude is, if possible, even more complete +than elsewhere. As she reached the highest point Unorna stood still, +turned quickly towards the Wanderer and held out both her hands towards +him. + +"I have chosen this place, because it is quiet," she said, with a soft +smile. + +Hardly knowing why he did so, he laid his hands in hers and looked +kindly down to her upturned face. + +"What is it?" he asked, meeting her eyes. + +She was silent, and her fingers did not unclasp themselves. He looked at +her, and saw for the hundredth time that she was very beautiful. There +was a faint colour in her cheeks, and her full lips were just parted +as though a loving word had escaped them which she would not willingly +recall. Against the background of broken neutral tints, her figure stood +out, an incarnation of youth and vitality. If she had often looked weary +and pale of late, her strength and freshness had returned to her now +in all their abundance. The Wanderer knew that he was watching her, and +knew that he was thinking of her beauty and realising the whole extent +of it more fully than ever before, but beyond this point his thoughts +could not go. He was aware that he was becoming fascinated by her eyes, +and he felt that with every moment it was growing harder for him to +close his own, or to look away from her, and then, an instant later, he +knew that it would be impossible. Yet he made no effort. He was passive, +indifferent, will-less, and her gaze charmed him more and more. He was +already in a dream, and he fancied that the beautiful figure shone with +a soft, rosy light of its own in the midst of the gloomy waste. Looking +into her sunlike eyes, he saw there twin images of himself, that drew +him softly and surely into themselves until he was absorbed by them +and felt that he was no longer a reality but a reflection. Then a deep +unconsciousness stole over all his senses and he slept, or passed into +that state which seems to lie between sleep and trance. + +Unorna needed not to question him this time, for she saw that he was +completely under her influence. Yet she hesitated at the supreme moment, +and then, though to all real intents she was quite alone, a burning +flush of shame rose to her face, and her heart sank within her. She felt +that she could not do it. + +She dropped his hands. They fell to his sides as though they had been of +lead. Then she turned from him and pressed her aching forehead against +a tall weather-worn stone that rose higher than her own height from the +midst of the hillock. + +Her woman's nature rebelled against the trick. It was the truest thing +in her and perhaps the best, which protested so violently against the +thing she meant to do; it was the simple longing to be loved for her own +sake, and of the man's own free will, to be loved by him with the love +she had despised in Israel Kafka. But would this be love at all, this +artificial creation of her suggestion reacting upon his mind? Would it +last? Would it be true, faithful, tender? Above all, would it be real, +even for a moment? She asked herself a thousand questions in a second of +time. + +Then the ready excuse flashed upon her--the pretext which the heart will +always find when it must have its way. Was it not possible, after all, +that he was beginning to love her even now? Might not that outburst of +friendship which had surprised her and wounded her so deeply, be the +herald of a stronger passion? She looked up quickly and met his vacant +stare. + +"Do you love me?" she asked, almost before she knew what she was going +to say. + +"No." The answer came in the far-off voice that told of his +unconsciousness, a mere toneless monosyllable breathed upon the murky +air. But it stabbed her like the thrust of a jagged knife. A long +silence followed, and Unorna leaned against the great slab of carved +sandstone. + +Even to her there was something awful in his powerless, motionless +presence. The noble face, pale and set as under a mask, the thoughtful +brow, the dominating features, were not those of a man born to be a +plaything to the will of a woman. The commanding figure towered in the +grim surroundings like a dark statue, erect, unmoving, and in no way +weak. And yet she knew that she had but to speak and the figure would +move, the lips would form words, the voice would reach her ear. He would +raise this hand or that, step forwards or backwards, at her command, +affirm what she bid him affirm, and deny whatever she chose to hear +denied. For a moment she wished that he had been as Keyork Arabian, +stronger than she; then, with the half-conscious comparison the passion +for the man himself surged up and drowned every other thought. She +almost forgot that for the time he was not to be counted among the +living. She went to him, and clasped her hands upon his shoulder, and +looked up into his scarce-seeing eyes. + +"You must love me," she said, "you must love me because I love you so. +Will you not love me, dear? I have waited so long for you!" + +The soft words vibrated in his sleeping ear but drew forth neither +acknowledgment nor response. Like a marble statue he stood still, and +she leaned upon his shoulder. + +"Do you not hear me?" she cried in a more passionate tone. "Do you not +understand me? Why is it that your love is so hard to win? Look at me! +Might not any man be proud to love me? Am I not beautiful enough for +you? And yet I know that I am fair. Or are you ashamed because people +call me a witch? Why then I will never be one again, for your sake! What +do I care for it all? Can it be anything to me--can anything have worth +that stands between me and you? Ah, love--be not so very hard!" + +The Wanderer did not move. His face was as calm as a sculptured stone. + +"Do you despise me for loving you?" she asked again, with a sudden +flush. + +"No. I do not despise you." Something in her tone had pierced through +his stupor and had found an answer. She started at the sound of his +voice. It was as though he had been awake and had known the weight of +what she had been saying, and her anger rose at the cold reply. + +"No--you do not despise me, and you never shall!" she exclaimed +passionately. "You shall love me, as I love you--I will it, with all +my will! We are created to be all, one to the other, and you shall not +break through the destiny of love. Love me, as I love you--love me with +all your heart, love me with all your mind, love me with all your soul, +love me as man never loved woman since the world began! I will it, I +command it--it shall be as I say--you dare not disobey me--you cannot if +you would." + +She paused, but this time no answer came. There was not even a +contraction of the stony features. + +"Do you hear all I say?" she asked. + +"I hear." + +"Then understand and answer me," she said. + +"I do not understand. I cannot answer." + +"You must. You shall. I will have it so. You cannot resist my will, and +I will it with all my might. You have no will--you are mine, your body, +your soul, and your thoughts, and you must love me with them all from +now until you die--until you die," she repeated fiercely. + +Again he was silent. She felt that she had no hold upon his heart or +mind, seeing that he was not even disturbed by her repeated efforts. + +"Are you a stone, that you do not know what love is?" she cried, +grasping his hand in hers and looking with desperate eyes into his face. + +"I do not know what love is," he answered, slowly. + +"Then I will tell you what love is," she said, and she took his hand and +pressed it upon her own brow. + +The Wanderer started at the touch, as though he would have drawn back. +But she held him fast, and so far, at least, he was utterly subject to +her. His brow contracted darkly, and his face grew paler. + +"Read it there," she cried. "Enter into my soul and read what love is, +in his own great writing. Read how he steals suddenly into the sacred +place, and makes it his, and tears down the old gods and sets up his +dear image in their stead--read how he sighs, and speaks, and weeps, +and loves--and forgives not, but will be revenged at the last. Are you +indeed of stone, and have you a stone for a heart? Love can melt even +stones, being set in man as the great central fire in the earth to burn +the hardest things to streams of liquid flame! And see, again, how very +soft and gentle he can be! See how I love you--see how sweet it is--how +very lovely a thing it is to love as woman can. There--have you felt it +now? Have you seen into the depths of my soul and into the hiding-places +of my heart? Let it be so in your own, then, and let it be so for ever. +You understand now. You know what it all is--how wild, how passionate, +how gentle and how great! Take to yourself this love of mine--is it not +all yours? Take it, and plant it with strong roots and seeds of undying +life in your own sleeping breast, and let it grow, and grow, till it +is even greater than it was in me, till it takes us both into itself, +together, fast bound in its immortal bonds, to be two in one, in life +and beyond life, for ever and ever and ever to the end of ends!" + +She ceased and she saw that his face was no longer expressionless and +cold. A strange light was upon his features, the passing radiance of +a supreme happiness seen in the vision of a dream. Again she laid her +hands upon his shoulder clasped together, as she had done at first. She +knew that her words had touched him and she was confident of the result, +confident as one who loves beyond reason. Already in imagination she +fancied him returning to consciousness, not knowing that he had slept, +but waking with a gentle word just trembling upon his lips, the words +she longed to hear. + +One moment more, she thought. It was good to see that light upon +his face, to fancy how that first word would sound, to feel that the +struggle was past and that there was nothing but happiness in the +future, full, overflowing, overwhelming, reaching from earth to heaven +and through time to eternity. One moment, only, before she let him +wake--it was such glory to be loved at last! Still the light was there, +still that exquisite smile was on his lips. And they would be always +there now, she thought. + +At last she spoke. + +"Then love, since you are mine, and I am yours, wake from the dream to +life itself--wake, not knowing that you have slept, knowing only that +you love me now and always--wake, love wake!" + +She waved her delicate hand before his eyes and still resting the other +upon his shoulder, watched the returning brightness in the dark pupils +that had been glazed and fixed a moment before. And as she looked, her +own beauty grew radiant in the splendour of a joy even greater than she +had dreamed of. As it had seemed to him when he had lost himself in her +gaze, so now she also fancied that the grim, gray wilderness was full of +a soft rosy light. The place of the dead was become the place of life; +the great solitude was peopled as the whole world could never be for +her; the crumbling gravestones were turned to polished pillars in the +temple of an immortal love, and the ghostly, leafless trees blossomed +with the undying flowers of the earthly paradise. + +One moment only, and then all was gone. The change came, sure, swift and +cruel. As she looked, it came, gradual, in that it passed through every +degree, but sudden also, as the fall of a fair and mighty building, +which being undermined in its foundations passes in one short minute +through the change from perfect completeness to hopeless and utter ruin. + +All the radiance, all the light, all the glory were gone in an instant. +Her own supremely loving look had not vanished, her lips still parted +sweetly, as forming the word that was to answer his, and the calm +indifferent face of the waking man was already before her. + +"What is it?" he asked, in his kind and passionless voice. "What were +you going to ask me, Unorna?" + +It was gone. The terribly earnest appeal had been in vain. Not a trace +of that short vision of love remained impressed upon his brain. + +With a smothered cry of agony Unorna leaned against the great slab of +stone behind her and covered her eyes. The darkness of night descended +upon her, and with it the fire of a burning shame. + +Then a loud and cruel laugh rang through the chilly air, such a laugh as +the devils in hell bestow upon the shame of a proud soul that knows +its own infinite bitterness. Unorna started and uncovered her eyes, her +suffering changed in a single instant to ungovernable and destroying +anger. She made a step forwards and then stopped short, breathing hard. +The Wanderer, too, had turned, more quickly than she. Between two tall +gravestones, not a dozen paces away, stood a man with haggard face and +eyes on fire, his keen, worn features contorted by a smile in which +unspeakable satisfaction struggled for expression with a profound +despair. + +The man was Israel Kafka. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +The Wanderer looked from Unorna to Kafka with profound surprise. He had +never seen the man and had no means of knowing who he was, still less of +guessing what had brought him to the lonely place, or why he had broken +into a laugh, of which the harsh, wild tones still echoed through the +wide cemetery. Totally unconscious of all that had happened to himself +during the preceding quarter of an hour, the Wanderer was deprived of +the key to the situation. He only understood that the stranger was for +some reason or other deeply incensed against Unorna, and he realised +that the intruder had, on the moment of appearance, no control over +himself. + +Israel Kafka remained where he stood, between the two tall stones, one +hand resting on each, his body inclined a little forward, his dark, +sunken eyes, bloodshot and full of a turbid, angry brightness, bent +intently upon Unorna's face. He looked as though he were about to move +suddenly forwards, but it was impossible to foresee that he might not +as suddenly retreat, as a lean and hungry tiger crouches for a moment in +uncertainty whether to fight or fly, when after tracking down his man +he finds him not alone and defenceless as he had anticipated, but +well-armed and in company. + +The Wanderer's indolence was only mental, and was moreover transitory +and artificial. When he saw Unorna advance, he quickly placed himself +between her and Israel Kafka, and looked from one to the other. + +"Who is this man?" he asked. "And what does he want of you?" + +Unorna made as though she would pass him. But he laid his hand upon +her arm with a gesture that betrayed his anxiety for her safety. At his +touch, her face changed for a moment and a faint blush dyed her cheek. + +"You may well ask who I am," said the Moravian, speaking in a voice +half-choked with passion and anger. "She will tell you she does not know +me--she will deny my existence to my face. But she knows me very well. I +am Israel Kafka." + +The Wanderer looked at him more curiously. He remembered what he had +heard but a few hours earlier from Keyork concerning the young fellow's +madness. The situation now partially explained itself. + +"I understand," he said, looking at Unorna. "He seems to be dangerous. +What shall I do with him?" + +He asked the question as calmly as though it had referred to the +disposal of an inanimate object, instead of to the taking into custody +of a madman. + +"Do with me?" cried Kafka, advancing suddenly a step forwards from +between the slabs. "Do with me? Do you speak of me as though I were a +dog--a dumb animal--but I will----" + +He choked and coughed, and could not finish the sentence. There was a +hectic flush in his cheek and his thin, graceful frame shook violently +from head to foot. Unable to speak for the moment, he waved his hand in +a menacing gesture. 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. Her anger was terrible. She had suffered enough secret shame +already in stooping to the use of her arts in such a course. It had cost +her one of the greatest struggles of her life, and her disappointment +at the result had been proportionately bitter. In that alone she had +endured almost as much pain as she could bear. But to find suddenly that +her humiliation, her hot speech, her failure, the look which she knew +had been on her face until the moment when the Wanderer awoke, that +all this had been seen and heard by Israel Kafka was intolerable. Even +Keyork's unexpected appearance could not have so fired her wrath. Keyork +might have laughed at her afterwards, but her failure would have been no +triumph to him. Was not Keyork enlisted on her side, ready to help her +at all times, by word or deed, in accordance with the terms of their +agreement? But of all men Kafka, whom she had so wronged, was the one +man who should have been ignorant of her defeat and miserable shame. + +"Go!" she cried, with a gesture of command. Her eyes flashed and her +extended hand trembled. + +There was such concentrated fury in a single word that the Wanderer +started in surprise, ignorant as he was of the true state of things. + +"You are uselessly unkind," he said gravely. "The poor man is mad. Let +me take him away." + +"Leave him to me," she answered imperiously. "He will obey me." + +But Israel Kafka did not turn. He rested one hand upon the slab and +faced her. As when many different forces act together at one point, +producing after the first shock a resultant little expected, so the many +passions that were at work in his face finally twisted his lips into a +smile. + +"Yes," he said, in a low tone, which did not express submission. "Leave +me to her! Leave me to the Witch and to her mercy. It will be the end +this time. 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. + +"I will silence you," answered the Wanderer coldly. "Your madness +excuses you, perhaps, but it does not justify me in allowing you to +insult a woman." + +Kafka's anger took a new direction. Even madmen are often calmed by the +quiet opposition of a strong and self-possessed man. And Kafka was not +mad. He was no coward either, but the subtlety of his race was in him. +As oil dropped by the board in a wild tempest does not calm the waves, +but momentarily prevents their angry crests from breaking, so the +Israelite's quick tact veiled the rough face of his dangerous humour. + +"I insult no one," he said, almost deferentially. "Least of all her whom +I have worshipped long and lost at last. You accuse me unjustly of that, +and though my speech may have been somewhat rude, yet may I be forgiven +for the sake of what I have suffered. For I have suffered much." + +Seeing that he was taking a more courteous tone, the Wanderer folded his +arms and left Unorna free to move, awaiting her commands, or the +further development of events. He saw in her face that her anger was not +subsiding, and he wondered less at it after hearing Kafka's insulting +speech. It was a pity, he thought, that any one should take so seriously +a maniac's words, but he was nevertheless resolved that they should not +be repeated. After all, it would be an easy matter, if the man again +overstepped the bounds of gentle speech, to take him bodily away from +Unorna's presence. + +"And are you going to charm our ears with a story of your sufferings?" +Unorna asked, in a tone so cruel, that the Wanderer expected a quick +outburst of anger from Kafka, in reply. But he was disappointed in this. +The smile still lingered on the Moravian's face, when he answered, and +his expressive voice, no longer choking with passion, grew very soft and +musical. + +"It is not mine to charm," he said. "It is not given to me to make +slaves of all living things with hand and eye and word. Such power +Nature does not give to all, she has given none to me. I have no spell +to win Unorna's love--and if I had, I cannot say that I would take a +love thus earned." + +He paused a moment and Unorna grew paler. She started, but then did not +move again. His words had power to wound her, but she trembled lest the +Wanderer should understand their hidden meaning, and she was silent, +biding her time and curbing her passion. + +"No," continued Kafka, "I was not thus favoured in my nativity. The +star of love was not in the ascendant, the lord of magic charms was +not trembling upon my horizon, the sun of earthly happiness was not +enthroned in my mid-heaven. How could it be? She had it all, this Unorna +here, and Nature, generous in one mad moment, lavished upon her all +there was to give. For she has all, and we have nothing, as I have +learned and you will learn before you die." + +He looked at the Wanderer as he spoke. His hollow eyes seemed calm +enough, and in his dejected attitude and subdued tone there was +nothing that gave warning of a coming storm. The Wanderer listened, +half-interested and yet half-annoyed by his persistence. Unorna herself +was silent still. + +"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. Heaven had put on all its glories--across its +silent breast was bound the milk-white ribband, its crest was crowned +with God's crown-jewels, the great northern stars, its mighty form was +robed in the mantle of majesty set with the diamonds of suns and worlds, +great and small, far and near--not one tiny spark of all the myriad +million gems was darkened by a breath of wind-blown mist. The earth was +very still, all wrapped in peace and lulled in love. The great trees +pointed their dark spires upwards from the temple of the forest to the +firmament of the greater temple on high. In the starlight the year's +first roses breathed out the perfume gathered from the departed sun, and +every dewdrop in the short, sweet grass caught in its little self the +reflection of heaven's vast glory. Only, in the universal stillness, the +nightingale sang the song of songs, and bound the angel of love with the +chains of her linked melody and made him captive in bonds stronger than +his own." + +Israel Kafka spoke dreamily, resting against the stone beside him, +seemingly little conscious of the words that fell in oriental imagery +from his lips. In other days Unorna had heard him speak like this to +her, and she had loved the speech, though not the man, and sometimes for +its sake she had wished her heart could find its fellow in his. And even +now, the tone and the words had a momentary effect upon her. What would +have sounded as folly, overwrought, sentimental, almost laughable, +perhaps, to other women, found an echo in her own childish memories and +a sympathy in her belief in her own mysterious nature. The Wanderer had +heard men talk as Israel Kafka talked, in other lands, where speech is +prized by men and women not for its tough strength but for its wealth of +flowers. + +"And love was her first captive," said the Moravian, "and her first +slave. Yes, I will tell you the story of Unorna's life. She is angry +with me now. Well, let it be. It is my fault--or hers. What matter? She +cannot quite forget me out of mind--and I? Has Lucifer forgotten God?" + +He sighed, and a momentary light flashed in his eyes. Something in the +blasphemous strength of the words attracted the Wanderer's attention. +Utterly indifferent himself, he saw that there was something more +than madness in the man before him. He found himself wondering what +encouragement Unorna had given the seed of passion that it should have +grown to such strength, and he traced the madness back to the love, +instead of referring the love to the madness. But he said nothing. + +"So she was born," continued Kafka, dreaming on. "She was born amid +the perfume of the roses, under the starlight, when the nightingale +was singing. And all things that lived, loved her, and submitted to her +voice and hand, and to her eyes and to her unspoken will, as running +water follows the course men give it, winding and gliding, falling +and rushing, full often of a roar of resistance that covers the deep, +quick-moving stream, flowing in spite of itself through the channel that +is dug for it to the determined end. And nothing resisted her. Neither +man nor woman nor child had any strength to oppose against her magic. +The wolf hounds licked her feet, the wolves themselves crouched fawning +in her path. For she is without fear--as she is without mercy. Is that +strange? What fear can there be for her who has the magic charm, who +holds sleep in the one hand and death in the other, and between whose +brows is set the knowledge of what shall be hereafter? Can any one harm +her? Has any one the strength to harm her? Is there anything on earth +which she covets and which shall not be hers?" + +Though his voice was almost as soft as before, the evil smile flickered +again about his drawn lips as he looked into Unorna's face. He wondered +why she did not face him and crush him and force him to sleep with +her eyes as he knew she could do. But he himself was past fear. He had +suffered too much and cared not what chanced to him now. But she should +know that he knew all, if he told her so with his latest breath. Despair +had given him a strange control of his anger and of his words, and +jealousy had taught him the art of wounding swiftly, surely and with a +light touch. Sooner or later she would turn upon him and annihilate him +in a dream of unconsciousness; he knew that, and he knew that such faint +power of resisting her as he had ever possessed was gone. But so long as +she was willing to listen to him, so long would he torture her with +the sting of her own shame, and when her patience ended, or her caprice +changed, he would find some bitter word to cast at her in the moment +before losing his consciousness of thought and his power to speak. +This one chance of wounding was given to him and he would use it to the +utmost, with all subtlety, with all cruelty, with all determination to +torture. + +"Whatsoever she covets is hers to take. No one escapes the spell in the +end, no one resists the charm. And yet it is written in the book of her +fate that she shall one day taste the fruit of ashes, and drink of the +bitter water. It is written that whosoever slays with the sword shall +die by the sword also. She has killed with love, and by love she shall +perish. I loved her once. I know what I am saying." + +Again he paused, lingering thoughtfully upon the words. The Wanderer +glanced at Unorna as though asking her whether he should not put a +sudden end to the strange monologue. 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 then you will make an end of me. I see. I accept the +offer. I can even thank you for your patience. You are kind to-day--I +have known you harder. Well, then, I will speak out. I will tell my +story, not that any one may judge between you and me. There is neither +judge nor justice for those who love in vain. So I loved you. That is +the whole story. Do you understand me, sir? I loved this woman, but she +would not love me. That is all. And what of it, and what then? Look at +her, and look at me--the beginning and the end." + +In a manner familiar to Orientals the unhappy man laid one finger upon +his own breast, and with the other hand pointed at Unorna's fair young +face. The Wanderer's eyes obeyed the guiding gesture, and he looked from +one to the other, and again the belief crossed his thoughts that there +was less of madness about Israel Kafka than Keyork would have had him +think. Trying to read the truth from Unorna's eyes, he saw that they +avoided his, and he fancied he detected symptoms of distress in her +pallor and contracted lips. 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. There is a history in those three words which neither the +eloquent tongue nor the skilled pen can tell. See how coldly I speak. +I command my speech, I may pick and choose among ten thousand words and +phrases, and describe love at my leisure. She grants me time; she is +very merciful to-day. What would you have me say? You know what love +is. Think of such love as yours can have been, and take twice that, and +three times over, and a hundred thousand times, and cram it, burning, +flaming, melting into your bursting heart--then you would know a tenth +of what I have known. Love, indeed! Who can have known love but me? I +stand alone. Since the dull, unlovely world first jarred and trembled +and began to move, there has not been another of my kind, nor has man +suffered as I have suffered, and been crushed and torn and thrown aside +to die, without even the mercy of a death-wound. Describe it? Tell +it? Look at me! I am both love's description and the epitaph on his +gravestone. In me he lived, me he tortured, with me he dies never to +live again as he has lived this once. There is no justice and no mercy! +Think not that it is enough to love and that you will be loved in +return. Do not think that--do not dream that. Do you not know that the +fiercest drought is as a spring rain to the rocks, which thirst not and +need no refreshment?" + +Again he fixed his eyes on Unorna's face and faintly smiled. Apparently +she was displeased. + +"What is it that you would say?" she asked coldly. "What is this that +you tell us of rocks and rain, and death-wounds, and the rest? You +say you loved me once--that was a madness. You say that I never loved +you--that, at least, is truth. Is that your story? 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. And yet--I +love you still, I love you so well in spite of all that I cannot laugh +at you as I would, even though I were to see you again clinging to the +rock and imploring it to take pity on your thirst. And he who dies for +you, Unorna--of him you ask nothing, save that he will crawl away and +die alone, and not disturb your delicate life with such an unseemly +sight." + +"You talk of death!" exclaimed Unorna scornfully. "You talk of dying for +me because you are ill to-day. To-morrow, Keyork Arabian will have cured +you, and then, for aught I know, you will talk of killing me instead. +This is child's talk, boy's talk. If we are to listen to you, you must +be more eloquent. You must give us such a tale of woe as shall draw +tears from our eyes and sobs from our breasts--then we will applaud you +and let you go. That shall be your reward." + +The Wanderer glanced at her in surprise. There was a bitterness in her +tone of which he had not believed her soft voice capable. + +"Why do you hate him so if he is mad?" he asked. + +"The reason is not far to seek," said Kafka. "This woman here--God made +her crooked-hearted! Love her, and she will hate you as only she has +learned how to hate. Show her that cold face of yours, and she will love +you so that she will make a carpet of her pride for you to walk on--ay, +or spit on either, if you deign to be so kind. She has a wonderful kind +of heart, for it freezes when you burn it, and melts when you freeze +it." + +"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 turned quickly as he stood, and looked +at Unorna. + +"Do not listen to his ravings," she said. The words seemed weak and +poorly chosen, and there was a strange look in her face as though she +were either afraid or desperate, or both. + +"She loves you," said Israel Kafka calmly. "And you do not know it. She +has power over you, as she has over me, but the power to make you love +her she has not. She will destroy you, and your state will be no better +than mine to-day. We shall have moved on a step, for I shall be dead and +you will be the madman, and she will have found another to love and +to torture. The world is full of them. Her altar will never lack +sacrifices." + +The Wanderer's face was grave. + +"You may be mad or not," he said. "I cannot tell. But you say monstrous +things, and you shall not repeat them." + +"Did she not say that I might speak?" asked Kafka with a bitter laugh. + +"I will keep my word," said Unorna. "You seek your own destruction. Find +it in your own way. It will not be the less sure. Speak--say what you +will. You shall not be interrupted." + +The Wanderer drew back, not understanding what was passing, nor why +Unorna was so long-suffering. + +"Say all you have to say," she repeated, coming forward so that she +stood directly in front of Israel Kafka. "And you," she added, speaking +to the Wanderer, "leave him to me. He is quite right--I can protect +myself if I need any protection." + +"You remember how we parted, Unorna?" said Kafka. "It is a month to-day. +I did not expect a greeting of you when I came back, or, if I did expect +it, I was foolish and unthinking. I should have known you better. I +should have known that there is one half of your word which you never +break--the cruel half, and one thing which you cannot forgive, and +which is my love for you. And yet that is the very thing which I cannot +forget. I have come back to tell you so. You may as well know it." + +Unorna's expression grew cold, as she saw that he abandoned the strain +of reproach and spoke once more of his love for her. + +"Yes, I see what you mean," he said, very quietly. "You mean to show me +by your face that you give me no hope. I should have known that by other +things I have seen here. God knows, I have seen enough! But I meant to +find you alone. I went to your home, I saw you go out, I followed you, +I entered here--I heard all--and I understood, for I know your power, +as this man cannot know it. Do you wonder that I followed you? Do you +despise me? Do you think I still care, because you do? Love is stronger +than the woman loved and for her we do deeds of baseness, unblushingly, +which she would forbid our doing, and for which she despises us when +she hates us, and loves us the more dearly when she loves us at all. You +hate me--then despise me, too, if you will. It is too late to care. I +followed you like a spy, I saw what I expected to see, I have suffered +what I knew I should suffer. You know that I have been away during this +whole month, and that I have travelled thousands of leagues in the hope +of forgetting you." + +"And yet I fancied I had seen you within the month," Unorna said, with a +cruel smile. + +"They say that ghosts haunt the places they have loved," answered Kafka +unmoved. "If that be true I may have troubled your dreams and you may +have seen me. I have come back broken in body and in heart. I think I +have come back to die here. The life is going out of me, but before it +is quite gone I can say two things. I can tell you that I know you at +last, and that, in spite of the horror of knowing what you are, I love +you still." + +"Am I so very horrible?" she asked scornfully. + +"You know what you are, better than I can tell you, but not better than +I know. I know even the secret meaning of your moods and caprices. I +know why you are willing to listen to me, this last time, so patiently, +with only now and then a sneer and a cutting laugh." + +"Why?" + +"In order to make me suffer the more. You will never forgive me now, for +you know that I know, and that alone is a sin past all forgiveness, and +over and above that I am guilty of the crime of loving when you have no +love for me." + +"And as a last resource you come to me and recapitulate your misdeeds. +The plan is certainly original, though it lacks wit." + +"There is least wit where there is most love, Unorna. I take no account +of the height of my folly when I see the depth of my love, which has +swallowed up myself and all my life. In the last hour I have known its +depth and breadth and strength, for I have seen what it can bear. And +why should I complain of it? Have I not many times said that I would die +for you willingly--and is it not dying for you to die of love for you? +To prove my faith it were too easy a death. When I look into your face I +know that there is in me the heart that made true Christian martyrs----" + +Unorna laughed. + +"Would you be a martyr?" she asked. + +"Nor for your Faith--but for the faith I once had in you, and for the +love that no martyrdom could kill. Ay--to prove that love I would die a +hundred deaths--and to gain yours I would die the death eternal." + +"And you would have deserved it. Have you not deserved enough already, +enough of martyrdom, for tracking me to-day, following me stealthily, +like a thief and a spy, to find out my ends and my doings?" + +"I love you, Unorna." + +"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? Yes, and mad, too! And my madness is all you have left +me--take it--it is yours! You cannot kill my love. Deny my words, deny +your deeds! Let all be false in you--it is but one pain more, and my +heart is not broken yet. It will bear another. Tell me that what I saw +had no reality--that you did not make him sleep--here, on this spot, +before my eyes--that you did not pour your love into his sleeping ears, +that you did not command, implore, entreat--and fail! What is it all to +me, whether you speak truth or not? Tell me it is not true that I would +die a thousand martyrdoms for your sake, as you are, and if you were a +thousand times worse than you are! Your wrong, your right, your truth, +your falsehood, you yourself are swallowed up in the love I bear you! I +love you always, and I will say it, and say it again--ah, your eyes! I +love them, too! Take me into them, Unorna--whether in hate or love--but +in love--yes--love--Unorna--golden Unorna!" + +With the cry on his lips--the name he had given her in other days--he +made one mad step forwards, throwing out his arms as though to clasp +her to him. But it was too late. Even while he had been speaking her +mysterious influence had overpowered him, as he had known that it would, +when she so pleased. + +She caught his two hands in the air, and pressed him back and held him +against the tall slab. The whole pitilessness of her nature gleamed like +a cold light in her white face. + +"There was a martyr of your race once," she said in cruel tones. "His +name was Simon Abeles. You talk of martyrdom! You shall know what it +means--though it be too good for you, who spy upon the woman whom you +say you love." + +The hectic flush of passion sank from Israel Kafka's cheek. Rigid, +with outstretched arms and bent head, he stood against the ancient +gravestone. Above him, as though raised to heaven in silent +supplication, were the sculptured hands that marked the last +resting-place of a Kohn. + +"You shall know now," said Unorna. "You shall suffer indeed." + + + +CHAPTER XV[*] + + [*] The deeds here described were done in Prague on the + twenty-first day of February in the year 1694. Lazarus and + his accomplice Levi Kurtzhandel, or Brevimanus, or "the + short-handed," were betrayed by their own people. Lazarus + hanged himself in prison, and Levi suffered death by the + wheel--repentant, it is said, and himself baptized. A full + account of the trial, written in Latin, was printed, and a + copy of it may be seen in the State Museum in Prague. The + body of Simon Abeles was exhumed and rests in the Teyn + Kirche, in the chapel on the left of the high altar. The + slight extension of certain scenes not fully described in + the Latin volume will be pardoned in a work of fiction. + +Unorna's voice sank from the tone of anger to a lower pitch. She spoke +quietly and very distinctly as though to impress every word upon the ear +of the man who was in her power. The Wanderer listened, too, scarcely +comprehending at first, but slowly yielding to the influence she exerted +until the vision rose before him also with all its moving scenes, in all +its truth and in all its horror. As in a dream the deeds that had been +passed before him, the desolate burial-ground was peopled with forms +and faces of other days, the gravestones rose from the earth and piled +themselves into gloomy houses and remote courts and dim streets and +venerable churches, the dry and twisted trees shrank down, and broadened +and swung their branches as arms, and drew up their roots out of the +ground as feet under them and moved hither and thither. And the knots +and bosses and gnarls upon them became faces, dark, eagle-like and +keen, and the creaking and crackling of the boughs and twigs under the +piercing blast that swept by, became articulate and like the voices of +old men talking angrily together. There were sudden changes from day to +night and from night to day. 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. He no longer +stood with outstretched arms, his back against a crumbling slab, his +filmy eyes fixed on Unorna's face. He grew younger; his features were +those of a boy of scarcely thirteen years, pale, earnest and brightened +by a soft light which followed him hither and thither, and he was not +alone. He moved with others through the old familiar streets of +the city, clothed in a fashion of other times, speaking in accents +comprehensible but unlike the speech of to-day, acting in a dim and +far-off life that had once been. + +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. It was to him an illusion of which he understood +the key and penetrated the secret, but it was marvellous in its way, +and he was held enthralled from the first moment when it began to unfold +itself. He understood further that Israel Kafka was in a state different +from this, that he was suffering all the reality of another life, which +to the Wanderer was but a dream. For the moment all his faculties had a +double perception of things and sounds, distinguishing clearly between +the fact and the mirage that distorted and obscured it. For the moment +he was aware that his reason was awake though his eyes and his ears +might be sleeping. Then the unequal contest between the senses and the +intellect ceased, and while still retaining the dim consciousness that +the source of all he saw and heard lay in Unorna's brain, he allowed +himself to be led quickly from one scene to another, absorbed and taken +out of himself by the horror of the deeds done before him. + +At first, indeed, the vision, though vivid, seemed objectless and of +uncertain meaning. The dark depths of the Jews' quarter of the city +were opened, and it was towards evening. Throngs of gowned men, crooked, +bearded, filthy, vulture-eyed, crowded upon each other in a narrow +public place, talking in quick, shrill accents, gesticulating, with +hands and arms and heads and bodies, laughing, chuckling, chattering, +hook-nosed and loose-lipped, grasping fat purses in lean fingers, +shaking greasy curls that straggled out under caps of greasy fur, +glancing to right and left with quick, gleaming looks that pierced the +gloom like fitful flashes of lightning, plucking at each other by the +sleeve and pointing long fingers and crooked nails, two, three and four +at a time, as markers, in their ready reckoning, a writhing mass of +humanity, intoxicated by the smell of gold, mad for its possession, half +hysteric with the fear of losing it, timid, yet dangerous, poisoned to +the core by the sweet sting of money, terrible in intelligence, vile +in heart, contemptible in body, irresistible in the unity of their +greed--the Jews of Prague, two hundred years ago. + +In one corner of the dusky place there was a little light. A boy stood +there, beside a veiled woman, and the light that seemed to cling about +him was not the reflection of gold. He was very young. His pale face had +in it all the lost beauty of the Jewish race, the lips were clearly cut, +even, pure in outline and firm, the forehead broad with thought, the +features noble, aquiline--not vulture-like. Such a face might holy +Stephen, Deacon and Protomartyr, have turned upon the young men who laid +their garments at the fee of the unconverted Saul. + +He stood there, looking on at the scene in the market-place, not +wondering, for nothing of it was new to him, not scorning, for he felt +no hate, not wrathful, for he dreamed of peace. He would have had it +otherwise--that was all. He would have had the stream flow back upon +its source and take a new channel for itself, he would have seen the +strength of his people wielded in cleaner deeds for nobler aims. The +gold he hated, the race for it he despised, the poison of it he +loathed, but he had neither loathing nor contempt nor hatred for the men +themselves. He looked upon them and he loved to think that the carrion +vulture might once again be purified and lifted on strong wings and +become, as in old days, the eagle of the mountains. + +For many minutes he gazed in silence. Then he sighed and turned away. He +held certain books in his hand, for he had come from the school of the +synagogue where, throughout the short winter days, the rabbis taught him +and his companions the mysteries of the sacred tongue. The woman by his +side was a servant in his father's house, and it was her duty to attend +him through the streets, until the day when, being judged a man, he +should be suddenly freed from the bondage of childish things. + +"Let us go," he said in a low voice. "The air is full of gold and heavy. +I cannot breathe it." + +"Whither?" asked the woman. + +"Thou knowest," he answered. And suddenly the faint radiance that was +always about him grew brighter, and spread out arms behind him, to the +right and left, in the figure of a cross. + +They walked together, side by side, quickly and often glancing behind +them as though to see whether they were followed. And yet it seemed as +though it was not they who moved, but the city about them which changed. +The throng of busy Jews grew shadowy and disappeared, their shrill +voices were lost in the distance. There were other people in the street, +of other features and in different garbs, of prouder bearing and hot, +restless manner, broad-shouldered, erect, manly, with spur on heel and +sword at side. The outline of the old synagogue melted into the +murky air and changed its shape, and stood out again in other and +ever-changing forms. Now they were passing before the walls of a noble +palace, now beneath long, low galleries of arches, now again across the +open space of the Great Ring in the midst of the city--then all at once +they were standing before the richly carved doorway of the Teyn Kirche, +the very doorway out of which the Wanderer had followed the fleeting +shadow of Beatrice's figure but a month ago. And then they paused, and +looked again to the right and left, and searched the dark corners with +piercing glances. + +"Thy life is in thine hand," said the woman, speaking close to the boy's +ear. "It is yet time. Turn with me and let us go back." + +The mysterious radiance lit up the youth's beautiful face in the dark +street and showed the fearless yet gentle smile that was on his lips. + +"What is there to fear?" he asked. + +"Death," answered the woman in a trembling tone. "They will kill thee, +and it shall be upon my head." + +"And what is Death?" he asked again, and the smile was still upon his +face as he led the way up the steps. + +The woman bowed her head and drew her veil more closely about her and +followed him. Then they were within the church, darker, more ghostly, +less rich in those days than now. The boy stood beside the hewn stone +basin wherein was the blessed water, and he touched the frozen surface +with his fingers, and held them out to his companion. + +"Is it thus?" he asked. And the heavenly smile grew more radiant as he +made the sign of the Cross. + +Again the woman inclined her head. + +"Be it not upon me!" she exclaimed earnestly. "Though I would it might +be for ever so with thee." + +"It is for ever," the boy answered. + +He went forward and prostrated himself before the high altar, and the +soft light hovered above him. The woman knelt at a little distance from +him, with clasped hands and upturned eyes. The church was very dark and +silent. + +An old man in a monk's robe came forward out of the shadow of the choir +and stood behind the marble rails and looked down at the boy's prostrate +figure, wonderingly. Then the low gateway was opened and he descended +the three steps and bent down to the young head. + +"What wouldest thou?" he asked. + +Simon Abeles rose until he knelt, and looked up into the old man's face. + +"I am a Jew. I would be a Christian. I would be baptized." + +"Fearest thou not thy people?" the monk asked. + +"I fear not death," answered the boy simply. + +"Come with me." + +Trembling, the woman followed them both, and all were lost in the gloom +of the church. They were not to be seen, and all was still for a space. +Suddenly a clear voice broke the silence. + +"_Ego baptizo te in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti._" + +Then the woman and the boy were standing again without the entrance in +the chilly air, and the ancient monk was upon the threshold under the +carved arch; his thin hands, white in the darkness, were lifted high, +and he blessed them, and they went their way. + +In the moving vision the radiance was brighter still and illuminated the +streets as they moved on. Then a cloud descended over all, and certain +days and weeks passed, and again the boy was walking swiftly toward +the church. But the woman was not with him, and he believed that he was +alone, though the messengers of evil were upon him. Two dark figures +moved in the shadow, silent, noiseless in their walk, muffled in long +garments. He went on, no longer deigning to look back, beyond fear as he +had ever been, and beyond even the expectation of a danger. He went into +the church, and the two men made gestures, and spoke in low tones, and +hid themselves in the shade of the buttresses outside. + +The vision grew darker and a terrible stillness was over everything, for +the church was not opened to the sight this time. There was a horror of +long waiting with the certainty of what was to come. The narrow street +was empty to the eye, and yet there was the knowledge of evil presence, +of two strong men waiting in the dark to take their victim to the place +of expiation. And the horror grew in the silence and the emptiness, +until it was unbearable. + +The door opened and the boy was with the monk under the black arch. +The old man embraced him and blessed him and stood still for a moment +watching him as he went down. Then he, also, turned and went back, and +the door was closed. + +Swiftly the two men glided from their hiding-place and sped along the +uneven pavement. The boy paused and faced them, for he felt that he was +taken. They grasped him by the arms on each side, Lazarus his father, +and Levi, surnamed the Short-handed, the strongest and the cruellest and +the most relentless of the younger rabbis. Their grip was rough, and the +older man held a coarse woollen cloth in his hand with which to smother +the boy's cries if he should call out for help. But he was very calm and +did not resist them. + +"What would you?" he asked. + +"And what doest thou in a Christian church?" asked Lazarus in low fierce +tones. + +"What Christians do, since I am one of them," answered the youth, +unmoved. + +Lazarus said nothing, but he struck the boy on the mouth with his hard +hand so that the blood ran down. + +"Not here!" exclaimed Levi, anxiously looking about. + +And they hurried him away through dark and narrow lanes. He opposed no +resistance to Levi's rough strength, not only suffering himself to +be dragged along but doing his best to keep pace with the man's long +strides, nor did he murmur at the blows and thrusts dealt him from time +to time by his father from the other side. During some minutes they were +still traversing the Christian part of the city. A single loud cry for +help would have brought a rescue, a few words to the rescuers would have +roused a mob of fierce men and the two Jews would have paid with their +lives for the deeds they had not yet committed. But Simon Abeles uttered +no cry and offered no resistance. He had said that he feared not death, +and he had spoken the truth, not knowing what manner of death was to be +his. Onward they sped, and in the vision the way they traversed seemed +to sweep past them, so that they remained always in sight though always +hurrying on. The Christian quarter was passed; before them hung the +chain of one of those gates which gave access to the city of the Jews. +With a jeer and an oath the bearded sentry watched them pass--the martyr +and his torturers. One word to him, even then, and the butt of his heavy +halberd would have broken Levi's arm and laid the boy's father in the +dust. The word was not spoken. On through the filthy ways, on and on, +through narrow courts and tortuous passages to a dark low doorway. Then, +again, the vision showed but an empty street and there was silence for a +space, and a horror of long waiting in the falling night. + +Lights moved within the house, and then one window after another was +bolted and barred from within. Still the silence endured until the ear +was grown used to it and could hear sounds very far off, from deep down +below the house itself, but the walls did not open and the scene did not +change. A dull noise, bad to hear, resounded as from beneath a vault, +and then another and another--the sound of cruel blows upon a human +body. Then a pause. + +"Wilt thou renounce it?" asked the voice of Lazarus. + +"_Kyrie eleison, Christie eleison!_" came the answer, brave and clear. + +"Lay on, Levi, and let thy arm be strong!" + +And again the sound of blows, regular, merciless, came up from the +bowels of the earth. + +"Dost thou repent? Dost thou renounce? Dost thou deny?" + +"I repent of my sins--I renounce your ways--I believe in the Lord--" + +The sacred name was not heard. A smothered groan as of one losing +consciousness in extreme torture was all that came up from below. + +"Lay on, Levi, lay on!" + +"Nay," answered the strong rabbi, "the boy will die. Let us leave him +here for this night. Perchance cold and hunger will be more potent than +stripes, when he shall come to himself." + +"As though sayest," answered the father in angry reluctance. + +Again all was silent. Soon the rays of light ceased to shine through the +crevices of the outer shutters, and sleep descended upon the quarter +of the Jews. Still the scene in the vision changed not. After a long +stillness a clear young voice was heard speaking. + +"Lord, if it be Thy will that I die, grant that I may bear all in Thy +name, grant that I, unworthy, may endure in this body the punishments +due to me in spirit for my sins. And if it be Thy will that I live, let +my life be used also for Thy glory." + +The voice ceased and the cloud of passing time descended upon the vision +and was lifted again and again. And each time the same voice was heard +and the sound of torturing blows, but the voice of the boy was weaker +every night, though it was not less brave. + +"I believe," it said, always. "Do what you will, you have power over the +body, but I have the Faith over which you have no power." + +So the days and the nights passed, and though the prayer came up in +feeble tones, it was born of a mighty spirit and it rang in the ears +of the tormentors as the voice of an angel which they had no power to +silence, appealing from them to the tribunal of the Throne of God Most +High. + +Day by day, also, the rabbis and the elders began to congregate together +at evening before the house of Lazarus and to talk with him and with +each other, debating how they might break the endurance of his son and +bring him again into the synagogue as one of themselves. Chief among +them in their councils was Levi, the Short-handed, devising new tortures +for the frail body to bear and boasting how he would conquer the +stubborn boy by the might of his hands to hurt. Some of the rabbis shook +their heads. + +"He is possessed of a devil," they said. "He will die and repent not." + +But others nodded approvingly and wagged their filthy heads and said +that when the fool had been chastised the evil spirit would depart from +him. + +Once more the cloud of passing time descended and was lifted. Then the +walls of the house were opened and in a low arched chamber the rabbis +sat about a black table. It was night and a single smoking lamp was +lighted, a mere wick projecting out of a three-cornered vessel of copper +which was full of oil and was hung from the vault with blackened wires. +Seven rabbis sat at the board, and at the head sat Lazarus. Their +crooked hands and claw-like nails moved uneasily and there was a lurid +fire in their vulture's eyes. They bent forward, speaking to each other +in low tones, and from beneath their greasy caps their anointed +side curls dangled and swung as they moved their heads. But Levi the +Short-handed was not among them. Their muffled talk was interrupted from +time to time by the sound of sharp, loud blows, as of a hammer striking +upon nails, and as though a carpenter were at work not far from the room +in which they sat. + +"He has not repented," said Lazarus, from his place. "Neither +many stripes, nor cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, have moved him to +righteousness. It is written that he shall be cut off from his people." + +"He shall be cut off," answered the rabbis with one voice. + +"It is right and just that he should die," continued the father. "Shall +we give him over to the Christians that he may dwell among them and +become one of them, and be shown before the world to our shame?" + +"We will not let him go," said the dark man, and an evil smile flickered +from one face to another as a firefly flutters from tree to tree in the +night--as though the spirit of evil had touched each one in turn. + +"We will not let him go," said each again. + +Lazarus also smiled as though in assent, and bowed his head a little +before he spoke. + +"I am obedient to your judgment. It is yours to command and mine to +obey. If you say that he must die, let him die. He is my son. Take him. +Did not our father Abraham lay Isaac upon the altar and offer him as a +burnt sacrifice before the Lord?" + +"Let him die," said the rabbis. + +"Then let him die," answered Lazarus. "I am your servant. It is mine to +obey." + +"His blood be on our heads," they said. And again, the evil smile went +round. + +"It is then expedient that we determine of what manner his death shall +be," continued the father, inclining his body to signify his submission. + +"It is not lawful to shed his blood," said the rabbis. "And we cannot +stone him, lest we be brought to judgment of the Christians. Determine +thou the manner of his death." + +"My masters, if you will it, let him be brought once more before us. Let +us all hear with our ears his denial, and if he repent at the last, +it is well, let him live. But if he harden his heart against our +entreaties, let him die. Levi hath brought certain pieces of wood hither +to my house, and is even now at work. If the youth is still stubborn in +his unbelief, let him die even as the Unbeliever died--by the righteous +judgment of the Romans." + +"Let it be so. Let him be crucified!" said the rabbis with one voice. + +Then Lazarus rose and went out, and, in the vision, the rabbis remained +seated, motionless in their places awaiting his return. The noise of +Levi's hammer echoed through the low vaulted chamber, and at each blow +the smoking lamp quivered a little, casting strange shadows upon the +evil faces beneath its light. At last footsteps, slow and uncertain, +were heard without, the low door opened, and Lazarus entered, holding up +the body of his son before him. + +"I have brought him before you for the last time," he said. "Question +him and hear his condemnation out of his own mouth. He repents +not, though I have done my utmost to bring him back to the paths of +righteousness. Question him, my masters, and let us see what he will +say." + +White and exhausted with long hunger and thirst, his body broken by +torture, scarcely any longer sensible to bodily pain, Simon Abeles would +have fallen to the ground had his father not held him under the arms. +His head hung forward and the pale and noble face was inclined towards +the breast, but the deep, dark eyes were open and gazed calmly upon +those who sat in judgment at the table. A rough piece of linen cloth was +wrapped about the boy's shoulders and body, but his thin arms were bare. + +"Hearest thou, Simon, son of Lazarus?" asked the rabbis. "Knowest thou +in whose presence thou standest?" + +"I hear you and I know you all." There was no fear in the voice though +it trembled from weakness. + +"Renounce then thy errors, and having suffered the chastisement of thy +folly, return to the ways of thy father and of thy father's house and of +all thy people." + +"I renounce my sins, and whatsoever is yet left for me to suffer, +I will, by God's help, so bear it as to be not unworthy of Christ's +mercy." + +The rabbis gazed at the brave young face, and smiled and wagged their +beards, talking one with another in low tones. + +"It is as we feared," they said. "He is unrepentant and he is worthy of +death. It is not expedient that the young adder should live. There +is poison under his tongue, and he speaks things not lawful for an +Israelite to hear. Let him die, that we may see him no more, and that +our children be not corrupted by his false teachings." + +"Hearest thou? Thou shalt die." It was Lazarus who spoke, while holding +up the boy before the table and hissing the words into his ear. + +"I hear. I am ready. Lead me forth." + +"There is yet time to repent. If thou wilt but deny what thou hast said +these many days, and return to us, thou shalt be forgiven and thy days +shall be long among us, and thy children's days after thee, and the Lord +shall perchance have mercy and increase thy goods among thy fellows." + +"Let him alone," said the rabbis. "He is unrepentant." + +"Lead me forth," said Simon Abeles. + +"Lead him forth," repeated the rabbis. "Perchance, when he sees the +manner of his death before his eyes, he will repent at the last." + +The boy's fearless eyes looked from one to the other. + +"Whatsoever it be," he said, "I have but one life. Take it as you +will. I die in the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ, and into His hands I +commend my spirit--which you cannot take." + +"Lead him forth! Let him be crucified!" cried the rabbis together. "We +will hear him no longer." + +Then Lazarus led his son away from them, and left them talking together +and shaking their heads and wagging their filthy beards. And in the +vision the scene changed. The chamber with its flickering lamp and its +black table and all the men who were in it grew dim and faded away, and +in its place there was a dim inner court between high houses, upon which +only the windows of the house of Lazarus opened. There, upon the ground, +stood a lantern of horn, and the soft yellow light of it fell upon two +pieces of wood, nailed one upon the other to form a small cross--small, +indeed, but yet tall enough and broad enough and strong enough to bear +the slight burden of the boy's frail body. And beside it stood Lazarus +and Levi, the Short-handed, the strong rabbi, holding Simon Abeles +between them. On the ground lay pieces of cord, ready, wherewith to bind +him to the cross, for they held it unlawful to shed his blood. + +It was soon done. The two men took up the cross and set it, with the +body hanging thereon, against the wall of the narrow court, over against +the house of Lazarus. + +"Thou mayest still repent--during this night," said the father, holding +up the horn lantern and looking into his son's tortured face. + +"Ay--there is yet time," said Levi, brutally. "He will not die so soon." + +"Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit," said the weak voice once +more. + +Then Lazarus raised his hand and struck him once more on the mouth, as +he had done on that first night when he had seized him near the church. +But Levi, the Short-handed, as though in wrath at seeing all his +torments fail, dealt him one heavy blow just where the ear joins the +neck, and it was over at last. A radiant smile of peace flickered over +the pale face, the eyelids quivered and closed, the head fell forward +upon the breast and the martyrdom of Simon Abeles was consummated. + +Into the dark court came the rabbis one by one from the inner chamber, +and each as he came took up the horn lantern and held it to the dead +face and smiled and spoke a few low words in the Hebrew tongue and then +went out into the street, until only Lazarus and Levi were left alone +with the dead body. Then they debated what they should do, and for a +time they went into the house and refreshed themselves with food and +wine, and comforted each other, well knowing that they had done an evil +deed. And they came back when it was late and wrapped the body in the +coarse cloth and carried it out stealthily and buried it in the Jewish +cemetery, and departed again to their own houses. + +"And there he lay," said Unorna, "the boy of your race who was faithful +to death. Have you suffered? Have you for one short hour known the +meaning of such great words as you dared to speak to me? Do you know now +what it means to be a martyr, to suffer for standing on the very spot +where he lay, you have felt in some small degree a part of what he must +have felt. You live. Be warned. If again you anger me, your life shall +not be spared you." + +The visions had all vanished. Again the wilderness of gravestones and +lean, crooked trees appeared, wild and desolate as before. The Wanderer +roused himself and saw Unorna standing before Israel Kafka's prostrate +body. As though suddenly released from a spell he sprang forward and +knelt down, trying to revive the unconscious man by rubbing his hands +and chafing his temples. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +The Wanderer glanced at Unorna's face and saw the expression of +relentless hatred which had settled upon her features. He neither +understood it nor attempted to account for it. So far as he knew, Israel +Kafka was mad, a man to be pitied, to be cared for, to be controlled +perhaps, but assuredly not to be maltreated. Though the memories of the +last half hour were confused and distorted, the Wanderer began to be +aware that the young Hebrew had been made to suffer almost beyond the +bounds of human endurance. So far as it was possible to judge, Israel +Kafka's fault consisted in loving a woman who did not return his love, +and his worst misdeed had been his sudden intrusion upon an interview +in which the Wanderer could recall nothing which might not have been +repeated to the whole world with impunity. + +During the last month he had lived a life of bodily and mental +indolence, in which all his keenest perceptions and strongest instincts +had been lulled into a semi-dormant state. Unknown to himself, the +mainspring of all thought and action had been taken out of his existence +together with the very memory of it. For years he had lived and moved +and wandered over the earth in obedience to one dominant idea. By +a magic of which he knew nothing that idea had been annihilated, +temporarily, if not for ever, and the immediate consequence had been the +cessation of all interest and of all desire for individual action. +The suspension of all anxiety, restlessness and mental suffering had +benefited the physical man though it had reduced the intelligence to a +state bordering upon total apathy. + +But organisations, mental or physical, of great natural strength, are +never reduced to weakness by a period of inactivity. It is those minds +and bodies which have been artificially developed by a long course of +training to a degree of power they were never intended to possess, which +lose that force almost immediately in idleness. The really very strong +man has no need of constant gymnastic exercise; he will be stronger than +other men whatever he does. The strong character needs not be constantly +struggling against terrible odds in the most difficult situations in +order to be sure of its own solidity, nor must the deep intellect be +ever plodding through the mazes of intricate theories and problems that +it may feel itself superior to minds of less compass. There is much +natural inborn strength of body and mind in the world, and on the whole +those who possess either accomplish more than those in whom either is +the result of long and well-regulated training. + +The belief in a great cruelty and a greater injustice roused the man who +throughout so many days had lived in calm indifference to every aspect +of the humanity around him. Seeing that Israel Kafka could not be +immediately restored to consciousness, he rose to his feet again and +stood between the prostrate victim and Unorna. + +"You are killing this man instead of saving him," he said. "His crime, +you say, is that he loves you. Is that a reason for using all your +powers to destroy him in body and mind?" + +"Perhaps," answered Unorna calmly, though there was still a dangerous +light in her eyes. + +"No. It is no reason," answered the Wanderer with a decision to which +Unorna was not accustomed. "Keyork tells me that the man is mad. He may +be. But he loves you and deserves mercy of you." + +"Mercy!" exclaimed Unorna with a cruel laugh. "You heard what he +said--you were for silencing him yourself. You could not have done it. I +have--and most effectually." + +"Whatever your art really may be, you use it badly and cruelly. A moment +ago I was blinded myself. If I had understood clearly while you were +speaking that you were making this poor fellow suffer in himself the +hideous agony you described I would have stopped you. You blinded me, as +you dominated him. But I am not blind now. You shall not torment him any +longer. + +"And how would you have stopped me? How can you hinder me now?" asked +Unorna. + +The Wanderer gazed at her in silence for some moments. There was an +expression in his face which she had never seen there. Towering above +her he looked down. The massive brows were drawn together, the eyes were +cold and impenetrable, every feature expressed strength. + +"By force, if need be," he answered very quietly. + +The woman before him was not of those who fear or yield. She met his +glance boldly. Scarcely half an hour earlier she had been able to steal +away his senses and make him subject to her. She was ready to renew the +contest, though she realised that a change had taken place in him. + +"You talk of force to a woman!" she exclaimed, contemptuously. "You are +indeed brave!" + +"You are not a woman. You are the incarnation of cruelty. I have seen +it." + +His eyes were cold and his voice was stern. Unorna felt a very sharp +pain and shivered as though she were cold. Whatever else was bad and +cruel and untrue in her wild nature, her love for him was true and +passionate and enduring. And she loved him the more for the strength he +was beginning to show, and for his determined opposition. The words he +had spoken had hurt her as he little guessed they could, not knowing +that he alone of men had power to wound her. + +"You do not know," she answered. "How should you?" Her glance fell and +her voice trembled. + +"I know enough," he said. He turned coldly from her and knelt again +beside Israel Kafka. + +He raised the pale head and supported it upon his knee, and gazed +anxiously into the face, raising the lids with his finger as though to +convince himself that the man was not dead. Indeed there seemed to be +but little life left in him as he lay there with outstretched arms and +twisted fingers, scarcely breathing. In such a place, without so much as +the commonest restorative to aid him, the Wanderer saw that he had but +little chance of success. + +Unorna stood aside, not looking at the two men. It was nothing to her +whether Kafka lived or died. She was suffering herself, more than she +had ever suffered in her life. He had said that she was not a woman--she +whose whole woman's nature worshiped him. He had said that she was the +incarnation of cruelty--and it was true, though it was her love for him +that made her cruel to the other. Could he know what she had felt, when +she had understood that Israel Kafka had heard her passionate words and +seen her eager face, and had laughed her to scorn? Could any woman at +such a time be less than cruel? Was not her hate for the man who loved +her as great as her love for the man who loved her not? Even if she +possessed instruments of torture for the soul more terrible than those +invented in darker ages to rack the human body, was she not justified +in using them all? Was not Israel Kafka guilty of the greatest of all +crimes, of loving when he was not loved, and of witnessing her shame and +discomfiture? She could not bear to look at him, lest she should lose +herself and try to thrust the Wanderer aside and kill the man with her +hands. + +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. Then she +ran forward to overtake him, but he, hearing her approach, quickened his +stride, seeming but little hampered in his pace by the burden he bore. +But Unorna, too, was fleet of foot and strong. + +"Stop!" she cried, laying her hand upon his arm. "Stop! Hear me! Do not +leave me so!" + +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. + +"Stop!" she cried again. "I will save him--I will obey you--I will be +kind to him--he will die in your arms if you do not let me help you--oh! +for the love of Heaven, wait one moment! Only one moment!" + +She so thrust herself in the Wanderer's path, hanging upon him and +trying to tear Kafka from his arms, that he was forced to stand still +and face her. + +"Let me pass!" he exclaimed, making another effort to advance. But she +clung to him and he could not move. + +"No,--I will not let you go," she murmured. "You can do nothing without +me, you will only kill him, as I would have done a moment ago--" + +"And as you will do now," he said sternly, "if I let you have your way." + +"By all that is Holy in Heaven, I will save him--he shall not even +remember--" + +"Do not swear. I shall not believe you." + +"You will believe when you see--you will forgive me--you will +understand." + +Without answering he exerted his strength and clasping the insensible +man more firmly in his arms he made one or two steps forward. Unorna's +foot slipped on the frozen ground and she would have fallen to the +earth, but she clung to him with desperate energy. Seeing that she was +in danger of some bodily hurt if he used greater force, the Wanderer +stopped again, uncertain how to act; Unorna stood before him, panting a +little from the struggle, her face as white as death. + +"Unless you kill me," she said, "you shall not take him away so. Hold +him in your arms, if you will, but let me speak to him." + +"And how shall I know that you will not hurt him, you who hate him as +you do?" + +"Am I not at your mercy?" asked Unorna. "If I deceive you, can you not +do what you will with me, even if I try to resist you, which I will not? +Hold me, if you choose, lest I should escape you, and if Israel Kafka +does not recover his strength and his consciousness, then take me with +you and deliver me up to justice as a witch--as a murderess, if you +will." + +The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what she +said was true. She was in his power. + +"Restore him if you can," he said. + +Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka's forehead and bending down whispered +into his ear words which were inaudible even to the man who held +him. The mysterious change from sleep to consciousness was almost +instantaneous. He opened his eyes and looked first at Unorna and then at +the Wanderer. There was neither pain nor passion in his face, but only +wonder. A moment more and his limbs regained their strength, he stood +upright and passed his hand over his eyes as though trying to remember +what had happened. + +"How came I here?" he asked in surprise. "What has happened to me?" + +"You fainted," said Unorna quietly. "You remember that you were very +tired after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will take +you home." + +"Yes--yes--I must have fainted. Forgive me--it comes over me sometimes." + +He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the present +moment, when he glanced curiously from the one to the other of his two +companions, as they all three began to walk towards the gate. Unorna +avoided his eyes, and seemed to be looking at the irregular slabs they +passed on their way. + +The Wanderer had intended to free himself from her as soon as Kafka +regained his senses, but he had not been prepared for such a sudden +change. He saw, now, that he could not exchange a word with her without +exciting the man's suspicion, and he was by no means sure that the first +emotion might not produce a sudden and dangerous effect. He did not even +know how great the change might be, which Unorna's words had brought +about. That Kafka had forgotten at once his own conduct and the fearful +vision which Unorna had imposed upon him was clear, but it did not +follow that he had ceased to love her. Indeed, to one only partially +acquainted with the laws which govern hypnotics, such a transition +seemed very far removed from possibility. He who in one moment had +himself been made to forget utterly the dominant passion and love of his +life, was so completely ignorant of the fact that he could not believe +such a thing possible in any case whatsoever. + +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. He supposed, +too, that Unorna realized this as well as he did, and he tried to be +prepared for all events by revolving all the possibilities in his mind. + +But Unorna was absorbed by very different thoughts. From time to time +she stole a glance at his face, and she saw that it was stern and +cold as ever. She had kept her word, but he did not relent. A terrible +anxiety overwhelmed her. It was possible, even probable, that he would +henceforth avoid her. She had gone too far. She had not reckoned upon +such a nature as his, capable of being roused to implacable anger by +mere sympathy for the suffering of another. Then, understanding it at +last, she had thought it would be enough that those sufferings should +be forgotten by him upon whom they had been inflicted. She could not +comprehend the horror he felt for herself and for her hideous cruelty. +She had entered the cemetery in the consciousness of her strong will +and of her mysterious powers certain of victory, sure that having once +sacrificed her pride and stooped so low as to command what should have +come of itself, she should see his face change and hear the ring of +passion in that passionless voice. 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. + +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. + +Unorna started slightly and turned as though about to make a sharp +answer. But she checked herself, for the Wanderer was looking at her. +She spoke to him instead of answering Kafka. + +"It is the best arrangement--do you not think so?" she asked. + +"Quite the best." + +"I shall be gratified if you will bring me word of him," she said, +glancing at Kafka. + +The Wanderer was silent as though he had not heard. + +"Have you been in pain? Do you feel as though you had been suffering?" +she asked of the younger man, in a tone of sympathy and solicitude. + +"No. Why do you ask?" + +Unorna smiled and looked at the Wanderer, with intention. He did not +heed her. At that moment two carriages appeared and drew up at the end +of the narrow alley which leads from the street to the entrance of the +cemetery. All three walked forward together. Kafka went forward and +opened the door of one of the conveyances for Unorna to get in. The +Wanderer, still anxious for the man's safety, would have taken his +place, but Kafka turned upon him almost defiantly. + +"Permit me," he said. "I was before you here." + +The Wanderer stood civilly aside and lifted his hat. Unorna held out her +hand, and he took it coldly, not being able to do otherwise. + +"You will let me know, will you not?" she said. "I am anxious about +him." + +He raised his eyebrows a little and dropped her hand. + +"You shall be informed," he said. + +Kafka helped her to get into the carriage. She drew him by the hand so +that his head was inside the door and the other man could not hear her +words. + +"I am anxious about you," she said very kindly. "Make him come himself +to me and tell me how you are." + +"Surely--if you have asked him--" + +"He hates me," whispered Unorna quickly. "Unless you make him come he +will send no message." + +"Then let me come myself--I am perfectly well--" + +"Hush--no!" she answered hurriedly. "Do as I say--it will be best for +you--and for me. Good-bye." + +"Your word is my law," said Kafka, drawing back. His eyes were bright +and his thin cheek was flushed. It was long since she had spoken so +kindly to him. A ray of hope entered his life. + +The Wanderer saw the look and interpreted it rightly. He understood +that in that brief moment Unorna had found time to do some mischief. Her +carriage drove on, and left the two men free to enter the one intended +for them. Kafka gave the driver the address of his lodgings. Then +he sank back into the corner, exhausted and conscious of his extreme +weakness. A short silence followed. + +"You are in need of rest," said the Wanderer, watching him curiously. + +"Indeed, I am very tired, if not actually ill." + +"You have suffered enough to tire the strongest." + +"In what way?" asked Kafka. "I have forgotten what happened. I know that +I followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house, and I saw +you afterwards together. I had not spoken to her since I came back from +my long journey this morning. Tell me what occurred. Did she make me +sleep? I feel as I have felt before when I have fancied that she has +hypnotised me." + +The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. The question was asked as +naturally as though it referred to an everyday occurrence of little or +no weight. + +"Yes," he answered. "She made you sleep." + +"Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have forgotten +it." + +The Wanderer hesitated a moment. + +"I cannot answer your question," he said, at length. + +"Ah--she told me that you hated her," said Kafka, turning his dark eyes +to his companion. "But, yet," he added, "that is hardly a reason why you +should not tell me what happened." + +"I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I have no +right to say to a stranger--which I could not easily say to a friend." + +"You need not spare me--" + +"It might save you." + +"Then say it--though I do not know from what danger I am to be saved. +But I can guess, perhaps. You would advise me to give up the attempt to +win her." + +"Precisely. I need say no more." + +"On the contrary," said Kafka with sudden energy, "when a man gives such +advice as that to a stranger he is bound to give also his reasons." + +The Wanderer looked at him calmly as he answered. + +"One man need hardly give a reason for saving another man's life. Yours +is in danger." + +"I see that you hate her, as she said you did." + +"You and she are both mistaken in that. I am not in love with her and +I have ceased to be her friend. As for my interest in you, it does not +even pretend to be friendly--it is that which any man may feel for a +fellow-being, and what any man would feel who had seen what I have seen +this afternoon." + +The calm bearing and speech of the experienced man of the world carried +weight with it in the eyes of the young Moravian, whose hot blood knew +little of restraint and less of caution; with the keen instinct of +his race in the reading of character he suddenly understood that his +companion was at once generous and disinterested. A burst of confidence +followed close upon the conviction. + +"If I am to lose her love, I would rather lose my life also, and by her +hand," he said hotly. "You are warning me against her. I feel that you +are honest and I see that you are in earnest. I thank you. If I am in +danger, do not try to save me. I saw her face a few moments ago, and she +spoke to me. I cannot believe that she is plotting my destruction." + +The Wanderer was silent. He wondered whether it was his duty to do +or say more. Unorna was a changeable woman. She might love the man +to-morrow. But Israel Kafka was too young to let the conversation drop. +Boy-like he expected confidence for confidence, and was surprised at his +companion's taciturnity. + +"What did she say to me when I was asleep?" he asked, after a short +pause. + +"Did you ever hear the story of Simon Abeles?" the Wanderer inquired by +way of answer. + +Kafka frowned and looked round sharply. + +"Simon Abeles? He was a renegade Hebrew boy. His father killed him. +He is buried in the Teyn Kirche. What of him? What has he to do with +Unorna, or with me? I am myself a Jew. The time has gone by when we Jews +hid our heads. I am proud of what I am, and I will never be a Christian. +What can Simon Abeles have to do with me?" + +"Little enough, now that you are awake." + +"And when I was asleep, what then? She made me see him, perhaps?" + +"She made you live his life. She made you suffer all that he suffered--" + +"What?" cried Israel Kafka in a loud and angry tone. + +"What I say," returned the other quietly. + +"And you did not interfere? You did not stop her? No, of course, I +forgot that you are a Christian." + +The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. It had not struck him that +Israel Kafka might be a man of the deepest religious convictions, a +Hebrew of the Hebrews, and that what he would resent most would be the +fact that in his sleep Unorna had made him play the part and suffer +the martyrdom of a convert to Christianity. This was exactly what took +place. He would have suffered anything at Unorna's hands, and without +complaint, even to bodily death, but his wrath rose furiously at the +thought that she had been playing with what he held most sacred, that +she had forced from his lips the denial of the faith of his people and +the confession of the Christian belief, perhaps the very words of the +hated Creed. The modern Hebrew of Western Europe might be indifferent in +such a case, as though he had spoken in the delirium of a fever, but the +Jew of the less civilised East is a different being, and in some ways +a stronger. Israel Kafka represented the best type of his race, and his +blood boiled at the insult that had been put upon him. The Wanderer saw, +and understood, and at once began to respect him, as men who believe +firmly in opposite creeds have been known to respect each other even in +a life and death struggle. + +"I would have stopped her if I could," he said. + +"Were you sleeping, too?" asked Kafka hotly. + +"I cannot tell. I was powerless though I was conscious. I saw only Simon +Abeles in it all, though I seemed to be aware that you and he were one +person. I did interfere--so soon as I was free to move. I think I saved +your life. I was carrying you away in my arms when she waked you." + +"I thank you--I suppose it is as you tell me. You could not move--but +you saw it all, you say. You saw me play the part of the apostate, you +heard me confess the Christian's faith?" + +"Yes--I saw you die in agony, confessing it still." + +Israel Kafka ground his teeth and turned his face away. The Wanderer was +silent. A few moments later the carriage stopped at the door of Kafka's +lodging. The latter turned to his companion, who was startled by the +change in the young face. The mouth was now closely set, the features +seemed bolder, the eyes harder and more manly, a look of greater dignity +and strength was in the whole. + +"You do not love her?" he asked. "Do you give me your word that you do +not love her?" + +"If you need so much to assure you of it, I give you my word. I do not +love her." + +"Will you come with me for a few moments? I live here." + +The Wanderer made a gesture of assent. In a few moments they found +themselves in a large room furnished almost in Eastern fashion, with few +objects, but those of great value. Israel Kafka was alone in the world +and was rich. There were two or three divans, a few low, octagonal, +inlaid tables, a dozen or more splendid weapons hung upon the wall, +and the polished wooden floor was partly covered with extremely rich +carpets. + +"Do you know what she said to me, when I helped her into the carriage?" +asked Kafka. + +"No, I did not attempt to hear." + +"She did not mean that you should hear her. She made me promise to send +you to her with news of myself. She said that you hated her and would +not go to her unless I begged you to do so. Is that true?" + +"I have told you that I do not hate her. I hate her cruelty. I will +certainly not go to her of my own choice." + +"She said that I had fainted. That was a lie. She invented it as an +excuse to attract you, on the ground of her interest in my condition." + +"Evidently." + +"She hates me with an extreme hatred. Her real interest lay in showing +you how terrible that hatred could be. It is not possible to conceive of +anything more diabolically bad than what she did to me. She made me her +sport--yours, too, perhaps, or she would at least have wished it. On +that holy ground where my people lie in peace she made me deny my faith, +she made me, in your eyes and her own, personate a renegade of my race, +she made me confess in the Christian creed, she made me seem to die for +a belief I abhor. Can you conceive of anything more devilish? A moment +later she smiles upon me and presses my hand, and is anxious to know of +my good health. And but for you, I should never have known what she had +done to me. I owe you gratitude, though it be for the worst pain I have +ever suffered. But do you think I will forgive her?" + +"You would be very forgiving if you could," said the Wanderer, his own +anger rising again at the remembrance of what he had seen. + +"And do you think that I can love still?" + +"No." + +Israel Kafka walked the length of the room and then came back and stood +before the Wanderer and looked into his eyes. His face was very calm and +resolute, the flush had vanished from his thin cheeks, and the features +were set in an expression of irrevocable determination. Then he spoke, +slowly and distinctly. + +"You are mistaken. I love her with all my heart. I will therefore kill +her." + +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. But his next words explained even that. + +"She made me promise to send you to her if you would go," he said. "Will +you go to her now?" + +"What shall I tell her? I warn you that since--" + +"You need not warn me. I know what you would say. But I will be no +common murderer. I will not kill her as she would have killed me. Warn +her, not me. Go to her and say, 'Israel Kafka has promised before God +that he will take your blood in expiation, and there is no escape from +the man who is himself ready to die.' Tell her to fly for her life, and +that quickly." + +"And what will you gain by doing this murder?" asked the Wanderer, +calmly. He was revolving schemes for Unorna's safety, and half amazed to +find himself forced in common humanity to take her part. + +"I shall free myself of my shame in loving her, at the price of her +blood and mine. Will you go?" + +"And what is to prevent me from delivering you over to safe keeping +before you do this deed?" + +"You have no witness," answered Kafka with a smile. "You are a stranger +in the city and in this country, and I am rich. I shall easily prove +that you love Unorna, and that you wish to get rid of me out of +jealousy." + +"That is true," said the Wanderer, thoughtfully. "I will go." + +"Go quickly, then," said Israel Kafka, "for I shall follow soon." + +As the Wanderer left the room he saw the Moravian turn toward the place +where the keen, splendid Eastern weapons hung upon the wall. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +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. The Wanderer had no time and but little +inclination to blame himself for the part he had played in disclosing to +the principal actor the nature of the scene which had taken place in +the cemetery, and the immediate consequences of that disclosure, though +wholly unexpected, did not seem utterly illogical. Israel Kafka's nature +was eastern, violently passionate and, at the same time, long-suffering +in certain directions as only the fatalist can be. He could have loved +for a lifetime faithfully, without requital; he would have suffered in +patience Unorna's anger, scorn, pity or caprice; he had long before now +resigned his free will into the keeping of a passion which was degrading +as it enslaved all his thoughts and actions, but which had +something noble in it, inasmuch as it fitted him for the most heroic +self-sacrifice. + +Unorna's act had brought the several seemingly contradictory elements of +his character to bear upon one point. He had realised in the same moment +that it was impossible for her to love him; that her changing treatment +of him was not the result of caprice but of a fixed plan of her own, in +the execution of which she would spare him neither falsehood nor insult; +that to love such a woman was the lowest degradation; that he could +nevertheless not destroy that love; and, finally, that the only escape +from his shame lay in her destruction, and that this must in all +probability involve his own death also. At the same time he felt that +there was something solemn in the expiation he was about to exact, +something that accorded well with the fierce traditions of ancient +Israel, and the deed should not be done stealthily or in the dark. +Unorna must know that she was to die by his hand, and why. He had +no object in concealment, for his own life was already ended by the +certainty that his love was hopeless, and on the other hand, fatalist as +he was, he believed that Unorna could not escape him and that no warning +could save her. + +The Wanderer understood most of these things as he hastened towards her +house through the darkening streets. Not a carriage was to be seen, and +he was obliged to traverse the distance on foot, as often happens at +supreme moments, when everything might be gained by the saving of a few +minutes in conveying a warning. + +He saw himself in a very strange position. Half an hour had not elapsed +since he had watched Unorna driving away from the cemetery and had +inwardly determined that he would never, if possible, set eyes on her +again. Scarcely two hours earlier, he had been speaking to her of the +sincere friendship which he felt was growing up for her in his heart. +Since then he had learned, almost beyond the possibility of a doubt, +that she loved him, and he had learned, too, to despise her, he had left +her meaning that the parting should be final, and now he was hurrying +to her house to give her the warning which alone could save her from +destruction. And yet, he found it impossible to detect any inconsistency +in his own conduct. As he had been conscious of doing his utmost to save +Israel Kafka from her, so now he knew that he was doing all he could to +save Unorna from the Moravian, and he recognised the fact that no man +with the commonest feelings of humanity could have done less in either +case. But he was conscious, also, of a change in himself which he did +not attempt to analyse. His indolent, self-satisfied apathy was gone, +the strong interests of human life and death stirred him, mind and body +together acquired their activity and he was at all points once more +a man. He was ignorant, indeed, of what had been taken from him. The +memory of Beatrice was gone, and he fancied himself one who had never +loved woman. He looked back with horror and amazement upon the emptiness +of his past life, wondering how such an existence as he had led, or +fancied he had led, could have been possible. + +But there was scant time for reflection upon the problem of his own +mission in the world as he hastened towards Unorna's house. His present +mission was clear enough and simple enough, though by no means easy of +accomplishment. 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. A stranger in the land would have small hope of +success against a man whose antecedents were known, whose fortune was +reputed great, and who had at his back the whole gigantic strength of +the Jewish interest in Prague, if he chose to invoke the assistance of +his people. The matter would end in a few days in the Wanderer being +driven from the country, while Israel Kafka would be left behind to work +his will as might seem best in his own eyes. + +There was Keyork Arabian. So far as it was possible to believe in the +sincerity of any of the strange persons among whom the Wanderer found +himself, it seemed certain that the sage was attached to Unorna by some +bond of mutual interests which he would be loth to break. Keyork had +many acquaintances and seemed to posses everywhere a certain amount of +respect, whether because he was perhaps a member of some widespread, +mysterious society of which the Wanderer knew nothing, or whether this +importance of his was due to his personal superiority of mind and wide +experience of travel, no one could say. But it seemed certain that if +Unorna could be placed for the time being in a safe refuge, it would be +best to apply to Keyork to insure her further protection. Meanwhile that +refuge must be found and Unorna must be conveyed to it without delay. + +The Wanderer was admitted without question. He found Unorna in her +accustomed place. She had thrown aside her furs and was sitting in an +attitude of deep thought. Her dress was black, and in the soft light of +the shaded lamps she was like a dark, marble statue set in the midst of +thick shrubbery in a garden. Her elbow rested on her knee, her chin upon +her beautiful, heavy hand; only in her hair there was bright colour. + +She knew the Wanderer's footstep, but she neither moved her body nor +turned her head. She felt that she grew paler than before, and she could +hear her heart beating strongly. + +"I come from Israel Kafka," said the Wanderer, standing still before +her. + +She knew from his tone how hard his face must be, and she would not look +up. + +"What of him?" she asked in a voice without expression. "Is he well?" + +"He bids me say to you that he has promised before Heaven to take your +life, and that there is no escape from a man who is ready to lay down +his own." + +Unorna turned her head slowly towards him, and a very soft look stole +over her strange face. + +"And you have brought me his message--this warning--to save me?" she +said. + +"As I tried to save him from you an hour ago. But there is little time. +The man is desperate, whether mad or sane, I cannot tell. Make haste. +Determine where to go for safety, and I will take you there." + +But Unorna did not move. She only looked at him, with an expression he +could no longer misunderstand. He was cold and impassive. + +"I fancy it will not be safe to hesitate long," he said. "He is in +earnest." + +"I do not fear Israel Kafka, and I fear death less," answered Unorna +deliberately. "Why does he mean to kill me?" + +"I think that in his place most every human men would feel as he does, +though religion, or prudence, or fear, or all three together, might +prevent them from doing what they would wish to do." + +"You too? And which of the three would prevent you from murdering me?" + +"None, perhaps--though pity might." + +"I want no pity, least of all from you. What I have done, I have done +for you, and for you only." + +The Wanderer's face showed only a cold disgust. He said nothing. + +"You do not seem surprised," said Unorna. "You know that I love you?" + +"I know it." + +A silence followed, during which Unorna returned to her former attitude, +turning her eyes away and resting her chin upon her hand. The Wanderer +began to grow impatient. + +"I must repeat that, in my opinion, you have not much time to spare," +he said. "If you are not in a place of safety in half an hour, I cannot +answer for the consequences." + +"No time? There is all eternity. What is eternity, or time, or life to +me? I will wait for him here. Why did you tell him what I did, if you +wished me to live?" + +"Why--since there are to be questions--why did you exercise your cruelty +upon an innocent man who loves you?" + +"Why? There are reasons enough!" Unorna's voice trembled slightly. "You +do not know what happened. How should you? You were asleep. You may as +well know, since I may be beyond telling you an hour from now. You may +as well know how I love you, and to what depths I have gone down to win +your love." + +"I would rather not receive your confidence," the Wanderer answered +haughtily. "I came here to save your life, not to hear your +confessions." + +"And when you have heard, you will no longer wish to save me. If you +choose to leave me here, I will wait for Israel Kafka alone. He may kill +me if he pleases. I do not care. But if you stay you shall hear what I +have to say." + +She glanced at his face. He folded his arms and stood still. Whatever +she had done, he would not leave her alone at the mercy of the desperate +man whom he expected every moment to enter the room. If she would not +save herself, he might nevertheless disarm Kafka and prevent the deed. +As his long sleeping energy revived in him the thought of a struggle was +not disagreeable. + +"I loved you from the moment when I first saw you," said Unorna, trying +to speak calmly. "But you loved another woman. Do you remember her? Her +name was Beatrice, and she was very dark, as I am fair. You had lost her +and you had sought her for years. You entered my house, thinking that +she had gone in before you. Do you remember that morning? It was a month +ago to-day. You told me the story." + +"You have dreamed it," said the Wanderer in cold surprise. "I never +loved any woman yet." + +Unorna laughed bitterly. + +"How perfect it all was at first!" she exclaimed. "How smooth it +seemed! How easy! You slept before me, out there by the river that very +afternoon. And in your sleep I bade you forget. And you forgot wholly, +your love, the woman, her very name, even as Israel Kafka forgot to-day +what he had suffered in the person of the martyr. You told him the +story, and he believes you, because he knows me, and knows what I can +do. You can believe me or not; as you will. I did it." + +"You are dreaming," the Wanderer repeated, wondering whether she were +not out of her mind. + +"I did it. I said to myself that if I could destroy your old love, root +it out from your heart and from your memory and make you as one who had +never loved at all, then you would love me as you had once loved her, +with your whole free soul. I said that I was beautiful--it is true, is +it not? And young I am, and I loved as no woman ever loved. And I said +that it was enough, and that soon you would love me, too. A month has +passed away since then. You are of ice--of stone--I do not know of what +you are. This morning you hurt me. I thought it was the last hurt +and that I should die then--instead of to-night. Do you remember? You +thought I was ill, and you went away. When you were gone I fought with +myself. My dreams--yes, I had dreamed of all that can make earth Heaven, +and you had waked me. You said that you would be a brother to me--you +talked of friendship. The sting of it! It is no wonder that I grew faint +with pain. Had you struck me in the face, I would have kissed your hand. +But your friendship! Rather be dead than, loving, be held a friend! And +I had dreamed of being dear to you for my own sake, of being dearest, +and first, and alone beloved, since that other was gone and I had burned +her memory. That pride I had still, until that moment. I fancied that it +was in my power, if I would stoop so low, to make you sleep again as +you had slept before, and to make you at my bidding feel all I felt. I +fought with myself. I would not go down to that depth. And then I said +that even that were better than your friendship, even a false semblance +of love inspired by my will, preserved by my suggestion. And so I fell. +You came back to me and I led you to that lonely place, and made you +sleep, and then I told you what was in my heart and poured out the +fire of my soul into your ears. A look came into your face--I shall not +forget it. My folly was upon me, and I thought it was for me. I know the +truth now. Sleeping, the old memory revived in you of her whom waking +you will never remember again. But the look was there, and I bade you +awake. My soul rose in my eyes. I hung upon your lips. The loving word +I longed for seemed already to tremble in the air. Then came the +truth. You awoke, and your face was stone, calm, smiling, indifferent, +unloving. And all this Israel Kafka had seen, hiding like a thief almost +beside us. He saw it all, he heard it all, my words of love, my agony of +waiting, my utter humiliation, my burning shame. Was I cruel to him? He +had made me suffer, and he suffered in his turn. All this you did not +know. You know it now. There is nothing more to tell. Will you wait here +until he comes? Will you look on, and be glad to see me die? Will you +remember in the years to come with satisfaction that you saw the witch +killed for her many misdeeds, and for the chief of them all--for loving +you?" + +The Wanderer had listened to her words, but the tale they told was +beyond the power of his belief. He stood still in his place, with folded +arms, debating what he should do to save her. One thing alone was clear. +She loved him to distraction. Possibly, he thought, her story was but an +invention to excuse her cruelty and to win his commiseration. It failed +to do either at first, but yet he would not leave her to her fate. + +"You shall not die if I can help it," he said simply. + +"And if you save me, do you think that I will leave you?" she asked with +sudden agitation, turning and half rising from her seat. "Think what you +will be doing, if you save me. Think well. You say that Israel Kafka is +desperate. I am worse than desperate, worse than mad with my love." + +She sank back again and hid her face for a moment. He, on his part, +began to see the terrible reality and strength of her passion, and +silently wondered what the end would be. He, too, was human, and pity +for her began at last to touch his heart. + +"You shall not die, if I can save you," he said again. + +She sprang to her feet very suddenly and stood before him. + +"You pity me!" she cried. "What lie is that which says that there is +a kinship between pity and love? Think well--beware--be warned. I have +told you much, but you do not know me yet. If you save me, you save +me but to love you more than I do already. Look at me. For me there is +neither God, nor hell, nor pride, nor shame. There is nothing that I +will not do, nothing I shall be ashamed or afraid of doing. If you save +me, you save me that I may follow you as long as I live. I will never +leave you. You shall never escape my presence, your whole life shall be +full of me--you do not love me, and I can threaten you with nothing more +intolerable than myself. Your eyes will weary of the sight of me and +your ears at the sound of my voice. Do you think I have no hope? A +moment ago I had none. 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. How can you think that I have no hope! I have hope--and certainty, +for I shall be near you always to the end--always, always, always! I +will cling to you--as I do now--and say, I love you, I love you--yes, +and you will cast me off, but I will not go--I will clasp your feet, +and say again, I love you, and you may spurn me--man, god, wanderer, +devil,--whatever you are--beloved always! Tread upon me, trample on me, +crush me--you cannot save yourself, you cannot kill my love!" + +She had tried to take his hand and he had withdrawn his, she had fallen +upon her knees, and as he tried to free himself had fallen almost to +her length upon the marble floor, clinging to his very feet, so that he +could make no step without doing her some hurt. He looked down, amazed +and silent, and as he looked she cast one glance upward to his stern +face, the bright tears streaming like falling gems from her unlike eyes, +her face pale and quivering, her rich hair all loosened and falling +about her. + +And then, neither body, nor heart, nor soul, could bear the enormous +strain that was laid upon them. A low cry broke from her lips, a stormy +sob, another and another, like quick short waves breaking over the bar +when the tide is low and the wind is rising suddenly. + +The Wanderer was in sore straits, for the minutes were passing quickly +and he remembered the last look on Kafka's face, and how he had left the +Moravian standing before the weapons on the wall. And nothing had been +done yet, not so much as an order given not to admit him if he came to +the house. At any moment he might be upon them. And the storm showed no +signs of being spent. Her wild, convulsive sobbing was painful to hear. +If he tried to move, she dragged herself frantically at his feet so that +he feared lest he should tread upon her hands. He pitied her now most +truly, though he guessed rightly that to show his pity would be but to +add fuel to the blazing flame. + +Then, in the interval of a second, as she drew breath to weep afresh, he +fancied that he heard sounds below as of the great door being opened +and closed again. With a quick, strong movement, stooping low he put his +arms about her and raised her from the floor. At his touch, her sobbing +ceased for a moment, as though she had wanted only that to soothe her. +In spite of him she let her head rest upon his shoulder, letting him +still feel that if he did not support her weight with his arm she would +fall again. In the midst of the most passionate and real outburst of +despairing love there was no artifice which she would not use to be +nearer to him, to extort even the semblance of a caress. + +"I heard some one come in below," he said, hurriedly. "It must be he. +Decide quickly what to do. Either stay or fly--you have not ten seconds +for your choice." + +She turned her imploring eyes to his. + +"Let me stay here and end it all--" + +"That you shall not!" he exclaimed, dragging her towards the end of the +hall opposite to the usual entrance, and where he knew that there must +be a door behind the screen of plants. His hold tightened upon her +yielding waist. Her head fell back and her full lips parted in an +ecstasy of delight as she felt herself hurried along in his arms, +scarcely touching the floor with her feet. + +"Ah--now--now! Let it come now!" she sighed. + +"It must be now--or never," he said almost roughly. "If you will leave +this house with me now, very well. But leave this room you shall. If I +am to meet that man and stop him, I will meet him alone." + +"Leave you alone? Ah no--not that----" + +They had reached the exit now. At the same instant both heard some one +enter at the other end and rapid footsteps on the marble pavement. + +"Which is it to be?" asked the Wanderer, pale and calm. He had pushed +her through before him and seemed ready to go back alone. + +With violent strength she drew him to her, closed the door and slipped +the strong steel bolt across below the lock. There was a dim light in +the passage. + +"Together, then," she said. "I shall at least be with you--a little +longer." + +"Is there another way out of the house?" asked the Wanderer anxiously. + +"More than one. Come with me." + +As they disappeared in the corridor, they heard behind them the noise of +the door-lock as some one tried to force it open. Then a heavy sound as +though a man's shoulder struck against the solid panel. Unorna led the +way through a narrow, winding passage, illuminated here and there by +small lamps with shades of soft colours, blown in Bohemian glass. + +Pushing aside a curtain they came out into a small room. The Wanderer +uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise as he recognised the +vestibule and saw before him the door of the great conservatory, open +as Israel Kafka had left it. That the latter was still trying to pursue +them through the opposite exit was clear enough, for the blows he was +striking on the panel echoed loudly out into the hall. Swiftly and +silently Unorna closed the entrance and locked it securely. + +"He is safe for a little while," she said. "Keyork will find him there +when he comes, an hour hence, and Keyork will perhaps bring him to his +senses." + +She had regained control of herself, to all appearances, and she spoke +with perfect calm and self-possession. The Wanderer looked at her in +surprise and with some suspicion. Her hair was all falling about her +shoulders, but saving this sign, there was no trace of the recent storm, +nor the least indication of passion. If she had been acting a part +throughout before an audience, she would have seemed less indifferent +when the curtain fell. The Wanderer, having little cause to trust her, +found it hard to believe that she had not been counterfeiting. It seemed +impossible that she should be the same woman who but a moment earlier +had been dragging herself at his feet, in wild tears and wilder +protestations of her love. + +"If you are sufficiently rested," he said with a touch of sarcasm which +he could not restrain, "I would suggest that we do not wait any longer +here." + +She turned and faced him, and he saw now how very white she was. + +"So you think that even now I have been deceiving you? That is what you +think. I see it in your face." + +Before he could prevent her she had opened the door wide again and was +advancing calmly into the conservatory. + +"Israel Kafka!" she cried in loud clear tones. "I am here--I am +waiting--come!" + +The Wanderer ran forward. He caught sight in the distance of a pair of +fiery eyes and of something long and thin and sharp-gleaming under the +soft lamps. He knew then that all was deadly earnest. Swift as thought +he caught Unorna and bore her from the hall, locking the door again and +setting his broad shoulders against it, as he put her down. The daring +act she had done appealed to him, in spite of himself. + +"I beg your pardon," he said almost deferentially. "I misjudged you." + +"It is that," she answered. "Either I will be with you or I will die, +by his hand, by yours, by my own--it will matter little when it is done. +You need not lean against the door. It is very strong. Your furs are +hanging there, and here are mine. Let us be going." + +Quietly, as though nothing unusual had happened, they descended the +stairs together. The porter came forward with all due ceremony, to open +the shut door. Unorna told him that if Keyork Arabian came while she was +out, he was to be shown directly into the conservatory. A moment later +she and her companion were standing together in the small irregular +square before the Clementinum. + +"Where will you go?" asked the Wanderer. + +"With you," she answered, laying her hand upon his arm and looking +into his face as though waiting to see what direction he would choose. +"Unless you send me back to him," she added, glancing quickly at the +house and making as though she would withdraw her hand once more. "If it +is to be that, I will go alone." + +There seemed to be no way out of the terrible dilemma, and the Wanderer +stood still in deep thought. He knew that if he could but free himself +from her for half an hour, he could get help from the right quarter and +take Israel Kafka red-handed and armed as he was. For the man was caught +as in a trap and must stay there until he was released, and there would +be little doubt from his manner, when taken, that he was either mad or +consciously attempting some crime. There was no longer any necessity, +he thought, for Unorna to take refuge anywhere for more than an hour. In +that time Israel Kafka would be in safe custody, and she could re-enter +her house with nothing to fear. But he counted without Unorna's +unyielding obstinacy. She threatened if he left her for a moment to +go back to Israel Kafka. A few minutes earlier she had carried out her +threat and the consequence had been almost fatal. + +"If you are in your right mind," he said at last, beginning to walk +towards the corner, "you will see that what you wish to do is utterly +against reason. I will not allow you to run the risk of meeting Israel +Kafka to-night, but I cannot take you with me. No--I will hold you, +if you try to escape me, and I will bring you to a place of safety by +force, if need be." + +"And you will leave me there, and I shall never see you again. I will +not go, and you will find it hard to take me anywhere in the crowded +city by force. You are not Israel Kafka, with the whole Jews' quarter at +your command in which to hide me." + +The Wanderer was perplexed. He saw, however, that if he would yield the +point and give his word to return to her, she might be induced to follow +his advice. + +"If I promise to come back to you, will you do what I ask?" he inquired. + +"Will you promise truly?" + +"I have never broken a promise yet." + +"Did you promise that other woman that you would never love again, I +wonder? If so, you are faithful indeed. But you have forgotten that. +Will you come back to me if I let you take me where I shall be safe +to-night?" + +"I will come back whenever you send for me." + +"If you fail, my blood is on your head." + +"Yes--on my head be it." + +"Very well. I will go to that house where I first stayed when I came +here. Take me there quickly--no--not quickly either--let it be very +long! I shall not see you until to-morrow." + +A carriage was passing at a foot pace. The Wanderer stopped it, and +helped Unorna to get in. The place was very near, and neither spoke, +though he could feel her hand upon his arm. He made no attempt to shake +her off. At the gate they both got out, and he rang a bell that echoed +through vaulted passages far away in the interior. + +"To-morrow," said Unorna, touching his hand. + +He could see even in the dark the look of love she turned upon him. + +"Good-night," he said, and in the next moment she had disappeared +within. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Having made the necessary explanations to account for her sudden +appearance, Unorna found herself installed in two rooms of modest +dimensions, and very simply though comfortably furnished. It was quite a +common thing for ladies to seek retreat and quiet in the convent during +two or three weeks of the year, and there was plenty of available space +at the disposal of those who wished to do so. Such visits were indeed +most commonly made during the lenten season, and on the day when Unorna +sought refuge among the nuns it chanced that there was but one other +stranger within the walls. She was glad to find that this was the case. +Her peculiar position would have made it hard for her to bear with +equanimity the quiet observation of a number of woman, most of whom +would probably have been to some extent acquainted with the story of her +life, and some of whom would certainly have wished out of curiosity to +enter into nearer acquaintance with her while within the convent, while +not intending to prolong their intercourse with her any further. It +could not be expected, indeed, that in a city like Prague such a woman +as Unorna could escape notice, and the fact that little or nothing +was known of her true history had left a very wide field for the +imaginations of those who chose to invent one for her. The common story, +and the one which on the whole was nearest to the truth, told that she +was the daughter of a noble of eastern Bohemia who had died soon after +her birth, the last of his family, having converted his ancestral +possessions into money for Unorna's benefit, in order to destroy all +trace of her relationship to him. The secret must, of course, have +been confided to some one, but it had been kept faithfully, and Unorna +herself was no wiser than those who mused themselves with fruitless +speculations regarding her origin. If from the first, from the moment +when, as a young girl, she left the convent to enter into possession of +her fortune she had chosen to assert some right to a footing in the +most exclusive aristocracy in the world, it is not impossible that the +protection of the Abbess might have helped her to obtain it. The secret +of her birth would, however, have rendered a marriage with a man of that +class all but impossible, and would have entirely excluded her from +the only other position considered dignified for a well-born woman +of fortune, unmarried and wholly without living relations or +connections--that of a lady-canoness on the Crown foundation. Moreover, +her wild bringing-up, and the singular natural gifts she possessed, and +which she could not resist the impulse to exercise, had in a few months +placed her in a position from which no escape was possible so long as +she continued to live in Prague; and against those few--chiefly men--who +for her beauty's sake, or out of curiosity, would gladly have made her +acquaintance, she raised an impassable barrier of pride and reserve. +Nor was her reputation altogether an evil one. She lived in a strange +fashion, it is true, but the very fact of her extreme seclusion had kept +her name free from stain. If people spoke of her as the Witch, it +was more from habit and half in jest than in earnest. In strong +contradiction to the cruelty which she could exercise ruthlessly when +roused to anger, was her well-known kindness to the poor, and her +charities to institutions founded for their benefit were in reality +considerable, and were said to be boundless. These explanations seem +necessary in order to account for the readiness with which she turned +to the convent when she was in danger, and for the facilities which were +then at once offered her for a stay long or short, as she should please +to make it. Some of the more suspicious nuns looked grave when they +heard that she was under their roof; others, again, had been attached +to her during the time she had formerly spent among them; and there were +not lacking those who, disapproving of her presence, held their peace, +in the anticipation that the rich and eccentric lady would on departing +present a gift of value to their order. + +The rooms which were kept at the disposal of ladies desiring to make a +religious retreat for a short time were situated on the first floor of +one wing of the convent overlooking a garden which was not within the +cloistered precincts, but which was cultivated for the convenience of +the nuns, who themselves never entered it. The windows on this side were +not latticed, and the ladies who occupied the apartments were at liberty +to look out upon the small square of land, their view of the street +beyond being cut off however by a wall in which there was one iron gate +for the convenience of the gardeners, who were thus not obliged to pass +through the main entrance of the convent in order to reach their work. +Within the rooms all opened out upon a broad vaulted corridor, lighted +in the day-time by a huge arched window looking upon an inner court, and +at night by a single lamp suspended in the middle of the passage by a +strong iron chain. The pavement of this passage was of broad stones, +once smooth and even but now worn and made irregular by long use. The +rooms for the guests were carpeted with sober colours and warmed by high +stoves built up of glazed white tiles. The furniture, as has been said, +was simple, but afforded all that was strictly necessary for ordinary +comfort, each apartment consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room, small +in lateral dimensions but relatively very high. The walls were thick +and not easily penetrated by any sounds from without, and, as in many +religious houses, the entrances from the corridor were all closed by +double doors, the outer one of strong oak with a lock and a solid bolt, +the inner one of lighter material, but thickly padded to exclude sound +as well as currents of cold air. Each sitting-room contained a table, +a sofa, three or four chairs, a small book-shelf, and a praying-stool +provided with a hard and well-worn cushion for the knees. Over this a +brown wooden crucifix was hung upon the gray wall. + +In the majority of convents it is not usual, nor even permissible, for +ladies in retreat to descend to the nuns' refectory. When there are many +guests they are usually served by lay sisters in a hall set apart for +the purpose; when there are few, their simple meals are brought to them +in their rooms. Moreover they of course put on no religious robe, though +they dress themselves in black. In the church, or chapel, as the case +may be, they do not take places within the latticed choir with the +sisters, but either sit in the body of the building, or occupy a side +chapel reserved for their use, or else perform their devotions kneeling +at high windows above the choir, which communicate within with rooms +accessible from the convent. It is usual for them to attend Mass, +Vespers, the Benediction and Complines, but when there are midnight +services they are not expected to be present. + +Unorna was familiar with convent life and was aware that the Benediction +was over, and that the hour for the evening meal was approaching. A fire +had been lighted in her sitting-room, but the air was still very cold +and she sat wrapped in her furs as when she had arrived, leaning back +in a corner of the sofa, her head inclined forward, and one white hand +resting on the green baize cloth which covered the table. + +She was very tired, and the absolute stillness was refreshing and +restoring after the long-drawn-out emotions of the stormy day. Never, in +her short and passionate life, had so many events been crowded into the +space of a few hours. Since the morning she had felt almost everything +that her wild, high-strung nature was capable of feeling--love, triumph, +failure, humiliation--anger, hate, despair, and danger of sudden death. +She was amazed when, looking back, she remembered that at noon on that +day her life and all its interests had been stationary at the point +familiar to her during a whole month, the point that still lay within +the boundaries of hope's kingdom, the point at which the man she loved +had wounded her by speaking of brotherly affection and sisterly regard. +She could almost believe, when she thought of it all, that some one had +done to her as she had done to others, that she had been cast into a +state of sleep, and had been forced against her will to live through the +storms of years in the lethargy of an hour. And yet, despite all, her +memory was distinct, her faculties were awake, her intellect had lost +none of its clearness, even in the last and worst hour of all. She could +recall each look on the Wanderer's face, each tone of his cold speech, +each intonation of her own passionate outpourings. Her strong memory had +retained all, and there was not the slightest break in the continuity of +her recollections. But there was little comfort to be derived from the +certainty that she had not been dreaming, and that everything had really +taken place precisely as she remembered it. She would have given all she +possessed, which was much, to return to the hour of noon on that same +day. + +In so far as a very unruly nature can understand itself, Unorna +understood the springs of the actions, she regretted and confessed that +in all likelihood she would do again as she had done at each successive +stage. Indeed, since the last great outbreak of her heart, she realised +more than ever the great proportions which her love had of late +assumed; and she saw that she was indeed ready, as she had said, to dare +everything and risk everything for the sake of obtaining the very least +show of passion in return. It was quite clear to her, since she had +failed so totally, that she should have had patience, that she ought +to have accepted gratefully the man's offer of brotherly devotion, and +trusted in time to bring about a further and less platonic development. +But she was equally sure that she could never have found the patience, +and that if she had restrained herself to-day she would have given way +to-morrow. She possessed all the blind indifference to consequences +which is a chief characteristic of the Slav nature when dominated by +passion. She had shone it in her rash readiness to face Israel Kafka +at the moment of leaving her own home. If she could not have what she +longed for, she cared as little what became of her as she cared for +Kafka's own fate. She had but one object, one passion, one desire, and +to all else her indifference was supreme. Life and death, in this world +or the next, were less weighty than feathers in a scale that measures +hundreds of tons. The very idea of balance was for the moment beyond +her imagination. For a while indeed the pride of a woman at once +young, beautiful, and accustomed to authority, had kept her firm in the +determination to be loved for herself, as she believed that she deserved +to be loved; and just so long as that remained, she had held her head +high, confidently expecting that the mask of indifference would soon be +shivered, that the eyes she adored would soften with warm light, that +the hand she worshipped would tremble suddenly, as though waking to +life within her own. But that pride was gone, and from its disappearance +there had been but one step to the most utter degradation of soul to +which a woman can descend, and from that again but one step more to a +resolution almost stupid in its hardened obstinacy. But as though to +show how completely she was dominated by the man whom she could not win +even her last determination had yielded under the slightest pressure +from his will. She had left her house beside him with the mad resolve +never again to be parted from him, cost what it might, reputation, +fortune, life itself. And yet ten minutes had not elapsed before she +found herself alone, trusting to a mere word of his for the hope of +ever seeing him again. She seemed to have no individuality left. He +had spoken and she had obeyed. He had commanded and she had done his +bidding. She was even more ashamed of this than of having wept, and +sobbed, and dragged herself at his feet. In the first moment she had +submitted, deluding herself with the idea she had expressed, that he +was consigning her to a prison and that her freedom was dependent on his +will. The foolish delusion vanished. She saw that she was free, when she +chose, to descend the steps she had just mounted, to go out through the +gate she had lately entered, and to go whithersoever she would, at the +mere risk of meeting Israel Kafka. And that risk she heartily despised, +being thoroughly brave by nature, and utterly indifferent to death by +force of circumstance. + +She comforted herself with the thought that the Wanderer would come to +her, once at least, when she was pleased to send for him. She had that +loyal belief inseparable from true love until violently overthrown by +irrefutable evidence, and which sometimes has such power as to return +even then, overthrowing the evidence of the senses themselves. Are there +not men who trust women, and women who trust men, in spite of the vilest +betrayals? Love is indeed often the inspirer of subjective visions, +creating in the beloved object the qualities it admires and the virtues +it adores, powerless to accept what it is not willing to see, dwelling +in a fortress guarded by intangible, and therefore indestructible, +fiction and proof against the artillery of facts. Unorna's confidence +was, however, not misplaced. The man whose promise she had received had +told the truth when he had said that he had never broken any promise +whatsoever. + +In this, at least, there was therefore comfort. On the morrow she would +see him again. The moment of complete despair had passed when she had +received that assurance from his lips, and as she thought of it, sitting +in the absolute stillness of her room, the proportions of the storm +grew less, and possible dimensions of a future hope greater--just as the +seafarer when his ship lies in a flat calm of the oily harbour thinks +half incredulously of the danger past, despises himself for the anxiety +he felt, and vows that on the morrow he will face the waves again, +though the winds blow ever so fiercely. In Unorna the master passion was +as strong as ever. In a dim vision the wreck of her pride floated still +in the stormy distance, but she turned her eyes away, for it was no +longer a part of her. The spectre of her humiliation rose up and tried +to taunt her with her shame--she almost smiled at the thought that she +could still remember it. He lived, she lived, and he should yet be hers. +As her physical weariness began to disappear in the absolute quiet and +rest, her determination revived. Her power was not all gone yet. On the +morrow she would see him again. She might still fix her eyes on his, and +in an unguarded moment cast him into a deep sleep. She remembered that +look on his face in the old cemetery. She had guessed rightly; it had +been for the faint memory of Beatrice. But she would bring it back +again, and it should be for her, for he should never wake again. Had she +not done as much with the ancient scholar who for long years had lain in +her home in that mysterious state, who obeyed when she commanded him to +rise, and walk, to eat, to speak? Why not the Wanderer, then? To outward +eyes he would be alive and awake, calm, natural, happy. And yet he would +be sleeping. In that condition, at least, she could command his actions, +his thoughts, and his words. How long could it be made to last? She did +not know. Nature might rebel in the end and throw off the yoke of the +heavily-imposed will. An interval might follow, full again of storm and +passion and despair; but it would pass, and he would again fall under +her influence. She had read, and Keyork Arabian had told her, of the +marvels done every day by physicians of common power in the great +hospitals and universities of the Empire, and elsewhere throughout +Europe. None of them appeared to be men of extraordinary natural gifts. +Their powers were but weakness compared with hers. Even with miserable, +hysteric women they often had to try again and again before they could +produce the hypnotic sleep for the first time. When they had got as far +as that, indeed, they could bring their learning, their science, and +their experience to bear--and they could make foolish experiments, +familiar to Unorna from her childhood as the sights and sounds of +her daily life. Few, if any of them, had even the power necessary to +hypnotise an ordinarily strong man in health. She, on the contrary, +had never failed in that, and at the first trial, except with Keyork +Arabian, a man of whom she said in her heart, half in jest and half +superstitiously, that he was not a man at all, but a devil or a monster +over whom earthly influences had no control. + +All her energy returned. The colour came back to her face, her eyes +sparkled, her strong white hands contracted and opened, and closed +again, as though she would grasp something. The room, too, had become +warmer and she had forgotten to lay aside her furs. She longed for more +air and, rising, walked across the room. It occurred to her that the +great corridor would be deserted and as quiet as her own apartment, and +she went out and began to pace the stone flags, her head high, looking +straight before her. + +She wished that she had him there now, and she was angry at the thought +that she had not seen earlier how easily it could all be done. However +strong he might be, having twice been under her influence before he +could not escape it again. In those moments when they had stood together +before the great dark buildings of the Clementinum, it might all have +been accomplished; and now, she must wait until the morning. But her +mind was determined. It mattered not how, it mattered not in what state, +he should be hers. No one would know what she had done. It was nothing +to her that he would be wholly unconscious of his past life--had she not +already made him forget the most important part of it? He would still be +himself, and yet he would love her, and speak lovingly to her, and act +as she would have him act. Everything could be done, and she would risk +nothing, for she would marry him and make him her lawful husband, and +they would spend their lives together, in peace, in the house wherein +she had so abased herself before him, foolishly believing that, as a +mere woman, she could win him. + +She paced the corridor, passing and repassing beneath the light of the +single lamp that hung in the middle, walking quickly, with a sensation +of pleasure in the movement and in the cold draught that fanned her +cheek. + +Then she heard footsteps distinct from the echo of her own and she stood +still. Two women were coming towards her through the gloom. She waited +near her own door, supposing that they would pass her. As they came +near, she saw that the one was a nun, habited in the plain gray robe and +black and white head-dress of the order. The other was a lady dressed, +like herself, in black. The light burned so badly that as the two +stopped and stood for a moment conversing together, Unorna could not +clearly distinguish their faces. Then the lady entered one of the rooms, +the third or the fourth from Unorna's, and the nun remained standing +outside, apparently hesitating whether to turn to the right or to the +left, or asking herself in which direction her occupations called +her. Unorna made a movement, and at the sound of her foot the nun came +towards her. + +"Sister Paul!" Unorna exclaimed, recognising her as her face came under +the glare of the lamp, and holding out her hands. + +"Unorna!" cried the nun, with an intonation of surprise and pleasure. "I +did not know that you were here. What brings you back to us?" + +"A caprice, Sister Paul--nothing but a caprice. I shall perhaps be gone +to-morrow." + +"I am sorry," answered the sister. "One night is but a short retreat +from the world." She shook her head rather sadly. + +"Much may happen in a night," replied Unorna with a smile. "You used to +tell me that the soul knew nothing of time. Have you changed your mind? +Come into my room and let us talk. I have not forgotten your hours. You +can have nothing to do for the moment, unless it is supper-time." + +"We have just finished," said Sister Paul, entering readily enough. +"The other lady who is staying here insisted upon supping in the guests' +refectory--out of curiosity perhaps, poor thing--and I met her on the +stairs as she was coming up." + +"Are she and I the only ones here?" Unorna asked carelessly. + +"Yes. There is no one else, and she only came this morning. You see it +is still the carnival season in the world. It is in Lent that the great +ladies come to us, and then we have often not a room free." + +The nun smiled sadly, shaking her head again, in a way that seemed +habitual with her. + +"After all," she added, as Unorna said nothing, "it is better that they +should come then, rather than not at all, though I often think it would +be better still if they spent carnival in the convent and Lent in the +world." + +"The world you speak of would be a gloomy place if you had the ordering +of it, Sister Paul!" observed Unorna with a little laugh. + +"Ah, well! I daresay it would seem so to you. I know little enough of +the world as you understand it, save for what our guests tell me--and, +indeed, I am glad that I do not know more." + +"You know almost as much as I do." + +The sister looked long and earnestly into Unorna's face as though +searching for something. She was a thin, pale woman over forty years +of age. Not a wrinkle marked her waxen skin, and her hair was entirely +concealed under the smooth head-dress, but her age was in her eyes. + +"What is your life, Unorna?" she asked suddenly. "We hear strange tales +of it sometimes, though we know also that you do great works of charity. +But we hear strange tales and strange words." + +"Do you?" Unorna suppressed a smile of scorn. "What do people say of me? +I never asked." + +"Strange things, strange things," repeated the nun with a shake of the +head. + +"What are they? Tell me one of them, as an instance." + +"I should fear to offend you--indeed I am sure I should, though we were +good friends once." + +"And are still. The more reason why you should tell me what is said. Of +course I am alone in the world, and people will always tell vile tales +of women who have no one to protect them." + +"No, no," Sister Paul hastened to assure her. "As a woman, no word has +reached us that touches your fair name. On the contrary, I have heard +worldly women say much more that is good of you in that respect than +they will say of each other. But there are other things, Unorna--other +things which fill me with fear for you. They call you by a name that +makes me shudder when I hear it." + +"A name?" repeated Unorna in surprise and with considerable curiosity. + +"A name--a word--what you will--no, I cannot tell you, and besides, it +must be untrue." + +Unorna was silent for a moment and then understood. She laughed aloud +with perfect unconcern. + +"I know!" she cried. "How foolish of me! They call me the Witch--of +course." + +Sister Paul's face grew very grave, and she immediately crossed herself +devoutly, looking askance at Unorna as she did so. But Unorna only +laughed again. + +"Perhaps it is very foolish," said the nun, "but I cannot bear to hear +such a thing said of you." + +"It is not said in earnest. Do you know why they call me the Witch? It +is very simple. It is because I can make people sleep--people who are +suffering or mad or in great sorrow, and then they rest. That is all my +magic." + +"You can put people to sleep? Anybody?" Sister Paul opened her faded +eyes very wide. "But that is not natural," she added in a perplexed +tone. "And what is not natural cannot be right." + +"And is all right that is natural?" asked Unorna thoughtfully. + +"It is not natural," repeated the other. "How do you do it? Do you use +strange words and herbs and incantations?" + +Unorna laughed again, but the nun seemed shocked by her levity and she +forced herself to be grave. + +"No, indeed!" she answered. "I look into their eyes and tell them to +sleep--and they do. Poor Sister Paul! You are behind the age in the dear +old convent here. The thing is done in half of the great hospitals of +Europe every day, and men and women are cured in that way of diseases +that paralyse them in body as well as in mind. Men study to learn how it +is done; it is as common to-day, as a means of healing, as the medicines +you know by name and taste. It is called hypnotism." + +Again the sister crossed herself. + +"I have heard the word, I think," she said, as though she thought there +might be something diabolical in it. "And do you heal the sick in this +way by means of this--thing?" + +"Sometimes," Unorna answered. "There is an old man, for instance, whom +I have kept alive for many years by making him sleep--a great deal." +Unorna smiled a little. + +"But you have no words with it? Nothing?" + +"Nothing. It is my will. That is all." + +"But if it is of good, and not of the Evil One, there should be a prayer +with it. Could you not say a prayer with it, Unorna?" + +"I daresay I could," replied the other, trying not to laugh. "But that +would be doing two things at once; my will would be weakened." + +"It cannot be of good," said the nun. "It is not natural, and it is not +true that the prayer can distract the will from the performance of a +good deed." She shook her head more energetically than usual. "And it +is not good either that you should be called a witch, you who have lived +here amongst us." + +"It is not my fault!" exclaimed Unorna, somewhat annoyed by her +persistence. "And besides, Sister Paul, even if the devil is in it, it +would be right all the same." + +The nun held up her hands in holy horror, and her jaw dropped. + +"My child! My child! How can you say such things to me!" + +"It is very true," Unorna answered, quietly smiling at her amazement. +"If people who are ill are made well, is it not a real good, even if the +Evil One does it? Is it not good to make him do good, if one can, even +against his will?" + +"No, no!" cried Sister Paul, in great distress. "Do not talk like +that--let us not talk of it at all! Whatever it is, it is bad, and I do +not understand it, and I am sure that none of us here could, no matter +how well you explained it. But if you will do it, Unorna, my dear child, +then say a prayer each time, against temptation and the devil's works." + +With that the good nun crossed herself a third time, and unconsciously, +from force of habit, began to tell her beads with one hand, mechanically +smoothing her broad, starched collar with the other. Unorna was silent +for a few minutes, plucking at the sable lining of the cloak which lay +beside her upon the sofa where she had dropped it. + +"Let us talk of other things," she said at last. "Talk of the other lady +who is here. Who is she? What brings her into retreat at this time of +year?" + +"Poor thing--yes, she is very unhappy," answered Sister Paul. "It is a +sad story, so far as I have heard it. Her father is just dead, and she +is alone in the world. The Abbess received a letter yesterday from the +Cardinal Archbishop, requesting that we would receive her, and this +morning she came. His eminence knew her father, it appears. She is only +to be here for a short time, I believe, until her relations come to take +her home to her own country. Her father was taken ill in a country place +near the city, which he had hired for the shooting season, and the poor +girl was left all alone out there. The Cardinal thought she would be +safer and perhaps less unhappy with us while she is waiting." + +"Of course," said Unorna, with a faint interest. "How old is she, poor +child?" + +"She is not a child, she must be five and twenty years old, though +perhaps her sorrow makes her look older than she is." + +"And what is her name?" + +"Beatrice. I cannot remember the name of the family." + +Unorna started. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +"What is it?" asked the nun, noticing Unorna's sudden movement. + +"Nothing; the name of Beatrice is familiar to me, that is all. It +suggested something." + +Though Sister Paul was as unworldly as five and twenty years of +cloistered life can make a woman who is naturally simple in mind and +devout in thought, she possessed that faculty of quick observation which +is learned as readily, and exercised perhaps as constantly, in the midst +of a small community, where each member is in some measure dependent +upon all the rest for the daily pittance of ideas, as in wider spheres +of life. + +"You may have seen this lady, or you may have heard of her," she said. + +"I would like to see her," Unorna answered thoughtfully. + +She was thinking of all the possibilities in the case. She remembered +the clearness and precision of the Wanderer's first impression, when +he first told her how he had seen Beatrice in the Teyn Kirche, and she +reflected that the name was a very uncommon one. The Beatrice of his +story too had a father and no other relation, and was supposed to be +travelling with him. By the uncertain light in the corridor Unorna had +not been able to distinguish the lady's features, but the impression she +had received had been that she was dark, as Beatrice was. There was no +reason in the nature of things why this should not be the woman whom +the Wanderer loved. It was natural enough that, being left alone in +a strange city at such a moment, she should have sought refuge in a +convent, and this being admitted it followed that she would naturally +have been advised to retire to the one in which Unorna found herself, it +being the one in which ladies were most frequently received as guests. +Unorna could hardly trust herself to speak. She was conscious that +Sister Paul was watching her, and she turned her face from the lamp. + +"There can be no difficulty about your seeing her, or talking with +her, if you wish it," said the nun. "She told me that she would be at +Compline at nine o'clock. If you will be there yourself you can see her +come in, and watch her when she goes out. Do you think you have ever +seen her?" + +"No," answered Unorna in an odd tone. "I am sure that I have not." + +Sister Paul concluded from Unorna's manner that she must have reason to +believe that the guest was identical with some one of whom she had heard +very often. Her manner was abstracted and she seemed ill at ease. But +that might be the result of fatigue. + +"Are you not hungry?" asked the nun. "You have had nothing since you +came, I am sure." + +"No--yes--it is true," answered Unorna. "I had forgotten. It would be +very kind of you to send me something." + +Sister Paul rose with alacrity, to Unorna's great relief. + +"I will see to it," she said, holding out her hand. "We shall meet in +the morning. Good-night." + +"Good-night, dear Sister Paul. Will you say a prayer for me?" She added +the question suddenly, by an impulse of which she was hardly conscious. + +"Indeed I will--with all my heart, my dear child," answered the nun +looking earnestly into her face. "You are not happy in your life," she +added, with a slow, sad movement of her head. + +"No--I am not happy. But I will be." + +"I fear not," said Sister Paul, almost under her breath, as she went out +softly. + +Unorna was left alone. She could not sit still in her extreme anxiety. +It was agonising to think that the woman she longed to see was so near +her, but that she could not, upon any reasonable pretext, go and knock +at her door and see her and speak to her. She felt also a terrible doubt +as to whether she would recognise her, at first sight, as the same +woman whose shadow had passed between herself and the Wanderer on that +eventful day a month ago. The shadow had been veiled, but she had a +prescient consciousness of the features beneath the veil. Nevertheless, +she might be mistaken. It would be necessary to seek her acquaintance +by some excuse and endeavour to draw from her some portion of her story, +enough to confirm Unorna's suspicions, or to prove conclusively that +they were unfounded. To do this, Unorna herself needed all her strength +and coolness, and she was glad when a lay sister entered the room +bringing her evening meal. + +There were moments when Unorna, in favourable circumstances, was able +to sink into the so-called state of second sight, by an act of volition, +and she wished now that she could close her eyes and see the face of the +woman who was only separated from her by two or three walls. But that +was not possible in this case. To be successful she would have needed +some sort of guiding thread, or she must have already known the person +she wished to see. She could not command that inexplicable condition as +she could dispose of her other powers, at all times and in almost all +moods. She felt that if she were at present capable of falling into the +trance state at all, her mind would wander uncontrolled in some other +direction. There was nothing to be done but to have patience. + +The lay sister went out. Unorna ate mechanically what had been set +before her and waited. She felt that a crisis perhaps more terrible than +that through which she had lately passed was at hand, if the stranger +should prove to be indeed the Beatrice whom the Wanderer loved. Her +brain was in a whirl when she thought of being brought face to face with +the woman who had been before her, and every cruel and ruthless instinct +of her nature rose and took shape in plans for her rival's destruction. + +She opened her door, careless of the draught of frozen air that rushed +in from the corridor. She wished to hear the lady's footstep when +she left her room to go to the church, and she sat down and remained +motionless, fearing lest her own footfall should prevent the sound from +reaching her. The heavy-toned bells began to ring, far off in the night. + +At last it came, the opening of a door, the slight noise made by a light +tread upon the pavement. She rose quietly and went out, following in the +same direction. She could see nothing but a dark shadow moving before +her towards the opposite end of the passage, farther and farther +from the hanging lamp. Unorna could hear her own heart beating as she +followed, first to the right, then to the left. There was another light +at this point. The lady had noticed that some one was coming behind her +and turned her head to look back. The delicate, dark profile stood +out clearly. Unorna held her breath, walking swiftly forward. But in a +moment the lady went on, and entered the chapel-like room from which a +great balconied window looked down into the church above the choir. 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. + +Unorna sank upon her knees, compressing her lips to restrain the +incoherent exclamation that almost broke from them in spite of her, +clasping her hands desperately, so that the faint blue veins stood out +upon the marble surface. + +Below, hundreds of candles blazed upon the altar in the choir and sent +their full yellow radiance up to the faces of the two women, as they +knelt there almost side by side, both young, both beautiful, but utterly +unlike. In a single glance Unorna had understood that it was true. An +arm's length separated her from the rival whose very existence made her +own happiness an utter impossibility. With unchanging, unwilling gaze +she examined every detail of that beauty which the Wanderer had so +loved, that even when forgotten there was no sight in his eyes for other +women. + +It was indeed such a face as a man would find it hard to forget. Unorna, +seeing the reflection of it in the Wanderer's mind, had fancied it +otherwise, though she could not but recognise the reality from the +impression she had received. She had imagined it more ethereal, more +faint, more sexless, more angelic, as she had seen it in her thoughts. +Divine it was, but womanly beyond Unorna's own. Dark, delicately +aquiline, tall and noble, the purity it expressed was of earth and not +of heaven. It was not transparent, for there was life in every feature; +it was sad indeed almost beyond human sadness, but it was sad with the +mortal sorrows of this world, not with the unfathomable melancholy of +the suffering saint. The lips were human, womanly, pure and tender, but +not formed for speech of prayer alone. The drooping lids, not drawn, +but darkened with faint, uneven shadows by the flow of many tears, were +slowly lifted now and again, disclosing a vision of black eyes not meant +for endless weeping, nor made so deep and warm only to strain their +sight towards heaven above, forgetting earth below. Unorna knew that +those same eyes could gleam, and flash, and blaze, with love and hate +and anger, that under the rich, pale skin, the blood could rise and ebb +with the changing tide of the heart, that the warm lips could part +with passion and, moving, form words of love. She saw pride in the wide +sensitive nostrils, strength in the even brow, and queenly dignity in +the perfect poise of the head upon the slender throat. And the clasped +hands were womanly, too, neither full and white and heavy like those +of a marble statue, as Unorna's were, nor thin and over-sensitive like +those of holy women in old pictures, but real and living, delicate in +outline, but not without nervous strength, hands that might linger in +another's, not wholly passive, but all responsive to the thrill of a +loving touch. + +It was very hard to bear. A better woman than Unorna might have felt +something evil and cruel and hating in her heart, at the sight of so +much beauty in one who held her place, in the queen of the kingdom where +she longed to reign. Unorna's cheek grew very pale, and her unlike eyes +were fierce and dangerous. It was well for her that she could not speak +to Beatrice then, for she wore no mask, and the dark beauty would have +seen the danger of death in the face of the fair, and would have turned +and defended herself in time. + +But the sweet singing of the nuns came softly up from below, echoing +to the groined roof, rising and falling, high and low; and the full +radiance of the many waxen tapers shone steadily from the great altar, +gilding and warming statue and cornice and ancient moulding, and casting +deep shadows into all the places that it could not reach. And still the +two women knelt in their high balcony, the one rapt in fervent prayer, +the other wondering that the presence of such hatred as hers should have +no power to kill, and all the time making a supreme effort to compose +her own features into the expression of friendly sympathy and interest +which she knew she would need so soon as the singing ceased and it was +time to leave the church again. + +The psalms were finished. There was a pause, and then the words of the +ancient hymn floated up to Unorna's ears, familiar in years gone by. +Almost unconsciously she herself, by force of old habit, joined in the +first verse. Then, suddenly, she stopped, not realising, indeed, the +horrible gulf that lay between the words that passed her lips, and the +thoughts that were at work in her heart, but silenced by the near sound +of a voice less rich and full, but far more exquisite and tender than +her own. Beatrice was singing, too, with joined hands, and parted lips, +and upturned face. + +"Let dreams be far, and phantasms of the night--bind Thou our Foe," sang +Beatrice in long, sweet notes. + +Unorna heard no more. The light dazzled her, and the blood beat in +her heart. It seemed as though no prayer that was ever prayed could be +offered up more directly against herself, and the voice that sang +it, though not loud, had the rare power of carrying every syllable +distinctly in its magic tones, even to a great distance. As she knelt, +it was as if Beatrice had been even nearer, and had breathed the words +into her very ear. Afraid to look round, lest her face should betray her +emotion, Unorna glanced down at the kneeling nuns. She started. Sister +Paul, alone of them all, was looking up, her faded eyes fixed on +Unorna's with a look that implored and yet despaired, her clasped hands +a little raised from the low desk before her, most evidently offering +up the words with the whole fervent intention of her pure soul, as an +intercession for Unorna's sins. + +For one moment the strong, cruel heart almost wavered, not through fear, +but under the nameless impression that sometimes takes hold of men and +women. The divine voice beside her seemed to dominate the hundred voices +below; the nun's despairing look chilled for one instant all her love +and all her hatred, so that she longed to be alone, away from it all, +and for ever. But the hymn ended, the voice was silent, and Sister +Paul's glance turned again towards the altar. The moment was passed and +Unorna was again what she had been before. + +Then followed the canticle, the voice of the prioress in the versicles +after that, and the voices of the nuns, no longer singing, as they made +the responses; the Creed, a few more versicles and responses, the short, +final prayers, and all was over. From the church below came up the soft +sound that many women make when they move silently together. The nuns +were passing out in their appointed order. + +Beatrice remained kneeling a few moments longer, crossed herself and +then rose. At the same moment Unorna was on her feet. The necessity +for immediate action at all costs restored the calm to her face and the +tactful skill to her actions. She reached the door first, and then, half +turning her head, stood aside, as though to give Beatrice precedence in +passing. Beatrice glanced at her face for the first time, and then by +a courteous movement of the head signified that Unorna should go out +first. Unorna appeared to hesitate, Beatrice to protest. Both women +smiled a little, and Unorna, with a gesture of submission, passed +through the doorway. She had managed it so well that it was almost +impossible to avoid speaking as they threaded the long corridors +together. Unorna allowed a moment to pass, as though to let her +companion understand the slight awkwardness of the situation, and then +addressed her in a tone of quiet and natural civility. + +"We seem to be the only ladies in retreat," she said. + +"Yes," Beatrice answered. Even in that one syllable something of the +quality of her thrilling voice vibrated for an instant. They walked a +few steps farther in silence. + +"I am not exactly in retreat," she said presently, either because she +felt that it would be almost rude to say nothing, or because she wished +her position to be clearly understood. "I am waiting here for some one +who is to come for me." + +"It is a very quiet place to rest in," said Unorna. "I am fond of it." + +"You often come here, perhaps." + +"Not now," answered Unorna. "But I was here for a long time when I was +very young." + +By a common instinct, as they fell into conversation, they began to walk +more slowly, side by side. + +"Indeed," said Beatrice, with a slight increase of interest. "Then you +were brought up here by the nuns?" + +"Not exactly. It was a sort of refuge for me when I was almost a child. +I was left here alone, until I was thought old enough to take care of +myself." + +There was a little bitterness in her tone, intentional, but masterly in +its truth to nature. + +"Left by your parents?" Beatrice asked. The question seemed almost +inevitable. + +"I had none. I never knew a father or a mother." Unorna's voice grew sad +with each syllable. + +They had entered the great corridor in which their apartments were +situated, and were approaching Beatrice's door. They walked more and +more slowly, in silence during the last few moments, after Unorna had +spoken. Unorna sighed. The passing breath traveling on the air of the +lonely place seemed both to invite and to offer sympathy. + +"My father died last week," Beatrice said in a very low tone, that was +not quite steady. "I am quite alone--here and in the world." + +She laid her hand upon the latch and her deep black eyes rested upon +Unorna's, as though almost, but not quite, conveying an invitation, +hungry for human comfort, yet too proud to ask it. + +"I am very lonely, too," said Unorna. "May I sit with you for a while?" + +She had but just time to make the bold stroke that was necessary. In +another moment she knew that Beatrice would have disappeared within. Her +heart beat violently until the answer came. She had been successful. + +"Will you, indeed?" Beatrice exclaimed. "I am poor company, but I shall +be very glad if you will come in." + +She opened her door, and Unorna entered. The apartment was almost +exactly like her own in size and shape and furniture, but it already +had the air of being inhabited. There were books upon the table, and a +square jewel-case, and an old silver frame containing a large photograph +of a stern, dark man in middle age--Beatrice's father, as Unorna at once +understood. Cloaks and furs lay in some confusion upon the chairs, a +large box stood with the lid raised, against the wall, displaying a +quantity of lace, among which lay silks and ribbons of soft colours. + +"I only came this morning," Beatrice said, as though to apologise for +the disorder. + +Unorna sank down in a corner of the sofa, shading her eyes from the +bright lamp with her hand. She could not help looking at Beatrice, but +she felt that she must not let her scrutiny be too apparent, nor +her conversation too eager. Beatrice was proud and strong, and could +doubtless be very cold and forbidding when she chose. + +"And do you expect to be here long?" Unorna asked, as Beatrice +established herself at the other end of the sofa. + +"I cannot tell," was the answer. "I may be here but a few days, or I may +have to stay a month. + +"I lived here for years," said Unorna thoughtfully. "I suppose it would +be impossible now--I should die of apathy and inanition." She laughed +in a subdued way, as though respecting Beatrice's mourning. "But I was +young then," she added, suddenly withdrawing her hand from her eyes, so +that the full light of the lamp fell upon her. + +She chose to show that she, too, was beautiful, and she knew that +Beatrice had as yet hardly seen her face as they passed through the +gloomy corridors. It was an instinct of vanity, and yet, for her +purpose, it was the right one. The effect was sudden and unexpected, and +Beatrice looked at her almost fixedly, in undisguised admiration. + +"Young then!" she exclaimed. "You are young now!" + +"Less young than I was then," Unorna answered with a little sigh, +followed instantly by a smile. + +"I am five and twenty," said Beatrice, woman enough to try and force a +confession from her new acquaintance. + +"Are you? I would not have thought it--we are nearly of an age--quite, +perhaps, for I am not yet twenty-six. But then, it is not the years--" +She stopped suddenly. + +Beatrice wondered whether Unorna were married or not. Considering the +age she admitted and her extreme beauty it seemed probable that she must +be. It occurred to her that the acquaintance had been made without any +presentation, and that neither knew the other's name. + +"Since I am a little the younger," she said, "I should tell you who I +am." + +Unorna made a slight movement. She was on the point of saying that she +knew already--and too well. + +"I am Beatrice Varanger." + +"I am Unorna." She could not help a sort of cold defiance that sounded +in her tone as she pronounced the only name she could call hers. + +"Unorna?" Beatrice repeated, courteously enough, but with an air of +surprise. + +"Yes--that is all. It seems strange to you? They called me so because I +was born in February, in the month we call Unor. Indeed it is strange, +and so is my story--though it would have little interest for you." + +"Forgive me, you are wrong, It would interest me immensely--if you would +tell me a little of it; but I am such a stranger to you----" + +"I do not feel as though you are that," Unorna answered with a very +gentle smile. + +"You are very kind to say so," said Beatrice quietly. + +Unorna was perfectly well aware that it must seem strange, to say the +least of it, that she should tell Beatrice the wild story of her life, +when they had as yet exchanged barely a hundred words. But she cared +little what Beatrice thought, provided that she could interest her. She +had a distinct intention in making the time slip by unnoticed, until it +should be late. + +She related her history, so far as it was known to herself, simply and +graphically, substantially as it has been already set forth, but with an +abundance of anecdote and comment which enhanced the interest and at the +same time extended its limits, interspersing her monologues with remarks +which called for an answer and which served as tests of her companion's +attention. She hinted but lightly at her possession of unusual power +over animals, and spoke not at all of the influence she could exert upon +people. Beatrice listened eagerly. She could have told, on her part, +that for years her own life had been dull and empty, and that it was +long since she had talked with any one who had so roused her interest. + +At last Unorna was silent. She had reached the period of her life which +had begun a month before that time, and at that point her story ended. + +"Then you are not married?" Beatrice's tone expressed an interrogation +and a certain surprise. + +"No," said Unorna, "I am not married. And you, if I may ask?" + +Beatrice started visibly. It had not occurred to her that the question +might seem a natural one for Unorna to ask, although she had said that +she was alone in the world. Unorna might have supposed her to have lost +her husband. But Unorna could see that it was not surprise alone that +had startled her. The question, as she knew it must, had roused a deep +and painful train of thought. + +"No," said Beatrice, in an altered voice. "I am not married. I shall +never marry." + +A short silence followed, during which she turned her face away. + +"I have pained you," said Unorna with profound sympathy and regret. +"Forgive me! How could I be so tactless!" + +"How could you know?" Beatrice asked simply, not attempting to deny the +suggestion. + +But Unorna was suffering too. She had allowed herself to imagine that in +the long years which had passed Beatrice might perhaps have forgotten. +It had even crossed her mind that she might indeed be married. But in +the few words, and in the tremor that accompanied them, as well as in +the increased pallor of Beatrice's face, she detected a love not less +deep and constant and unforgotten than the Wanderer's own. + +"Forgive me," Unorna repeated. "I might have guessed. I have loved too." + +She knew that here, at least, she could not feign and she could not +control her voice, but with supreme judgment of the effect she allowed +herself to be carried beyond all reserve. In the one short sentence her +whole passion expressed itself, genuine, deep, strong, ruthless. She +let the words come as they would, and Beatrice was startled by the +passionate cry that burst from the heart, so wholly unrestrained. + +For a long time neither spoke again, and neither looked at the other. +To all appearances Beatrice was the first to regain her self-possession. +And then, all at once the words came to her lips which could be +restrained no longer. For years she had kept silence, for there had been +no one to whom she could speak. For years she had sought him, as best +she could, as he had sought her, fruitlessly and at last hopelessly. And +she had known that her father was seeking him also, everywhere, that +he might drag her to the ends of the earth at the mere suspicion of the +Wanderer's presence in the same country. It had amounted to a madness +with him of the kind not seldom seen. Beatrice might marry whom she +pleased, but not the one man she loved. Day by day and year by year +their two strong wills had been silently opposed, and neither the one +nor the other had ever been unconscious of the struggle, nor had either +yielded a hair's-breadth. But Beatrice had been at her father's mercy, +for he could take her whither he would, and in that she could not resist +him. Never in that time had she lost faith in the devotion of the man +she sought, and at last it was only in the belief that he was dead that +she could discover an explanation of his failure to find her. Still she +would not change, and still, through the years, she loved more and more +truly, and passionately, and unchangingly. + +The feeling that she was in the presence of a passion as great, as +unhappy, and as masterful as her own, unloosed her tongue. Such things +happen in this strange world. Men and women of deep and strong feedings, +outwardly cold, reserved, taciturn and proud, have been known, once in +their lives, to pour out the secrets of their hearts to a stranger or a +mere acquaintance, as they could never have done to a friend. + +Beatrice seemed scarcely conscious of what she was saying, or of +Unorna's presence. The words, long kept back and sternly restrained, +fell with a strange strength from her lips, and there was not one of +them from first to last that did not sheathe itself like a sharp knife +in Unorna's heart. The enormous jealousy of Beatrice which had been +growing within her beside her love during the last month was reaching +the climax of its overwhelming magnitude. She hardly knew when Beatrice +ceased speaking, for the words were still all ringing in her ears, and +clashing madly in her own breast, and prompting her fierce nature to do +some violent deed. But Beatrice looked for no sympathy and did not see +Unorna's face. She had forgotten Unorna herself at the last, as she sat +staring at the opposite wall. + +Then she rose quickly, and taking something from the jewel-box, thrust +it into Unorna's hands. + +"I cannot tell why I have told you--but I have. You shall see him too. +What does it matter? We have both loved, we are both unhappy--we shall +never meet again." + +"What is it?" Unorna tried to ask, holding the closed case in her +hands. She knew what was within it well enough, and her self-command was +forsaking her. It was almost more than she could bear. It was as though +Beatrice were wreaking vengeance on her, instead of her destroying her +rival as she had meant to do, sooner or later. + +Beatrice took the thing from her, opened it, gazed at it a moment, and +put it again into Unorna's hands. "It was like him," she said, watching +her companion as though to see what effect the portrait would produce. +Then she shrank back. + +Unorna was looking at her. Her face was livid and unnaturally drawn, and +the extraordinary contrast in the colour of her two eyes was horribly +apparent. The one seemed to freeze, the other to be on fire. The +strongest and worst passions that can play upon the human soul were all +expressed with awful force in the distorted mask, and not a trace of the +magnificent beauty so lately there was visible. Beatrice shrank back in +horror. + +"You know him!" she cried, half guessing at the truth. + +"I know him--and I love him," said Unorna slowly and fiercely, her eyes +fixed on her enemy, and gradually leaning towards her so as to bring her +face nearer and nearer to Beatrice. + +The dark woman tried to rise, and could not. There was worse than anger, +or hatred, or the intent to kill, in those dreadful eyes. There was +a fascination from which no living thing could escape. She tried to +scream, to shut out the vision, to raise her hand as a screen before it. +Nearer and nearer it came, and she could feel the warm breath of it upon +her cheek. Then her brain reeled, her limbs relaxed, and her head fell +back against the wall. + +"I know him, and I love him," were the last words Beatrice heard. + + + +CHAPTER XX[*] + + [*] The deeds here recounted are not imaginary. Not very + long ago the sacrilege which Unorna attempted was actually + committed at night in a Catholic church in London, under + circumstances that clearly proved the intention of some + person or persons to defile the consecrated wafers. A case + of hypnotic suggestion to the committal of a crime in a + convent occurred in Hungary not many years since, with a + different object, namely, a daring robbery, but precisely as + here described. A complete account of the case will be + found, with authority and evidence, in a pamphlet entitled + _Eine experimentale Studie auf dem Gebiete des Hypnotismus_, + by Dr. R. von Krafft-Ebing, Professor of Psychiatry and for + nervous diseases, in the University of Gratz. Second + Edition, Stuttgart, Ferdinand Enke, 1889. It is not + possible, in a work of fiction, to quote learned authorities + at every chapter, but it may be said here, and once for all, + that all the most important situations have been taken from + cases which have come under medical observation within the + last few years. + +Unorna was hardly conscious of what she had done. She had not had the +intention of making Beatrice sleep, for she had no distinct intention +whatever at that moment. Her words and her look had been but the natural +results of overstrained passion, and she repeated what she had said +again and again, and gazed long and fiercely into Beatrice's face before +she realised that she had unintentionally thrown her rival and enemy +into the intermediate state. It is rarely that the first stage of +hypnotism produces the same consequences in two different individuals. +In Beatrice it took the form of total unconsciousness, as though she had +merely fainted away. + +Unorna gradually regained her self-possession. After all, Beatrice had +told her nothing which she did not either wholly know or partly guess, +and her anger was not the result of the revelation but of the way in +which the story had been told. Word after word, phrase after phrase had +cut her and stabbed her to the quick, and when Beatrice had thrust the +miniature into her hands her wrath had risen in spite of herself. +But now that she had returned to a state in which she could think +connectedly, and now that she saw Beatrice asleep before her, she did +not regret what she had unwittingly done. From the first moment when, +in the balcony over the church, she had realised that she was in the +presence of the woman she hated, she had determined to destroy her. To +accomplish this she would in any case have used her especial weapons, +and though she had intended to steal by degrees upon her enemy, lulling +her to sleep by a more gentle fascination, at an hour when the whole +convent should be quiet, yet since the first step had been made +unexpectedly and without her will, she did not regret it. + +She leaned back and looked at Beatrice during several minutes, smiling +to herself from time to time, scornfully and cruelly. Then she rose and +locked the outer door and closed the inner one carefully. She knew from +long ago that no sound could then find its way to the corridor without. +She came back and sat down again, and again looked at the sleeping face, +and she admitted for the hundredth time that evening, that Beatrice was +very beautiful. + +"If he could see us now!" she exclaimed aloud. + +The thought suggested something to her. She would like to see herself +beside this other woman and compare the beauty he loved with the beauty +that could not touch him. It was very easy. She found a small mirror, +and set it up upon the back of the sofa, on a level with Beatrice's +head. Then she changed the position of the lamp and looked at herself, +and touched her hair, and smoothed her brow, and loosened the black lace +about her white throat. And she looked from herself to Beatrice, and +back to herself again, many times. + +"It is strange that black should suit us both so well--she so dark and I +so fair!" she said. "She will look well when she is dead." + +She gazed again for many seconds at the sleeping woman. + +"But he will not see her, then," she added, rising to her feet and +laying the mirror on the table. + +She began to walk up and down the room as was her habit when in deep +thought, turning over in her mind the deed to be done and the surest and +best way of doing it. It never occurred to her that Beatrice could +be allowed to live beyond that night. If the woman had been but an +unconscious obstacle in her path Unorna would have spared her life, but +as matters stood, she had no inclination to be merciful. + +There was nothing to prevent the possibility of a meeting between +Beatrice and the Wanderer, if Beatrice remained alive. They were in +the same city together, and their paths might cross at any moment. +The Wanderer had forgotten, but it was not sure that the artificial +forgetfulness would be proof against an actual sight of the woman once +so dearly loved. The same consideration was true of Beatrice. She, too, +might be made to forget, though it was always an experiment of uncertain +issue and of more than uncertain result, even when successful, so far as +duration was concerned. Unorna reasoned coldly with herself, recalling +all that Keyork Arabian had told her and all that she had read. She +tried to admit that Beatrice might be disposed of in some other way, +but the difficulties seemed to be insurmountable. To effect such a +disappearance Unorna must find some safe place in which the wretched +woman might drag out her existence undiscovered. But Beatrice was +not like the old beggar who in his hundredth year had leaned against +Unorna's door, unnoticed and uncared for, and had been taken in and had +never been seen again. The case was different. The aged scholar, too, +had been cared for as he could not have been cared for elsewhere, and, +in the event of an inquiry being made, he could be produced at any +moment, and would even afford a brilliant example of Unorna's charitable +doings. But Beatrice was a stranger and a person of some importance +in the world. The Cardinal Archbishop himself had directed the nuns to +receive her, and they were responsible for her safety. To spirit her +away in the night would be a dangerous thing. Wherever she was to be +taken, Unorna would have to lead her there alone. Unorna would herself +be missed. Sister Paul already suspected that the name of Witch was more +than a mere appellation. There would be a search made, and suspicion +might easily fall upon Unorna, who would have been obliged, of course, +to conceal her enemy in her own house for lack of any other convenient +place. + +There was no escape from the deed. Beatrice must die. Unorna could +produce death in a form which could leave no trace, and it would be +attributed to a weakness of the heart. Does any one account otherwise +for those sudden deaths which are no longer unfrequent in the world? +A man, a woman, is to all appearances in perfect health. He or she was +last seen by a friend, who describes the conversation accurately, and +expresses astonishment at the catastrophe which followed so closely upon +the visit. He, or she, is found alone by a servant, or a third person, +in a profound lethargy from which neither restoratives nor violent +shocks upon the nerves can produce any awakening. In one hour, or a +few hours, it is over. There is an examination, and the authorities +pronounce an ambiguous verdict--death from a syncope of the heart. Such +things happen, they say, with a shake of the head. And, indeed, they +know that such things really do happen, and they suspect that they do +not happen naturally; but there is no evidence, not even so much as +may be detected in a clever case of vegetable poisoning. The heart has +stopped beating, and death has followed. There are wise men by the score +to-day who do not ask "What made it stop?" but "Who made it stop?" But +they have no evidence to bring, and the new jurisprudence, which in some +countries covers the cases of thefts and frauds committed under hypnotic +suggestion, cannot as yet lay down the law for cases where a man has +been told to die, and dies--from "weakness of the heart." And yet it is +known, and well known, that by hypnotic suggestion the pulse can be made +to fall to the lowest number of beatings consistent with life, and that +the temperature of the body can be commanded beforehand to stand at a +certain degree and fraction of a degree at a certain hour, high or low, +as may be desired. Let those who do not believe read the accounts of +what is done from day to day in the great European seats of learning, +accounts of which every one bears the name of some man speaking with +authority and responsible to the world of science for every word he +speaks, and doubly so for every word he writes. A few believe in the +antiquated doctrine of electric animal currents, the vast majority are +firm in the belief that the influence is a moral one--all admit that +whatever force, or influence, lies at the root of hypnotism, the +effects it can produce are practically unlimited, terrible in their +comprehensiveness, and almost entirely unprovided for in the scheme of +modern criminal law. + +Unorna was sure of herself, and of her strength to perform what she +contemplated. There lay the dark beauty in the corner of the sofa, where +she had sat and talked so long, and told her last story, the story of +her life which was now to end. A few determined words spoken in her ear, +a pressure of the hand upon the brow and the heart, and she would never +wake again. She would lie there still, until they found her, hour after +hour, the pulse growing weaker and weaker, the delicate hands colder, +the face more set. At the last, there would be a convulsive shiver of +the queenly form, and that would be the end. The physicians and the +authorities would come and would speak of a weakness of the heart, and +there would be masses sung for her soul, and she would rest in peace. + +Her soul? In peace? Unorna stood still. Was that to be all her vengeance +upon the woman who stood between her and happiness? Was there to be +nothing but that, nothing but the painless passing of the pure young +spirit from earth to heaven? Was no one to suffer for all Unorna's pain? +It was not enough. There must be more than that. And yet, what more? +That was the question. What imaginable wealth of agony would be a just +retribution for her existence? Unorna could lead her, as she had led +Israel Kafka, through the life and death of a martyr, through a life +of wretchedness and a death of shame, but then, the moment must come at +last, since this was to be death indeed, and her spotless soul would be +beyond Unorna's reach forever. No, that was not enough. Since she could +not be allowed to live to be tormented, vengeance must follow her beyond +the end of life. + +Unorna stood still and an awful light of evil came into her face. A +thought of which the enormity would have terrified a common being had +entered her mind and taken possession of it. Beatrice was in her power. +Beatrice should die in mortal sin, and her soul would be lost for ever. + +For a long time she did not move, but stood looking down at the calm and +lovely face of her sleeping enemy, devising a crime to be imposed upon +her for her eternal destruction. Unorna was very superstitious, or the +hideous scheme could never have presented itself to her. To her mind +the deed was everything, whatever it was to be, and the intention or +the unconsciousness in doing it could have nothing to do with +the consequences to the soul of the doer. She made no theological +distinctions. Beatrice should commit some terrible crime and should die +in committing it. Then she would be lost, and devils would do in +hell the worst torment which Unorna could not do on earth. A crime--a +robbery, a murder--it must be done in the convent. Unorna hesitated, +bending her brows and poring in imagination over the dark catalogue of +all imaginable evil. + +A momentary and vague terror cast its shadow on her thoughts. By some +accident of connection between two ideas, her mind went back a month, +and reviewed as in a flash of light all that she had thought and done +since that day. She had greatly changed since then. She could think +calmly now of deeds which even she would not have dared then. She +thought of the evening when she had cried aloud that she would give her +soul to know the Wanderer safe, of the quick answer that had followed, +and of Keyork Arabian's face. Was he a devil, indeed, as she sometimes +fancied, and had there been a reality and a binding meaning in that +contract? + +Keyork Arabian! He, indeed, possessed the key to all evil. What would +he have done with Beatrice? Would he make her rob the church--murder the +abbess in her sleep? Bad, but not bad enough. + +Unorna started. A deed suggested itself so hellish, so horrible in its +enormity, so far beyond all conceivable human sin, that for one moment +her brain reeled. She shuddered again and again, and groped for support +and leaned against the wall in a bodily weakness of terror. For one +moment she, who feared nothing, was shaken by fear from head to foot, +her face turned white, her knees shook, her sight failed her, her teeth +chattered, her lips moved hysterically. + +But she was strong still. The thing she had sought had come to her +suddenly. She set her teeth, and thought of it again and again, till she +could face the horror of it without quaking. Is there any limit to the +hardening of the human heart? + +The distant bells rang out the call to midnight prayer. Unorna stopped +and listened. She had not known how quickly time was passing. But it was +better so. She was glad it was so late, and she said so to herself, but +the evil smile that was sometimes in her face was not there now. She +had thought a thought that left a mark on her forehead. Was there any +reality in that jesting contract with Keyork Arabian? + +She must wait before she did the deed. The nuns would go down into the +lighted church, and kneel and pray before the altar. It would last some +time, the midnight lessons, the psalms, the prayers--and she must be +sure that all was quiet, for the deed could not be done in the room +where Beatrice was sleeping. + +She was conscious of the time now, and every minute seemed an hour, and +every second was full of that one deed, done over and over again before +her eyes, until every awful detail of the awful whole was stamped +indelibly upon her brain. She had sat down now, and leaning forwards, +was watching the innocent woman and wondering how she would look when +she was doing it. But she was calm now, as she felt that she had never +been in her life. Her breath came evenly, her heart beat naturally, she +thought connectedly of what she was about to do. But the time seemed +endless. + +The distant clocks chimed the half hour, three-quarters, past midnight. +Still she waited. At the stroke of one she rose from her seat, and +standing beside Beatrice laid her hand upon the dark brow. + +A few questions, a few answers followed. She must assure herself that +her victim was in the right state to execute minutely all her commands. +Then she opened the door upon the corridor and listened. Not a sound +broke the intense stillness, and all was dark. The hanging lamp had been +extinguished and the nuns had all returned from the midnight service to +their cells. No one would be stirring now until four o'clock, and half +an hour was all that Unorna needed. + +She took Beatrice's hand. The dark woman rose with half-closed eyes and +set features. Unorna led her out into the dark passage. + +"It is light here," Unorna said. "You can see your way. But I am blind. +Take my hand--so--and now lead me to the church by the nun's staircase. +Make no noise." + +"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. The staircase is on the right of the door, and leads into the +choir. Go!" + +Without hesitation Beatrice led her out into the impenetrable gloom, +with swift, noiseless footsteps in the direction commanded, never +wavering nor hesitating whether to turn to the right or the left, but +walking as confidently as though in broad daylight. Unorna counted the +turnings and knew that there was no mistake. Beatrice was leading her +unerringly towards the staircase. They reached it, and began to descend +the winding steps. Unorna, holding her leader by one hand, steadied +herself with the other against the smooth, curved wall, fearing at +every moment lest she should stumble and fall in the total darkness. +But Beatrice never faltered. To her the way was as bright as though the +noonday sun had shone before her. + +The stairs ended abruptly against a door. Beatrice stood still. She had +received no further commands and the impulse ceased. + +"Draw back the bolt and take me into the church," said Unorna, who could +see nothing, but who knew that the nuns fastened the door behind them +when they returned into the convent. Beatrice obeyed without hesitation +and led her forward. + +They came out between the high carved seats of the choir, behind the +high altar. The church was not quite as dark as the staircase and +passages had been, and Unorna stood still for a moment. In some of the +chapels hanging lamps of silver were lighted, and their tiny flames +spread a faint radiance upwards and sideways, though not downwards, +sufficient to break the total obscurity to eyes accustomed for some +minutes to no light at all. The church stood, too, on a little eminence +in the city, where the air without was less murky and impenetrable with +the night mists, and though there was no moon the high upper windows +of the nave were distinctly visible in the gloomy height like great +lancet-shaped patches of gray upon a black ground. + +In the dimness, all objects took vast and mysterious proportions. A huge +giant reared his height against one of the pillars, crowned with a high, +pointed crown, stretching out one great shadowy hand into the gloom--the +tall pulpit was there, as Unorna knew, and the hand was the wooden +crucifix standing out in its extended socket. The black confessionals, +too, took shape, like monster nuns, kneeling in their heavy hoods and +veils, with heads inclined, behind the fluted pilasters, just within the +circle of the feeble chapel lights. Within the choir, the deep shadows +seemed to fill the carved stalls with the black ghosts of long dead +sisters, returned to their familiar seats out of the damp crypt below. +The great lectern in the midst of the half circle behind the high altar +became a hideous skeleton, headless, its straight arms folded on its +bony breast. The back of the high altar itself was a great throne +whereon sat in judgment a misty being of awful form, judging the dead +women all through the lonely night. The stillness was appalling. Not a +rat stirred. + +Unorna shuddered, not at what she saw, but at what she felt. She had +reached the place, and the doing of the deed was at hand. Beatrice stood +beside her erect, asleep, motionless, her dark face just outlined in the +surrounding dusk. + +Unorna took her hand and led her forwards. She could see now, and the +moment had come. She brought Beatrice before the high altar and made +her stand in front of it. Then she herself went back and groped for +something in the dark. It was the pair of small wooden steps upon +which the priest mounts in order to open the golden door of the high +tabernacle above the altar, when it is necessary to take therefrom the +Sacred Host for the Benediction, or other consecrated wafers for the +administration of the Communion. To all Christians, of all denominations +whatsoever, the bread-wafer when once consecrated is a holy thing. To +Catholics and Lutherans there is there, substantially, the Presence of +God. No imaginable act of sacrilege can be more unpardonable than the +desecration of the tabernacle and the wilful defilement and destruction +of the Sacred Host. + +This was Unorna's determination. Beatrice should commit this crime +against Heaven, and then die with the whole weight of it upon her soul, +and thus should her soul itself be tormented for ever and ever to ages +of ages. + +Considering what she believed, it is no wonder that she should have +shuddered at the tremendous thought. And yet, in the distortion of her +reasoning, the sin would be upon Beatrice who did the act, and not upon +herself who commanded it. There was no diminution of her own faith +in the sacredness of the place and the holiness of the consecrated +object--had she been one whit less sure of that, her vengeance would +have been vain and her whole scheme meaningless. + +She came back out of the darkness and set the wooden steps in their +place before the altar at Beatrice's feet. Then, as though to save +herself from all participation in the guilt of the sacrilege which was +to follow, she withdrew outside the Communion rail, and closed the gate +behind her. + +Beatrice, obedient to her smallest command, and powerless to move or +act without her suggestion, stood still as she had been placed, with her +back to the church and her face to the altar. Above her head the richly +wrought door of the tabernacle caught what little light there was and +reflected it from its own uneven surface. + +Unorna paused a moment, looked at the shadowy figure, and then glanced +behind her into the body of the church, not out of any ghostly fear, but +to assure herself that she was alone with her victim. She saw that all +was quite ready, and then she calmly knelt down just upon one side of +the gate and rested her folded hands upon the marble railing. A moment +of intense stillness followed. Again the thought of Keyork Arabian +flashed across her mind. Had there been any reality, she vaguely +wondered, in that compact made with him? What was she doing now? But the +crime was to be Beatrice's, not hers. Her heart beat fast for a moment, +and then she grew very calm again. + +The clock in the church tower chimed the first quarter past one. She +was able to count the strokes and was glad to find that she had lost no +time. As soon as the long, singing echo of the bells had died away, she +spoke, not loudly, but clearly and distinctly. + +"Beatrice Varanger, go forward and mount the steps I have placed for +you." + +The dark figure moved obediently, and Unorna heard the slight sound of +Beatrice's foot upon the wood. The shadowy form rose higher and higher +in the gloom, and stood upon the altar itself. + +"Now do as I command you. Open wide the door of the tabernacle." + +Unorna watched the black form intently. It seemed to stretch out its +hand as though searching for something, and then the arm fell again to +the side. + +"Do as I command you," Unorna repeated with the angry and dominant +intonation that always came into her voice when she was not obeyed. + +Again the hand was raised for a moment, groped in the darkness and sank +down into the shadow. + +"Beatrice Varanger, you must do my will. I order you to open the door +of the tabernacle, to take out what is within and to throw it to the +ground!" Her voice rang clearly through the church. "And may the crime +be on your soul for ever and ever," she added in a low voice. + +A third time the figure moved. A strange flash of light played for a +moment upon the tabernacle, the effect, Unorna thought, of the golden +door being suddenly opened. + +But she was wrong. The figure moved, indeed, and stretched out a hand +and moved again. A sudden crash of something very heavy, falling upon +stone, broke the great stillness--the dark form tottered, reeled and +fell to its length upon the great altar. Unorna saw that the golden door +was still closed, and that Beatrice had fallen. Unable to move or act by +her own free judgment, and compelled by Unorna's determined command, she +had made a desperate effort to obey. Unorna had forgotten that there was +a raised step upon the altar itself, and that there were other obstacles +in the way, including heavy candlesticks and the framed Canon of the +Mass, all of which are usually set aside before the tabernacle is opened +by the priest. In attempting to do as she was told, the sleeping woman +had stumbled, had overbalanced herself, had clutched one of the great +silver candlesticks so that it fell heavily beside her, and then, having +no further support, she had fallen herself. + +Unorna sprang to her feet and hastily opened the gate of the railing. In +a moment she was standing by the altar at Beatrice's head. She could see +that the dark eyes were open now. The great shock had recalled her to +consciousness. + +"Where am I?" she asked in great distress, seeing nothing in the +darkness now, and groping with her hands. + +"Sleep--be silent and sleep!" said Unorna in low, firm tones, pressing +her palm upon the forehead. + +"No--no!" cried the startled woman in a voice of horror. "No--I will not +sleep--no, do not touch me! Oh, where am I--help! Help!" + +She was not hurt. With one strong, lithe movement, she sprang to the +ground and stood with her back to the altar, her hands stretched out to +defend herself from Unorna. But Unorna knew what extreme danger she was +in if Beatrice left the church awake and conscious of what had happened. +She seized the moving arms and tried to hold them down, pressing her +face forward so as to look into the dark eyes she could but faintly +distinguish. It was no easy matter, however, for Beatrice was young and +strong and active. Then all at once she began to see Unorna's eyes, as +Unorna could see hers, and she felt the terrible influence stealing over +her again. + +"No--no--no!" she cried, struggling desperately. "You shall not make me +sleep. I will not--I will not!" + +There was a flash of light again in the church, this time from behind +the high altar, and the noise of quick footsteps. But neither Unorna nor +Beatrice noticed the light or the sound. Then the full glow of a strong +lamp fell upon the faces of both and dazzled them, and Unorna felt a +cool thin hand upon her own. Sister Paul was beside them, her face very +white and her faded eyes turning from the one to the other. + +It was very simple. Soon after Compline was over the nun had gone to +Unorna's room, had knocked and had entered. To her surprise Unorna +was not there, but Sister Paul imagined that she had lingered over her +prayers and would soon return. The good nun had sat down to wait for +her, and telling her beads had fallen asleep. The unaccustomed warmth +and comfort of the guest's room had been too much for the weariness +that constantly oppressed a constitution broken with ascetic practices. +Accustomed by long habit to awake at midnight to attend the service, her +eyes opened of themselves, indeed, but a full hour later than usual. +She heard the clock strike one, and for a moment could not believe her +senses. Then she understood that she had been asleep, and was amazed +to find that Unorna had not come back. She went out hastily into the +corridor. The lay sister had long ago extinguished the hanging lamp, but +Sister Paul saw the light streaming from Beatrice's open door. She went +in and called aloud. The bed had not been touched. Beatrice was not +there. Sister Paul began to think that both the ladies must have gone to +the midnight service. The corridors were dark and they might have lost +their way. She took the lamp from the table and went to the balcony at +which the guests performed their devotion. It had been her light that +had flashed across the door of the tabernacle. She had looked down into +the choir, and far below her had seen a figure, unrecognisable from +that height in the dusk of the church, but clearly the figure of a woman +standing upon the altar. Visions of horror rose before her eyes of the +sacrilegious practices of witchcraft, for she had thought of nothing +else during the whole evening. Lamp in hand she descended the stairs to +the choir and reached the altar, providentially, just in time to save +Beatrice from falling a victim again to the evil fascination of the +enemy who had planned the destruction of her soul as well as of her +body. + +"What is this? What are you doing in this holy place and at this hour?" +asked Sister Paul, solemnly and sternly. + +Unorna folded her arms and was silent. No possible explanation of the +struggle presented itself even to her quick intellect. She fixed her +eyes on the nun's face, concentrating all her will, for she knew that +unless she could control her also, she herself was lost. Beatrice +answered the question, drawing herself up proudly against the great +altar and pointing at Unorna with her outstretched hand, her dark eyes +flashing indignantly. + +"We were talking together, this woman and I. She looked at me--she was +angry--and then I fainted, or fell asleep, I cannot tell which. I awoke +in the dark to find myself lying upon the altar here. Then she took +hold of me and tried to make me sleep again. But I would not. Let her +explain, herself, what she has done, and why she brought me here!" + +Sister Paul turned to Unorna and met the full glare of the unlike eyes, +with her own calm, half heavenly look of innocence. + +"What have you done, Unorna? What have you done?" she asked very sadly. + +But Unorna did not answer. She only looked at the nun more fixedly and +savagely. She felt that she might as well have looked upon some ancient +picture of a saint in heaven, and bid it close its eyes. But she would +not give up the attempt, for her only safety lay in its success. For a +long time Sister Paul returned her gaze steadily. + +"Sleep!" said Unorna, putting up her hand. "Sleep, I command you!" + +But Sister Paul's eyes did not waver. A sad smile played for a moment +upon her waxen features. + +"You have no power over me--for your power is not of good," she said, +slowly and softly. + +Then she quietly turned to Beatrice, and took her hand. + +"Come with me, my daughter," she said. "I have a light and will take +you to a place where you will be safe. She will not trouble you any more +to-night. Say a prayer, my child, and do not be afraid." + +"I am not afraid," said Beatrice. "But where is she?" she asked +suddenly. + +Unorna had glided away while they were speaking. Sister Paul held the +lamp high and looked in all directions. Then she heard the heavy door of +the sacristy swing upon its hinges and strike with a soft thud against +the small leathern cushion. Both women followed her, but as they opened +the door again a blast of cold air almost extinguished the lamp. The +night wind was blowing in from the street. + +"She is gone out," said Sister Paul. "Alone and at this hour--Heaven +help her!" It was as she said, Unorna had escaped. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +After leaving Unorna at the convent, the Wanderer had not hesitated as +to the course he should pursue. It was quite clear that the only person +to whom he could apply at the present juncture was Keyork Arabian. Had +he been at liberty to act in the most natural and simple way, he would +have applied to the authorities for a sufficient force with which to +take Israel Kafka into custody as a dangerous lunatic. He was well +aware, however, that such a proceeding must lead to an inquiry of a more +or less public nature, of which the consequences might be serious, or +at least extremely annoying, to Unorna. Of the inconvenience to which he +might himself be exposed, he would have taken little account, though his +position would have been as difficult to explain as any situation could +be. The important point was to prevent the possibility of Unorna's name +being connected with an open scandal. Every present circumstance in +the case was directly or indirectly the result of Unorna's unreasoning +passion for himself, and it was clearly his duty, as a man of honour, to +shield her from the consequences of her own acts, as far as lay in his +power. + +He did not indeed believe literally all that she had told him in her mad +confession. Much of that, he was convinced, was but a delusion. It might +be possible, indeed, for Unorna to produce forgetfulness of such a dream +as she impressed upon Kafka's mind in the cemetery that same afternoon, +or even, perhaps, of some real circumstance of merely relative +importance in a man's life; but the Wanderer could not believe that +it was in her power to destroy the memory of the great passion through +which she pretended that he himself had passed. He smiled at the idea, +for he had always trusted his own senses and his own memory. Unorna's +own mind was clearly wandering, or else she had invented the story, +supposing him credulous enough to believe it. In either case it did not +deserve a moment's consideration except as showing to what lengths her +foolish and ill-bestowed love could lead her. + +Meanwhile she was in danger. She had aroused the violent and deadly +resentment of Israel Kafka, a man who, if not positively insane, as +Keyork Arabian had hinted, was by no means in a normal state of mind or +body, a man beside himself with love and anger, and absolutely +reckless of life for the time being, a man who, for the security of all +concerned, must be at least temporarily confined in a place of safety, +until a proper treatment and the lapse of a certain length of time +should bring him to his senses. For the present, he was wholly +untractable, being at the mercy of the most uncontrolled passions and of +one of those intermittent phases of blind fatalism to which the Semitic +races are peculiarly subject. + +There were two reasons which determined the Wanderer to turn to Keyork +Arabian for assistance, besides his wish to see the bad business end +quickly and without publicity. Keyork, so far as the Wanderer was aware, +was himself treating Israel Kafka's case, and would therefore know what +to do, if any one knew at all. Secondly, it was clear from the message +which Unorna had left with the porter of her own house that she expected +Keyork to come at any moment. He was then in immediate danger of being +brought face to face with Israel Kafka without having received the least +warning of his present condition, and it was impossible to say what the +infuriated youth might do at such a moment. He had been shut up, caught +in his own trap, as it were, for some time, and his anger and madness +might reasonably be supposed to have been aggravated rather than cooled +by his unexpected confinement. It was as likely as not that he would use +the weapon he carried upon the first person with whom he found himself +face to face, especially if that person made any attempt to overpower +and disarm him. + +The Wanderer drove to Keyork Arabian's house, and leaving his carriage +to wait in case of need, ascended the stairs and knocked at the door. +For some reason or other Keyork would not have a bell in his dwelling, +whether because, like Mahomet, he regarded the bell as the devil's +instrument, or because he was really nervously sensitive to the sound +of one, nobody had ever discovered. The Wanderer knocked therefore, and +Keyork answered the knock in person. + +"My dear friend!" he exclaimed in his richest and deepest voice, as he +recognised the Wanderer. "Come in. I am delighted to see you. You will +join me at supper. This is good indeed!" + +He took his visitor by the arm and led him in. Upon one of the tables +stood a round brass platter covered, so far as it was visible, with +Arabic inscriptions, and highly polished--one of those commonly used all +over the East at the present day for the same purpose. Upon this were +placed at random several silver bowls, mere hemispheres without feet, +remaining in a convenient position by their own weight. One of these +contained snowy rice, in that perfectly dry but tender state dear to +the taste of Orientals, in another there was a savoury, steaming mess of +tender capon, chopped in pieces with spices and aromatic herbs, a third +contained a pure white curd of milk, and a fourth was heaped up +with rare fruits. A flagon of Bohemian glass, clear and bright as +rock-crystal, and covered with very beautiful traceries of black and +gold, with a drinking-vessel of the same design, stood upon the table +beside the platter. + +"My simple meal," said Keyork, spreading out his hands, and smiling +pleasantly. "You will share it with me. There will be enough for two." + +"So far as I am concerned, I should say so," the Wanderer answered with +a smile. "But my business is rather urgent." + +Suddenly he saw that there was a third person in the room, and glanced +at Keyork in surprise. + +"I want to speak a few words with you alone," he said. "I would not +trouble you but----" + +"Not in the least, not in the least, my dear friend!" asseverated +Keyork, motioning him to a chair beside the board. + +"But we are not alone," observed the Wanderer, still standing and +looking at the stranger. Keyork saw the glance and understood. He broke +into peals of laughter. + +"That!" he exclaimed, presently. "That is only the Individual. He will +not disturb us. Pray be seated." + +"I assure you that my business is very private--" the Wanderer objected. + +"Quite so--of course. But there is nothing to fear. The Individual is my +servant--a most excellent creature who has been with me for many years. +He cooks for me, cleans the specimens, and takes care of me in all ways. +A most reliable man, I assure you." + +"Of course, if you can answer for his discretion----" + +The Individual was standing at a little distance from the table +observing the two men intently but respectfully with his keen little +black eyes. The rest of his square, dark face expressed nothing. He had +perfectly straight, jet-black hair which hung evenly all around his head +and flat against his cheeks. He was dressed entirely in a black robe +of the nature of a kaftan, gathered closely round his waist by a black +girdle, and fitting tightly over his stalwart shoulders. + +"His discretion is beyond all doubt," Keyork answered, "and for the best +of all reasons. He is totally deaf and dumb and absolutely illiterate. +I brought him years ago in Astrakhan, of a Russian friend. He is very +clever with his fingers. It is he who stole for me the Malayan lady's +head over there, after she was executed. And now, my dear friend, let us +have supper." + +There were neither plates nor knives nor forks upon the table, and at +a sign from Keyork the Individual retired to procure those Western +incumbrances to eating. The Wanderer, acquainted as he had long been +with his host's eccentricities, showed little surprise, but understood +that whatever he said would not be overheard, any more than if they had +been alone. He hesitated a moment, however, for he had not determined +exactly how far it was necessary to acquaint Keyork with the +circumstances, and he was anxious to avoid all reference to Unorna's +folly in regard to himself. The Individual returned, bringing, with +other things, a drinking-glass for the Wanderer. Keyork filled it and +then filled his own. It was clear that ascetic practices formed no part +of his scheme for the prolongation of life. As he raised his glass to +his lips, his bright eyes twinkled. + +"To Keyork's long life and happiness," he said calmly, and then sipped +the wine. "And now for your story," he added, brushing the brown drops +from his white moustache with a small damask napkin which the Individual +presented to him and immediately received again, to throw it aside as +unfit for a second use. + +"I hardly think that we can afford to linger over supper," the Wanderer +said, noticing Keyork's coolness with some anxiety. "The case is urgent. +Israel Kafka has lost his head completely. He has sworn to kill Unorna, +and is at the present moment confined in the conservatory in her house." + +The effect of the announcement upon Keyork was so extraordinary that +the Wanderer started, not being prepared for any manifestation of what +seemed to be the deepest emotion. The gnome sprang from the table with a +cry that would have been like the roar of a wounded wild beast if it had +not articulated a terrific blasphemy. + +"Unorna is quite safe," the Wanderer hastened to say. + +"Safe--where?" shouted the little man, his hands already on his furs. +The Individual, too, had sprung across the room like a cat and was +helping him. In five seconds Keyork would have been out of the house. + +"In a convent. I took her there, and saw the gate close behind her." + +Keyork dropped his furs and stood still a moment. The Individual, always +unmoved, rearranged the coat and cap neatly in their place, following +all his master's movements, however, with his small eyes. Then the sage +broke out in a different strain. He flung his arms round the Wanderer's +body and attempted to embrace him. + +"You have saved my life!--the curse of the three black angels on you for +not saying so first!" he cried in an agony of ecstasy. "Preserver! What +can I do for you?--Saviour of my existence, how can I repay you! You +shall live forever, as I will; you shall have all my secrets; the gold +spider shall spin her web in your dwelling; the Part of Fortune shall +shine on your path, it shall rain jewels on your roof; and your winter +shall have snows of pearls--you shall--" + +"Good Heavens! Keyork," interrupted the Wanderer. "Are you mad? What is +the matter with you?" + +"Mad? The matter? I love you! I worship you! I adore you! You have saved +her life, and you have saved mine; you have almost killed me with fright +and joy in two moments, you have--" + +"Be sensible, Keyork. Unorna is quite safe, but we must do something +about Kafka and--" + +The rest of his speech was drowned in another shout from the gnome, +ending in a portentous peal of laughter. He had taken his glass again +and was toasting himself. + +"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. + +"Perfectly," returned Keyork, growing quite calm again. "The locks are +very good on those doors. I saw to them myself." + +"But some one else--" + +"There is no some one else," interrupted the sage sharply. "Only three +persons can enter the house without question--you, I, and Kafka. You and +I are here, and Kafka is there already. When we have eaten we will go to +him, and I flatter myself that the last state of the young man will be +so immeasurably worse than the first, that he will not recognise himself +when I have done with him." + +He had helped his friend and began eating. Somewhat reassured the +Wanderer followed his example. Under the circumstances it was as well +to take advantage of the opportunity for refreshment. No one could tell +what might happen before morning. + +"It just occurs to me," said Keyork, fixing his keen eyes on his +companion's face, "that you have told me absolutely nothing, except that +Kafka is mad and that Unorna is safe." + +"Those are the most important points," observed the Wanderer. + +"Precisely. But I am sure that you will not think me indiscreet if I +wish to know a little more. For instance, what was the immediate cause +of Kafka's extremely theatrical and unreasonable rage? That would +interest me very much. Of course, he is mad, poor boy! But I take +delight in following out the workings of an insane intellect. Now there +are no phases of insanity more curious than those in which the patient +is possessed with a desire to destroy what he loves best. These cases +are especially worthy of study because they happen so often in our day." + +The Wanderer saw that some explanation was necessary and he determined +to give one in as few words as possible. + +"Unorna and I had strolled into the Jewish Cemetery," he said. "While +we were talking there, Israel Kafka suddenly came upon us and spoke and +acted very wildly. He is madly in love with her. She became very angry +and would not let me interfere. Then, by way of punishment for his +intrusion I suppose, she hypnotised him and made him believe that he was +Simon Abeles, and brought the whole of the poor boy's life so vividly +before me, as I listened, that I actually seemed to see the scenes. I +was quite unable to stop her or to move from where I stood, though I was +quite awake. But I realised what was going on and I was disgusted at her +cruelty to the unfortunate man. He fainted at the end, but when he came +to himself he seemed to remember nothing. I took him home and Unorna +went away by herself. Then he questioned me so closely as to what had +happened that I was weak enough to tell him the truth. Of course, as +a fervent Hebrew, which he seems to be, he did not relish the idea of +having played the Christian martyr for Unorna's amusement, and amidst +the graves of his own people. He there and then impressed me that he +intended to take Unorna's life without delay, but insisted that I should +warn her of her danger, saying that he would not be a common murderer. +Seeing that he was mad and in earnest I went to her. There was some +delay, which proved fortunate, as it turned out, for we left the +conservatory by the small door just as he was entering from the other +end. We locked it behind us, and going round by the passages locked the +other door upon him also, so that he was caught in a trap. And there he +is, unless some one has let him out." + +"And then you took Unorna to the convent?" Keyork had listened +attentively. + +"I took her to the convent, promising to come to her when she should +send for me. Then I saw that I must consult you before doing anything +more. It will not do to make a scandal of the matter." + +"No," answered Keyork thoughtfully. "It will not do." + +The Wanderer had told his story with perfect truth and yet in a way +which entirely concealed the very important part Unorna's passion for +him had played in the sequence of events. Seeing that Keyork asked no +further questions he felt satisfied that he had accomplished his purpose +as he had intended, and that the sage suspected nothing. He would have +been very much disconcerted had he known that the latter had long been +aware of Unorna's love, and was quite able to guess at the cause of +Kafka's sudden appearance and extreme excitement. Indeed, so soon as he +had finished the short narrative, his mind reverted with curiosity to +Keyork himself, and he wondered what the little man had meant by his +amazing outburst of gratitude on hearing of Unorna's safety. Perhaps +he loved her. More impossible things than that had occurred in the +Wanderer's experience. Or, possibly, he had an object to gain in +exaggerating his thankfulness to Unorna's preserver. He knew that +Keyork rarely did anything without an object, and that, although he was +occasionally very odd and excitable, he was always in reality perfectly +well aware of what he was doing. He was roused from his speculations by +Keyork's voice. + +"There will be no difficulty in securing Kafka," he said. "The real +question is, what shall we do with him? He is very much in the way +at present, and he must be disposed of at once, or we shall have more +trouble. How infinitely more to the purpose it would have been if he had +wisely determined to cut his own throat instead of Unorna's! But young +men are so thoughtless!" + +"I will only say one thing," said the Wanderer, "and then I will leave +the direction to you. The poor fellow has been driven mad by Unorna's +caprice and cruelty. I am determined that he shall not be made to suffer +gratuitously anything more." + +"Do you think that Unorna was intentionally cruel to him?" inquired +Keyork. "I can hardly believe that. She has not a cruel nature." + +"You would have changed your mind, if you had seen her this afternoon. +But that is not the question. I will not allow him to be ill-treated." + +"No, no! of course not!" Keyork answered with eager assent. "But +of course you will understand that we have to deal with a dangerous +lunatic, and that it may be necessary to use whatever means are most +sure and certain." + +"I shall not quarrel with your means," the Wanderer said quietly, +"provided that there is no unnecessary brutality. If I see anything of +the kind I will take the matter into my own hands." + +"Certainly, certainly!" said the other, eyeing with curiosity the +man who spoke so confidently of taking out of Keyork Arabian's grasp +whatever had once found its way into it. + +"He shall be treated with every consideration," the Wanderer continued. +"Of course, if he is very violent, we shall have to use force." + +"We will take the Individual with us," said Keyork. "He is very strong. +He has a trick of breaking silver florins with his thumbs and fingers +which is very pretty." + +"I fancy that you and I could manage him. It is a pity that neither of +us has the faculty of hypnotising. This would be the proper time to use +it." + +"A great pity. But there are other things that will do almost as well." + +"What, for instance?" + +"A little ether in a sponge. He would only struggle a moment, and +then he would be much more really unconscious than if he had been +hypnotised." + +"Is it quite painless?" + +"Quite, if you give it gradually. If you hurry the thing, the man feels +as though he were being smothered. But the real difficulty is what to do +with him, as I said before." + +"Take him home and get a keeper from the lunatic asylum," the Wanderer +suggested. + +"Then comes the whole question of an inquiry into his sanity," objected +Keyork. "We come back to the starting-point. We must settle all this +before we go to him. A lunatic asylum is not a club in this country. +There is a great deal of formality connected with getting into it, and +a great deal more connected with getting out. Now, I could not get a +keeper for Kafka without going to the physician in charge and making +a statement, and demanding an examination, and all the rest of it. And +Israel Kafka is a person of importance among his own people. He comes of +great Jews in Moravia, and we should have the whole Jews' quarter--which +means nearly the whole of Prague, in a broad sense--about our ears +in twenty-four hours. No, no, my friend. To avoid an enormous scandal +things must be done very quietly indeed." + +"I cannot see anything to be done, then, unless we bring him here," said +the Wanderer, falling into the trap from sheer perplexity. Everything +that Keyork had said was undeniably true. + +"He would be a nuisance in the house," answered the sage, not wishing, +for reasons of his own, to appear to accept the proposition too eagerly. +"Not but that the Individual would make a capital keeper. He is as +gentle as he is strong, and as quick as a tiger-cat." + +"So far as that is concerned," said the Wanderer coolly, "I could take +charge of him myself, if you did not object to my presence." + +"You do not trust me," said the other, with a sharp glance. + +"My dear Keyork, we are old acquaintances, and I trust you implicitly +to do whatever you have predetermined to do for the advantage of your +studies, unless some one interferes with you. You have no more respect +for human life or sympathy for human suffering than you have belief +in the importance of anything not conducive to your researches. I am +perfectly well aware that if you thought you could learn something by +making experiments upon the body of Israel Kafka, you would not scruple +to make a living mummy of him, you would do it without the least +hesitation. I should expect to find him with his head cut off, living +by means of a glass heart and thinking through a rabbit's brain. That is +the reason why I do not trust you. Before I could deliver him into your +hands, I would require of you a contract to give him back unhurt--and a +contract of the kind you would consider binding." + +Keyork Arabian wondered whether Unorna, in the recklessness of her +passion, had betrayed the nature of the experiment they had been making +together, but a moment's reflection told him that he need have no +anxiety on this score. He understood the Wanderer's nature too well to +suspect him of wishing to convey a covert hint instead of saying openly +what was in his mind. + +"Taste one of these oranges," he said, by way of avoiding an answer. +"they have just come from Smyrna." The Wanderer smiled as he took the +proffered fruit. + +"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. So far from taking your distrust ill, +I regard it as a providentially fortunate bias of your mind, since it +will keep us together for a time. You will be the only loser. You see +how simply I live." + +"There is a simplicity which is the extremest development of refined +sybarism," the Wanderer said, smiling again. "I know your simplicity of +old. It consists of getting precisely what you want, and in producing +local earthquakes and revolutions when you cannot get it. Moreover you +want what is good--to the taste, at least." + +"There is something in that," answered Keyork with a merry twinkle in +his eye. "Happiness is a matter of speculation. Comfort is a matter of +fact. Most men are uncomfortable, because they do not know what they +want. If you have tastes, study them. If you have intelligence, apply it +to the question of gratifying your tastes. Consult yourself first--and +nobody second. Consider this orange--I am fond of oranges and they +suit my constitution admirably. Consider the difficulty I have had in +procuring it at this time of year--not in the wretched condition in +which they are sold in the market, plucked half green in Spain or Italy +and ripened on the voyage in the fermenting heat of the decay of those +which are already rotten--but ripe from the tree and brought to me +directly by the shortest and quickest means possible. Consider this +orange, I say. Do you vainly imagine that if I had but two or three like +it I would offer you one?" + +"I would not be so rash as to imagine anything of the kind, my dear +Keyork. I know you very well. If you offer me one it is because you have +a week's supply at least." + +"Exactly," said Keyork. "And a few to spare, because they will only +keep a week as I like them, and because I would no more run the risk +of missing my orange a week hence for your sake, than I would deprive +myself of it to-day." + +"And that is your simplicity." + +"That is my simplicity. It is indeed a perfectly simple matter, for +there is only one idea in it, and in all things I carry that one idea +out to its ultimate expression. That one idea, as you very well put it, +is to have exactly what I want in this world." + +"And will you be getting what you want in having me quartered upon you +as poor Israel Kafka's keeper?" asked the Wanderer, with an expression +of amusement. But Keyork did not wince. + +"Precisely," he answered without hesitation. "In the first place you +will relieve me of much trouble and responsibility, and the Individual +will not be so often called away from his manifold and important +household duties. In the second place I shall have a most agreeable and +intelligent companion with whom I can talk as long as I like. In the +third place I shall undoubtedly satisfy my curiosity." + +"In what respect, if you please?" + +"I shall discover the secret of your wonderful interest in Israel +Kafka's welfare. I always like to follow the workings of a brain +essentially different from my own, philanthropic, of course. How could +it be anything else? Philanthropy deals with a class of ideas wholly +unfamiliar to me. I shall learn much in your society." + +"And possibly I shall learn something from you," the Wanderer answered. +"There is certainly much to be learnt. I wonder whether your ideas upon +all subjects are as simple as those you hold about oranges." + +"Absolutely. I make no secret of my principles. Everything I do is for +my own advantage." + +"Then," observed the Wanderer, "the advantage of Unorna's life must be +an enormous one to you, to judge by your satisfaction at her safety." + +Keyork stared at him a moment and then laughed, but less heartily and +loudly than usual his companion fancied. + +"Very good!" he exclaimed. "Excellent! I fell into the trap like a rat +into a basin of water. You are indeed an interesting companion, my dear +friend--so interesting that I hope we shall never part again." There was +a rather savage intonation in the last words. + +They looked at each other intently, neither wincing nor lowering his +gaze. The Wanderer saw that he had touched upon Keyork's greatest and +most important secret, and Keyork fancied that his companion knew more +than he actually did. But nothing further was said, for Keyork was far +too wise to enter into explanation, and the Wanderer knew well enough +that if he was to learn anything it must be by observation and not by +questioning. Keyork filled both glasses in silence and both men drank +before speaking again. + +"And now that we have refreshed ourselves," he said, returning naturally +to his former manner, "we will go and find Israel Kafka. It is as well +that we should have given him a little time to himself. He may have +returned to his senses without any trouble on our part. Shall we take +the Individual?" + +"As you please," the Wanderer answered indifferently as he rose from his +place. + +"It is very well for you not to care," observed Keyork. "You are big +and strong and young, whereas I am a little man and very old at that. +I shall take him for my own protection. I confess that I value my life +very highly. It is a part of that simplicity which you despise. That +devil of a Jew is armed, you say?" + +"I saw something like a knife in his hand, as we shut him in," said the +Wanderer with the same indifference as before. + +"Then I will take the Individual," Keyork answered promptly. "A man's +bare hands must be strong and clever to take a man's life in a scuffle, +and few men can use a pistol to any purpose. But a knife is a weapon of +precision. I will take the Individual, decidedly." + +He made a few rapid signs, and the Individual disappeared, coming back a +moment later attired in a long coat not unlike his master's except that +the fur of the great collar was of common fox instead of being of sable. +Keyork drew his peaked cape comfortably down over the tips of his ears. + +"The ether!" he exclaimed. "How forgetful I am growing! Your charming +conversation had almost made me forget the object of our visit!" + +He went back and took the various things he needed. Then the three men +went out together. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +More than an hour had elapsed since the Wanderer and Unorna had finally +turned the key upon Israel Kafka, leaving him to his own reflections. +During the first moments he made desperate efforts to get out of the +conservatory, throwing himself with all his weight and strength against +the doors and thrusting the point of his long knife into the small +apertures of the locks. Then, seeing that every attempt was fruitless, +he desisted and sat down, in a state of complete exhaustion. A reaction +began to set in after the furious excitement of the afternoon, and he +felt all at once that it would be impossible for him to make another +step or raise his arm to strike. A man less sound originally in bodily +constitution would have broken down sooner, and it was a proof of Israel +Kafka's extraordinary vigour and energy that he did not lose his senses +in a delirious fever at the moment when he felt that his strength could +bear no further strain. + +But his thoughts, such as they were, did not lack clearness. He saw that +his opportunity was gone, and he began to think of the future, wondering +what would take place next. Assuredly when he had come to Unorna's house +with the fixed determination to take her life, the last thing that +he had expected had been to be taken prisoner and left to his own +meditations. It was clear that the Wanderer's warning had been conveyed +without loss of time and had saved Unorna from her immediate fate. +Nevertheless, he did not regret having given her the opportunity of +defending herself. He had not meant that there should be any secret +about the deed, for he was ready to sacrifice his own life in executing +it. + +Yet he was not altogether brave. He had neither Unorna's innate +indifference to physical danger, nor the Wanderer's calm superiority to +fear. He would not have made a good soldier, and he could not have faced +another man's pistol at fifteen paces without experiencing a mental and +bodily commotion not unlike terror, which he might or might not have +concealed from others, but which would in any case have been painfully +apparent to himself. + +It is a noticeable fact in human nature that a man of even ordinary +courage will at any time, when under excitement, risk his life rather +than his happiness. Moreover, an immense number of individuals, +naturally far from brave, destroy their own lives yearly in the moment +when all chances of happiness are temporarily eclipsed. 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. The fact of having been +made to play a part which to him seemed at once blasphemous and ignoble +had indeed turned the scale, but was not the motive. In all things, +the final touch which destroys the balance is commonly mistaken for the +force which has originally produced a state of unstable equilibrium, +whereas there is very often no connection between the one and the other. +The Moravian himself believed that the sacrifice of Unorna, and of +himself afterwards, was to be an expiation of the outrage Unorna had put +upon his faith in his own person. He had merely seized upon the first +excuse which presented itself for ending all, because he was in reality +past hope. + +We have, as yet, no absolute test of sanity, as we have of fever in the +body and of many other unnatural conditions of the human organism. +The only approximately accurate judgments in the patient's favour +are obtained from examinations into the relative consecutiveness and +consistency of thought in the individual examined, when the whole +tendency of that thought is towards an end conceivably approvable by a +majority of men. A great many philosophers and thinkers have accordingly +been pronounced insane at one period of history and have been held up +as models of sanity at another. The most immediately destructive +consequences of individual reasoning on a limited scale, murder and +suicide, have been successively regarded as heroic acts, as criminal +deeds, and as the deplorable but explicable actions of irresponsible +beings in consecutive ages of violence, strict law and humanitarianism. +It seems to be believed that the combination of murder and suicide is +more commonly observed under the last of the three reigns than it was +under the first; it was undoubtedly least common under the second. In +other words it appears probable that the practice of considering certain +crimes as the result of insanity has a tendency to make those crimes +increase in number, as they undoubtedly increase in barbarity, from year +to year. Meanwhile, however, no definite conclusion has been reached as +to the state of mind of a man who murders the woman he loves and then +ends his own life. + +Israel Kafka may therefore be regarded as mad or sane. In favour of the +theory of his madness the total uselessness of the deed he contemplated +may be adduced; on the other hand the extremely consecutive and +consistent nature of his thoughts and actions gives evidence of his +sanity. + +When he found himself a prisoner in Unorna's conservatory, his intention +underwent no change though his body was broken with fatigue and his +nerves with the long continued strain of a terrible excitement. His +determination was as cool and as fixed as ever. + +These somewhat dry reflections seem necessary to the understanding of +what followed. + +The key turned in the lock and the bolt was slipped back. Instantly +Israel Kafka's energy returned. He rose quickly and hid himself in the +shrubbery, in a position from which he could observe the door. He had +seen Unorna enter before and had of course heard her cry before the +Wanderer had carried her away, and he had believed that she had wished +to face him, either with the intention of throwing herself upon his +mercy or in the hope of dominating him with her eyes as she had so often +done before. Of course, he had no means of knowing that she had already +left the house. He imagined that the Wanderer had gone and that Unorna, +being freed from his restraint, was about to enter the place again. The +door opened and the three men came in. Kafka's first idea, on seeing +himself disappointed, was that they had come to take him into custody, +and his first impulse was to elude them. + +The Wanderer entered first, tall, stately, indifferent, the quick glance +of his deep eyes alone betraying that he was looking for some one. Next +came Keyork Arabian, muffled still in his furs, turning his head sharply +from side to side in the midst of the sable collar that half buried +it, and evidently nervous. Last of all the Individual, who had divested +himself of his outer coat and whose powerful proportions did not escape +Israel Kafka's observation. It was clear that if there were a struggle +it could have but one issue. Kafka would be overpowered. His knowledge +of the disposition of the plants and trees offered him a hope of escape. +The three men had entered the conservatory, and if he could reach the +door before they noticed him, he could lock it upon them, as it had +been locked upon himself. He could hear their footsteps on the marble +pavement very near him, and he caught glimpses of their moving figures +through the thick leaves. + +With cat-like tread he glided along in the shadows of the foliage until +he could see the door. From the entrance an open way was left in a +straight line towards the middle of the hall, down which his pursuers +were still slowly walking. He must cross an open space in the line of +their vision in order to get out, and he calculated the distance to be +traversed, while listening to their movements, until he felt sure that +they were so far from the door as not to be able to reach him. Then he +made his attempt, darting across the smooth pavement with his knife in +his hand. There was no one in the way. + +Then came a violent shock and he was held as in a vice, so tightly that +he could not believe himself in the arms of a human being. His +captors had anticipated that he would try to escape and has posted the +Individual in the shadow of a tree near the doorway. The deaf and dumb +man had received his instructions by means of a couple of quick signs, +and not a whisper had betrayed the measures taken. Kafka struggled +desperately, for he was within three feet of the door and still believed +an escape possible. He tried to strike behind him with his sharp blade +of which a single touch would have severed muscle and sinew like silk +threads, but the bear-like embrace seemed to confine his whole body, +his arms and even his wrists. Then he felt himself turned round and the +Individual pushed him towards the middle of the hall. The Wanderer was +advancing quickly, and Keyork Arabian, who had again fallen behind, +peered at Kafka from behind his tall companion with a grotesque +expression in which bodily fear and a desire to laugh at the captive +were strongly intermingled. + +"It is of no use to resist," said the Wanderer quietly. "We are too +strong for you." + +Kafka said nothing, but his bloodshot eyes glared up angrily at the tall +man's face. + +"He looks dangerous, and he still has that thing in his hand," said +Keyork Arabian. "I think I will give him ether at once while the +Individual holds him. Perhaps you could do it." + +"You will do nothing of the kind," the Wanderer answered. "What a coward +you are, Keyork!" he added contemptuously. + +Going to Kafka's side he took him by the wrist of the hand which held +the knife. But Kafka still clutched it firmly. + +"You had better give it up," he said. + +Kafka shook his head angrily and set his teeth, but the Wanderer +unclasped the fingers by quiet force and took the weapon away. He handed +it to Keyork, who breathed a sigh of relief as he looked at it, smiling +at last, and holding his head on one side. + +"To think," he soliloquised, "that an inch of such pretty stuff as +Damascus steel, in the right place, can draw the sharp red line between +time and eternity!" + +He put the knife tenderly away in the bosom of his fur coat. His whole +manner changed and he came forward with his usual, almost jaunty step. + +"And now that you are quite harmless, my dear friend," he said, +addressing Israel Kafka, "I hope to make you see the folly of your ways. +I suppose you know that you are quite mad and that the proper place for +you is a lunatic asylum." + +The Wanderer laid his hand heavily upon Keyork's shoulder. + +"Remember what I told you," he said sternly. "He will be reasonable now. +Make your fellow understand that he is to let him go." + +"Better shut the door first," said Keyork, suiting the action to the +word and then coming back. + +"Make haste!" said the Wanderer with impatience. "The man is ill, +whether he is mad or not." + +Released at last from the Individual's iron grip, Israel Kafka staggered +a little. The Wanderer took him kindly by the arm, supporting his steps +and leading him to a seat. Kafka glanced suspiciously at him and at the +other two, but seemed unable to make any further effort and sank back +with a low groan. His face grew pale and his eyelids drooped. + +"Get some wine--something to restore him," the Wanderer said. + +Keyork looked at the Moravian critically for a moment. + +"Yes," he assented, "he is more exhausted than I thought. He is not +very dangerous now." Then he went in search of what was needed. The +Individual retired to a distance and stood looking on with folded arms. + +"Do you hear me?" asked the Wanderer, speaking gently. "Do you +understand what I say?" + +Israel Kafka nodded, but said nothing. + +"You are very ill. This foolish idea that has possessed you this evening +comes from your illness. Will you go away quietly with me, and make no +resistance, so that I may take care of you?" + +This time there was not even a movement of the head. + +"This is merely a passing thing," the Wanderer continued in a tone of +quiet encouragement. "You have been feverish and excited, and I daresay +you have been too much alone of late. If you will come with me, I will +take care of you, and see that all is well." + +"I told you that I would kill her--and I will," said Israel Kafka, +faintly but distinctly. + +"You will not kill her," answered his companion. "I will prevent +you from attempting it, and as soon as you are well you will see the +absurdity of the idea." + +Israel Kafka made an impatient gesture, feeble but sufficiently +expressive. Then all at once his limbs relaxed, and his head fell +forward upon his breast. The Wanderer started to his feet and moved him +into a more comfortable position. There were one or two quickly drawn +breaths and the breathing ceased altogether. At that moment Keyork +returned carrying a bottle of wine and a glass. + +"It is too late," said the Wanderer gravely. "Israel Kafka is dead." + +"Dead!" exclaimed Keyork, setting down what he had in his hands, +and hastening to examine the unfortunate man's face and eyes. "The +Individual squeezed him a little too hard, I suppose," he added, +applying his ear to the region of the heart, and moving his head about a +little as he did so. + +"I hate men who make statements about things they do not understand," +he said viciously, looking up as he spoke, but without any expression +of satisfaction. "He is no more dead than you are--the greater pity! +It would have been so convenient. It is nothing but a slight +syncope--probably the result of poorness of blood and an over-excited +state of the nervous system. Help me to lay him on his back. You ought +to have known that was the only thing to do. Put a cushion under his +head. There--he will come to himself presently, but he will not be so +dangerous as he was." + +The Wanderer drew a long breath of relief as he helped Keyork to make +the necessary arrangements. + +"How long will it last?" he inquired. + +"How can I tell?" returned Keyork sharply. "Have you never heard of a +syncope? Do you know nothing about anything?" + +He had produced a bottle containing some very strong salt and was +applying it to the unconscious man's nostrils. The Wanderer paid no +attention to his irritable temper and stood looking on. A long time +passed and yet the Moravian gave no further signs of consciousness. + +"It is clear that he cannot stay here if he is to be seriously ill," the +Wanderer said. + +"And it is equally clear that he cannot be taken away," retorted Keyork. + +"You seem to be in a very combative frame of mind," the other answered, +sitting down and looking at his watch. "If you cannot revive him, he +ought to be brought to more comfortable quarters for the night." + +"In his present condition--of course," said Keyork with a sneer. + +"Do you think he would be in danger on the way?" + +"I never think--I know," snarled the sage. + +The Wanderer showed a slight surprise at the roughness of the answer, +but said nothing, contenting himself with watching the proceedings +keenly. He was by no means past suspecting that Keyork might apply +some medicine the very reverse of reviving, if left to himself. For +the present there seemed to be no danger. The pungent smell of salts +of ammonia pervaded the place; but the Wanderer knew that Keyork had a +bottle of ether in the pocket of his coat, and he rightly judged that a +very little of that would put an end to the life that was hanging in +the balance. Nearly half an hour passed before either spoke again. Then +Keyork looked up. This time his voice was smooth and persuasive. His +irritability had all disappeared. + +"You must be tired," he said. "Why do you not go home? Or else go to my +house and wait for us. The Individual and I can take care of him very +well." + +"Thanks," replied the Wanderer with a slight smile. "I am not in the +least tired, and I prefer to stay where I am. I am not hindering you, I +believe." + +Now Keyork Arabian had no interest in allowing Israel Kafka to die, +though the Wanderer half believed that he had, though he could not +imagine what that interest might be. The little man was in reality on +the track of an experiment, and he knew very well that so long as he was +so narrowly watched it would be quite impossible to try it. In spite of +his sneers at his companion's ignorance, he was aware that the latter +knew enough to make every effort conducive to reviving the patient if +left to himself, and he submitted with a bad grace to doing what he +would rather have left undone. + +He would have wished to let the flame of life sink yet lower before +making it brighten again, for he had with him a preparation which he +had been carrying in his pocket for months in the hope of accidentally +happening upon just such a case as the present, and he longed for an +opportunity of trying it. But to give it a fair trial he wished to apply +it at the precise point when, according to all previous experience, the +moment of death was past--the moment when the physician usually puts +his watch in his pocket and looks about for his hat. Possibly if +Kafka, being left without any assistance, had shown no further signs of +sinking, Keyork would have helped him to sink a little lower. To produce +this much-desired result, he had nothing with him but the ether, of +which the Wanderer of course knew the smell and understood the effects. +He saw the chances of making the experiment upon an excellent subject +slipping away before his eyes and he grew more angry in proportion as +they seemed farther removed. + +"He is a little better," he said discontentedly, after another long +interval of silence. + +The Wanderer bent down and saw that the eyelids were quivering and that +the face was less deathly livid than before. Then the eyes opened and +stared dreamily at the glass roof. + +"And I will," said the faint, weak voice, as though completing a +sentence. + +"I think not," observed Keyork, as though answering. "The people who do +what they mean to do are not always talking about will." But Kafka had +closed his eyes again. + +This time, however, his breathing was apparent and he was evidently +returning to a conscious state. The Wanderer arranged the pillow more +comfortably under his head and covered him with his own furs. Keyork, +relinquishing all hopes of trying the experiment at present, poured a +little wine down his throat. + +"Do you think we can take him home to-night?" inquired the Wanderer. + +He was prepared for an ill-tempered answer, but not for what Keyork +actually said. The little man got upon his feet and coolly buttoned his +coat. + +"I think not," he replied. "There is nothing to be done but to keep him +quiet. Good-night. I am tired of all this nonsense, and I do not mean +to lose my night's rest for all the Israels in Jewry--or all the Jews in +Israel. You can stay with him if you please." + +Thereupon he turned on his heel, making a sign to the Individual, who +had not moved from his place since Kafka had lost consciousness, and who +immediately followed his master. + +"I will come and see to him in the morning," said Keyork carelessly, as +he disappeared from sight among the plants. + +The Wanderer's long-suffering temper was roused and his eyes gleamed +angrily as he looked after the departing sage. + +"Hound!" he exclaimed in a very audible voice. + +He hardly knew why he was so angry with the man who called himself his +friend. Keyork had behaved no worse than an ordinary doctor, for he had +stayed until the danger was over and had promised to come again in the +morning. It was his cool way of disclaiming all further responsibility +and of avoiding all further trouble which elicited the Wanderer's +resentment, as well as the unpleasant position in which the latter found +himself. + +He had certainly not anticipated being left in charge of a sick man--and +that sick man Israel Kafka--in Unorna's house for the whole night, and +he did not enjoy the prospect. The mere detail of having to give some +explanation to the servants, who would doubtless come before long to +extinguish the lights, was far from pleasant. Moreover, though Keyork +had declared the patient out of danger, there seemed no absolute +certainty that a relapse would not take place before morning, and Kafka +might actually lay in the certainty--delusive enough--that Unorna could +not return until the following day. + +He did not dare to take upon himself the responsibility of calling some +one to help him and of removing the Moravian in his present condition. +The man was still very weak and either altogether unconscious, or +sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. The weather, too, was bitterly cold, +and the exposure to the night air might bring on immediate and fatal +consequences. He examined Kafka closely and came to the conclusion that +he was really asleep. To wake him would be absolutely cruel as well as +dangerous. He looked kindly at the weary face and then began to walk +up and down between the plants, coming back at the end of every turn to +look again and assure himself that no change had taken place. + +After some time he began to wonder at the total silence in the house, +or, rather, the silence which was carefully provided for in the +conservatory impressed itself upon him for the first time. It was +strange, he thought, that no one came to put out the lamps. He thought +of looking out into the vestibule beyond, to see whether the lights were +still burning there. To his great surprise he found the door securely +fastened. Keyork Arabian had undoubtedly locked him in, and to all +intents and purposes he was a prisoner. He suspected some treachery, +but in this he was mistaken. Keyork's sole intention had been to insure +himself from being disturbed in the course of the night by a second +visit from the Wanderer, accompanied perhaps by Kafka. It immediately +occurred to the Wanderer that he could ring the bell. But disliking the +idea of entering into an explanation, he reserved that for an emergency. +Had he attempted it he would have been still further surprised to find +that it would have produced no result. In going through the vestibule +Keyork had used Kafka's sharp knife to cut one of the slender +silk-covered copper wires which passed out of the conservatory on +that side, communicating with the servants' quarters. He was perfectly +acquainted with all such details of the household arrangement. + +Keyork's precautions were in reality useless and they merely illustrate +the ruthlessly selfish character of the man. The Wanderer would in all +probability neither have attempted to leave the house with Kafka that +night, nor to communicate with the servants, even if he had been left +free to do either, and if no one had disturbed him in his watch. He was +disturbed, however, and very unexpectedly, between half-past one and a +quarter to two in the morning. + +More than once he had remained seated for a long time, but his eyes +were growing heavy and he roused himself and walked again until he +was thoroughly awake. It was certainly true that of all the persons +concerned in the events of the day, except Keyork, he had undergone the +least bodily fatigue and mental excitement. But even to the strongest, +the hours of the night spent in watching by a sick person seem endless +when there is no really strong personal anxiety felt. 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. His position towards Israel Kafka was +altogether unexpected, and what he felt was no more than pity for his +sufferings and indignation against those who had caused them. + +When the door was suddenly opened, he stood still in his walk and faced +it. He hardly recognised Unorna in the pale, dishevelled woman with +circled eyes who came towards him under the bright light. She, too, +stood still when she saw him, starting suddenly. She seemed to be very +cold, for she shivered visibly and her teeth were chattering. Without +the least protection against the bitter night air she had fled +bareheaded and cloakless through the open streets from the church to her +home. + +"You here!" she exclaimed, in an unsteady voice. + +"Yes, I am still here," answered the Wanderer. "But I hardly expected +you to come back to-night," he added. + +At the sound of his voice a strange smile came into her wan face and +lingered there. She had not thought to hear him speak again, kindly +or unkindly, for she had come with the fixed determination to meet her +death at Israel Kafka's hands and to let that be the end. 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. "Tell me what has +happened." + +It was like a dream to her. The tremendous excitement of what had +happened in the convent had cut her off from the realisation of what +had gone before. Strange as it seemed even to herself, she scarcely +comprehended the intimate connection between the two series of events, +nor the bearing of the one upon the other. Israel Kafka sank into such +insignificance that she had began to pity his condition, and it was hard +to remember that the Wanderer was the man whom Beatrice had loved, and +of whom she had spoken so long and so passionately. She found, too, +an unreasoned joy in being once more by his side, no matter under +what conditions. In that happiness, one-sided and unshared, she forgot +everything else. Beatrice had been a dream, a vision, an unreal shadow. +Kafka was nothing to her, and yet everything, as she suddenly saw, since +he constituted a bond between her and the man she loved, which would at +least outlast the night. In a flash she saw that the Wanderer would +not leave her alone with the Moravian, and that the latter could not +be moved for the present without danger to his life. They must watch +together by his side through the long hours. Who could tell what the +night would bring forth? + +As the new development of the situation presented itself, the colour +rose again to her cheeks. The warmth of the conservatory, too, dispelled +the chill that had penetrated her, and the familiar odours of the +flowers contributed to restore the lost equilibrium of mind and body. + +"Tell me what has happened," she said again. + +In the fewest possible words the Wanderer told her all that had occurred +up to the moment of her coming, not omitting the detail of the locked +door. + +"And for what reason do you suppose that Keyork shut you in?" she asked. + +"I do not know," the Wanderer answered. "I do not trust him, though I +have known him so long." + +"It was mere selfishness," said Unorna scornfully. "I know him better +than you do. He was afraid you would disturb him again in the night." + +The Wanderer said nothing, wondering how any man could be so elaborately +thoughtful of his own comfort. + +"There is no help for it," Unorna said, "we must watch together." + +"I see no other way," the Wanderer answered indifferently. + +He placed a chair for her to sit in, within sight of the sick man, and +took one himself, wondering at the strange situation, and yet not caring +to ask Unorna what had brought her back, so breathless and so pale, at +such an hour. He believed, not unnaturally, that her motive had been +either anxiety for himself, or the irresistible longing to see him +again, coupled with a distrust of his promise to return when she should +send for him. It seemed best to accept her appearance without question, +lest an inquiry should lead to a fresh outburst, more unbearable now +than before, since there seemed to be no way of leaving the house +without exposing her to danger. A nervous man like Israel Kafka might +spring up at any moment and do something dangerous. + +After they had taken their places the silence lasted some moments. + +"You did not believe all I told you this evening?" said Unorna softly, +with an interrogation in her voice. + +"No," the Wanderer answered quietly, "I did not." + +"I am glad of that--I was mad when I spoke." + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +The Wanderer was not inclined to deny the statement which accorded well +enough with his total disbelief of the story Unorna had told him. But he +did not answer her immediately, for he found himself in a very difficult +position. He would neither do anything in the least discourteous beyond +admitting frankly that he had not believed her, when she taxed him +with incredulity; nor would say anything which might serve her as a +stepping-stone for returning to the original situation. He was, perhaps, +inclined to blame her somewhat less than at first, and her changed +manner in speaking of Kafka somewhat encouraged his leniency. A man +will forgive, or at least condone, much harshness to others when he is +thoroughly aware that it has been exhibited out of love for himself; +and a man of the Wanderer's character cannot help feeling a sort of +chivalrous respect and delicate forbearance for a woman who loves him +sincerely, though against his will, while he will avoid with an almost +exaggerated prudence the least word which could be interpreted as an +expression of reciprocal tenderness. He runs the risk, at the same time, +of being thrust into the ridiculous position of the man who, though +young, assumes the manner and speech of age and delivers himself of +grave, paternal advice to one who looks upon him, not as an elder, but +as her chosen mate. + +After Unorna had spoken, the Wanderer, therefore, held his peace. He +inclined his head a little, as though to admit that her plea of madness +might not be wholly imaginary; but he said nothing. He sat looking at +Israel Kafka's sleeping face and outstretched form, inwardly wondering +whether the hours would seem very long before Keyork Arabian returned in +the morning and put an end to the situation. Unorna waited in vain for +some response, and at last spoke again. + +"Yes," she said, "I was mad. You cannot understand it. I daresay you +cannot even understand how I can speak of it now, and yet I cannot help +speaking." + +Her manner was more natural and quiet than it had been since the moment +of Kafka's appearance in the cemetery. The Wanderer noticed the tone. +There was an element of real sadness in it, with a leaven of bitter +disappointment and a savour of heartfelt contrition. She was in earnest +now, as she had been before, but in a different way. He could hardly +refuse her a word in answer. + +"Unorna," he said gravely, "remember that you are leaving me no choice. +I cannot leave you alone with that poor fellow, and so, whatever you +wish to say, I must hear. But it would be much better to say nothing +about what has happened this evening--better for you and for me. Neither +men nor women always mean exactly what they say. We are not angels. Is +it not best to let the matter drop?" + +Unorna listened quietly, her eyes upon his face. + +"You are not so hard with me as you were," she said thoughtfully, after +a moment's hesitation, and there was a touch of gratitude in her voice. +As she felt the dim possibility of a return to her former relations of +friendship with him, Beatrice and the scene in the church seemed to be +very far away. Again the Wanderer found it difficult to answer. + +"It is not for me to be hard, as you call it," he said quietly. There +was a scarcely perceptible smile on his face, brought there not by any +feeling of satisfaction, but by his sense of his own almost laughable +perplexity. He saw that he was very near being driven to the ridiculous +necessity of giving her some advice of the paternal kind. "It is not +for me, either, to talk to you of what you have done to Israel Kafka +to-day," he confessed. "Do not oblige me to say anything about it. It +will be much safer. You know it all better than I do, and you understand +your own reasons, as I never can. If you are sorry for him now, so much +the better--you will not hurt him any more if you can help it. If you +will say that much about the future I shall be very glad, I confess." + +"Do you think that there is anything which I will not do--if you ask +it?" Unorna asked very earnestly. + +"I do not know," the Wanderer answered, trying to seem to ignore +the meaning conveyed by her tone. "Some things are harder to do than +others----" + +"Ask me the hardest!" she exclaimed. "Ask me to tell you the whole +truth----" + +"No," he said firmly, in the hope of checking an outburst of passionate +speech. "What you have thought and done is no concern of mine. If you +have done anything that you are sorry for, without my knowledge, I +do not wish to know of it. I have seen you do many good and kind acts +during the last month, and I would rather leave those memories untouched +as far as possible. You may have had an object in doing them which in +itself was bad. I do not care. The deeds were good. Take credit for +them and let me give you credit for them. That will do neither of us any +harm." + +"I could tell you--if you would let me--" + +"Do not tell me," he interrupted. "I repeat that I do not wish to know. +The one thing that I have seen is bad enough. Let that be all. Do +you not see that? Besides, I am myself the cause of it in a +measure--unwilling enough, Heaven knows!" + +"The only cause," said Unorna bitterly. + +"Then I am in some way responsible. I am not quite without blame--we men +never are in such cases. If I reproach you, I must reproach myself as +well--" + +"Reproach yourself!--ah no! What can you say against yourself?" she +could not keep the love out of her voice, if she would; her bitterness +had been for herself. + +"I will not go into that," he answered. "I am to blame in one way or +another. Let us say no more about it. Will you let the matter rest?" + +"And let bygones be bygones, and be friends to each other, as we were +this morning?" she asked, with a ray of hope. + +The Wanderer was silent for a few seconds. His difficulties were +increasing. A while ago he had told her, as an excuse for herself, that +men and women did not always mean exactly what they said, and even now +he did not set himself up in his own mind as an exception to the rule. +Very honourable and truthful men do not act upon any set of principles +in regard to truth and honour. Their instinctively brave actions and +naturally noble truthfulness make those principles which are held up to +the unworthy for imitation, by those whose business is the teaching of +what is good. The Wanderer's only hesitation lay between answering the +question or not answering it. + +"Shall we be friends again?" Unorna asked a second time, in a low tone. +"Shall we go back to the beginning?" + +"I do not see how that is possible," he answered slowly. + +Unorna was not like him, and did not understand such a nature as his as +she understood Keyork Arabian. She had believed that he would at least +hold out some hope. + +"You might have spared me that!" she said, turning her face away. There +were tears in her voice. + +A few hours earlier his answer would have brought fire to her eyes and +anger to her voice. But a real change had come over her, not lasting, +perhaps, but strong in its immediate effects. + +"Not even a little friendship left?" she said, breaking the silence that +followed. + +"I cannot change myself," he answered, almost wishing that he could. "I +ought, perhaps," he added, as though speaking to himself. "I have done +enough harm as it is." + +"Harm? To whom?" She looked round suddenly and he saw the moisture in +her eyes. + +"To him," he replied, glancing at Kafka, "and to you. You loved him +once. I have ruined his life." + +"Loved him? No--I never loved him." She shook her head, wondering +whether she spoke the truth. + +"You must have made him think so." + +"I? No--he is mad." But she shrank before his honest look, and suddenly +broke down. "No--I will not lie to you--you are too true--yes, I loved +him, or I thought I did, until you came, and I saw that there was no +one----" + +But she checked herself, as she felt the blood rising to her cheeks. She +could blush still, and still be ashamed. Even she was not all bad, now +that she was calm and that the change had come over her. + +"You see," the Wanderer said gently, "I am to blame for it all." + +"For it all? No--not for the thousandth part of it all. What blame have +you in being what you are? Blame God in Heaven--for making such a man. +Blame me for what you know; blame me for all that you will not let me +tell you. Blame Kafka for his mad belief in me and Keyork Arabian for +the rest--but do not blame yourself--oh, no! Not that!" + +"Do not talk like that, Unorna," he said. "Be just first." + +"What is justice?" she asked. Then she turned her head away again. "If +you knew what justice means for me--you would not ask me to be just. You +would be more merciful." + +"You exaggerate----" He spoke kindly, but she interrupted him. + +"No. You do not know, that is all. And you can never guess. There is +only one man living who could imagine such things as I have done--and +tried to do. He is Keyork Arabian. But he would have been wiser than I, +perhaps." + +She relapsed into silence. Before her rose the dim altar in the church, +the shadowy figure of Beatrice standing up in the dark, the horrible +sacrilege that was to have been done. Her face grew dark with fear of +her own soul. The Wanderer went so far as to try and distract her from +her gloomy thoughts, out of pure kindness of heart. + +"I am no theologian," he said, "but I fancy that in the long reckoning +the intention goes for more than the act." + +"The intention!" she cried, looking back with a start. "If that be +true----" + +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. Judge for yourself which of us two, he or +I, has anything to forgive. I am to-day what I was yesterday and may be +to-morrow. He lies there, dying of his love for you, if ever a man +died for love. And as though that were not enough, you have tortured +him--well, I will not speak of it. But that is all. I know nothing of +the deeds, or intentions, of which you accuse yourself. You are tired, +overwrought, worn out with all this--what shall I say? It is natural +enough, I suppose--" + +"You say there is no question of forgiveness," she said, interrupting +him, but speaking more calmly. "What is it then? What is the real +question? If you have nothing to forgive why can we not be friends as we +were before?" + +"There is something besides that needed. It is not enough that of two +people neither should have injured the other. You have broken something, +destroyed something--I cannot mend it. I wish I could." + +"You wish you could?" she repeated earnestly. + +"I wish that the thing had not been done. I wish that I had not seen +what I saw to-day. We should be where we were this morning--and he +perhaps would not be here." + +"It must have come some day," Unorna said. "He must have seen that I +loved--that I loved you. Is there any use in not speaking plainly now? +Then at some other time, in some other place, he would have done what he +did, and I should have been angry and cruel--for it is my nature to +be cruel when I am angry, and to be angry easily, at that. Men talk so +easily of self-control, and self-command and dignity, and self-respect! +They have not loved--that is all. I am not angry now, nor cruel. I +am sorry for what I did, and I would undo it, if deeds were knots and +wishes deeds. I am sorry, beyond all words to tell you. How poor it +sounds now that I have said it! You do not even believe me." + +"You are wrong. I know that you are in earnest." + +"How do you know?" she asked bitterly. "Have I never lied to you? If you +believed me, you would forgive me. If you forgave me, your friendship +would come back. I cannot even swear to you that I am telling the truth. +Heaven would not be my witness now if I told a thousand truths, each +truer than the last." + +"I have nothing to forgive," the Wanderer said, almost wearily. "I have +told you so, you have not injured me, but him." + +"But if it meant a whole world to me--no, for I am nothing to you--but +if it cost you nothing, but the little breath that can carry the three +words--would you say it? Is it much to say? Is it like saying, I love +you, or, I honour you, respect you? It is so little, and would mean so +much." + +"To me it can mean nothing, unless you ask me to forgive you deeds of +which I know nothing. And then it means still less to me." + +"Will you say it, only say the three words once?" + +"I forgive you," said the Wanderer quietly. It cost him nothing, and, to +him, meant less. + +Unorna bent her head and was silent. It was something to have heard him +say it though he could not guess the least of the sins which she made it +include. She herself hardly knew why she had so insisted. Perhaps it was +only the longing to hear words kind in themselves, if not in tone, nor +in his meaning of them. Possibly, too, she felt a dim presentiment of +her coming end, and would take with her that infinitesimal grain of +pardon to the state in which she hoped for no other forgiveness. + +"It was good of you to say it," she said at last. + +A long silence followed during which the thoughts of each went their +own way. Suddenly Israel Kafka stirred in his sleep. The Wanderer went +quickly forward and knelt down beside him and arranged the silken pillow +as best he could. Unorna was on the other side almost as soon. With a +tenderness of expression and touch which nothing can describe she moved +the sleeping head into a comfortable position and smoothed the cushion, +and drew up the furs disturbed by the nervous hands. The Wanderer let +her have her way. When she had finished their eyes met. He could not +tell whether she was asking his approval and a word of encouragement, +but he withheld neither. + +"You are very gentle with him. He would thank you if he could." + +"Did you not tell me to be kind to him?" she said. "I am keeping my +word. But he would not thank me. He would kill me if he were awake." + +The Wanderer shook his head. + +"He was ill and mad with pain," he answered. "He did not know what he +was doing. When he wakes, it will be different." + +Unorna rose, and the Wanderer followed her. + +"You cannot believe that I care," she said, as she resumed her seat. "He +is not you. My soul would not be the nearer to peace for a word of his." + +For a long time she sat quite still, her hands lying idly in her lap, +her head bent wearily as though she bore a heavy burden. + +"Can you not rest?" the Wanderer asked at length. "I can watch alone." + +"No. I cannot rest. I shall never rest again." + +The words came slowly, as though spoken to herself. + +"Do you bid me go?" she asked after a time, looking up and seeing his +eyes fixed on her. + +"Bid you go? In your own house?" The tone was one of ordinary courtesy. +Unorna smiled sadly. + +"I would rather you struck me than that you spoke to me like that!" she +exclaimed. "You have no need of such civil forbearance with me. If you +bid me go, I will go. If you bid me stay, I will not move. Only speak +frankly. Say which you would prefer." + +"Then stay," said the Wanderer simply. + +She bowed her head slightly and was silent again. A distant clock chimed +the hour. The morning was slowly drawing near. + +"And you," said Unorna, looking up at the sound. "Will you not rest? Why +should you not sleep?" + +"I am not tired." + +"You do not trust me, I think," she answered sadly. "And yet you +might--you might." Her voice died away dreamily. + +"Trust you to watch that poor man? Indeed I do. You were not acting just +now, when you touched him so tenderly. You are in earnest. You will be +kind to him, and I thank you for it." + +"And you yourself? Do you fear nothing from me, if you should sleep +before my eyes? Do you not fear that in your unconsciousness I might +touch you and make you more unconscious still and make you dream dreams +and see visions?" + +The Wanderer looked at her and smiled incredulously, partly out of scorn +for the imaginary danger, and partly because something told him that she +had changed and would not attempt any of her witchcraft upon him. + +"No," he answered. "I am not afraid of that." + +"You are right," she said gravely. "My sins are enough already. The evil +is sufficient. Do as you will. If you can sleep, then sleep in peace. If +you will watch, watch with me." + +Then neither spoke again. Unorna bent her head as she had done before. +The Wanderer leaned back resting comfortably against the cushion of +the high carved chair, his eyes directed towards the place where Israel +Kafka lay. The air was warm, the scent of the flowers sweet but not +heavy. The silence was intense, for even the little fountain was still. +He had watched almost all night and his eyelids drooped. He forgot +Unorna and thought only of the sick man, trying to fix his attention on +the pale head as it lay under the bright light. + +When Unorna looked up at last she saw that he was asleep. At first +she was surprised, in spite of what she had said to him half an hour +earlier, for she herself could not have closed her eyes, and felt that +she could never close them again. Then she sighed. It was but one proof +more of his supreme indifference. He had not even cared to speak to her, +and if she had not constantly spoken to him throughout the hours they +had passed together he would perhaps have been sleeping long before now. + +And yet she feared to wake him and was almost glad that he was +unconscious. In the solitude she could gaze on him to her heart's +desire, she could let her eyes look their fill, and no one could say her +nay. He must be very tired, she thought, and she vaguely wondered why +she felt no bodily weariness, when her soul was so heavy. + +She sat still and watched him. It might be the last time, she thought, +for who could tell what would happen to-morrow? She shuddered as she +thought of it all. What would Beatrice do? What would Sister Paul say? +How much would she tell of what she had seen? How much had she really +seen which she could tell clearly? There were terrible possibilities in +the future if all were known. Such deeds, and even the attempt at such +deeds as she had tried to do, could be judged by the laws of the land, +she might be brought to trial, if she lived, as a common prisoner, and +held up to the execration of the world in all her shame and guilt. But +death would be worse than that. As she thought of that other Judgment, +she grew dizzy with horror as she had been when the idea had first +entered her brain. + +Then she was conscious that she was again looking at the Wanderer as he +lay back asleep in his tall chair. The pale and noble face expressed the +stainless soul and the manly character. She saw in it the peace she had +lost, and yet knew that through him she had lost her peace for ever. + +It was perhaps the last time. Never again, perhaps, after the morning +had broken, should she look on what she loved best on earth. She would +be gone, ruined, dead perhaps. And he? He would be still himself. He +would remember her half carelessly, half in wonder, as a woman who had +once been almost his friend. That would be all that would be left in him +of her, beyond a memory of the repulsion he had felt for her deeds. + +She fancied she could have met the worst in the future less hopelessly +if he could have remembered her a little more kindly when all was over. +Even now, it might be in her power to cast a veil upon the pictures in +his mind. But the mere thought was horrible to her, though a few hours +before she had hardly trembled at the doing of a frightful sacrilege. In +that short time the humiliation of failure, the realisation of what she +had almost done, above all the ever-rising tide of a real and passionate +love, had swept away many familiar landmarks in her thoughts, and had +turned much to lead which had once seemed brighter than gold. She hated +the very idea of using again those arts which had so directly wrought +her utter destruction. But she longed to know that in the world whither +he would doubtless go to-morrow he would bear with him one kind memory +of her, one natural friendly thought not grafted upon his mind by her +power, but growing of its own self in his inmost heart. Only a friendly +memory--nothing more than that. + +She rose noiselessly and came to his side and looked down into his +face. Very long she stood there, motionless as a statue, beautiful as a +mourning angel. + +It was so little that she asked. It was so little compared with all +she had hoped, or in comparison with all she had demanded, so little in +respect of what she had given. For she had given her soul. And in return +she asked only for one small kindly thought when all should be over. + +She bent down as she stood and touched his cool forehead with her lips. + +"Sleep on, my beloved," she said in a voice that murmured softly and +sadly. + +She started a little at what she had done, and drew back, half afraid, +like an innocent girl. But as though he had obeyed her words, he seemed +to sleep more deeply still. He must be very tired, she thought, to sleep +like that, but she was thankful that the soft kiss, the first and last, +had not waked him. + +"Sleep on," she said again in a whisper scarcely audible to herself. +"Forget Unorna, if you cannot think of her mercifully and kindly. Sleep +on, you have the right to rest, and I can never rest again. You have +forgiven--forget, too, then, unless you can remember better things of me +than I have deserved in your memory. Let her take her kingdom back. It +was never mine--remember what you will, forget at least the wrong I did, +and forgive the wrong you never knew--for you will know it surely some +day. Ah, love--I love you so--dream but one dream, and let me think +I take her place. She never loved you more than I, she never can. She +would not have done what I have done. Dream only that I am Beatrice for +this once. Then when you wake you will not think so cruelly of me. Oh, +that I might be she--and you your loving self--that I might be she for +one day in thought and word, in deed and voice, in face and soul! Dear +love--you would never know it, yet I should know that you had had one +loving thought for me. You would forget. It would not matter then +to you, for you would have only dreamed, and I should have the +certainty--for ever, to take with me always!" + +As though the words carried a meaning with them to his sleeping senses, +a look of supreme and almost heavenly happiness stole over his sleeping +face. But Unorna could not see it. She had turned suddenly away, burying +her face in her hands upon the back of her own chair. + +"Are there no miracles left in Heaven?" she moaned, half whispering lest +she should wake him. "Is there no miracle of deeds undone again and of +forgiveness given--for me? God! God! That we should be for ever what we +make ourselves!" + +There were no tears in her eyes now, as there had been twice that night. +In her despair, that fountain of relief, shallow always and not apt +to overflow, was dried up and scorched with pain. And, for the time at +least, worse things were gone from her, though she suffered more. As +though some portion of her passionate wish had been fulfilled, she felt +that she could never do again what she had done; she felt that she +was truthful now as he was, and that she knew evil from good even as +Beatrice knew it. The horror of her sins took new growth in her changed +vision. + +"Was I lost from the first beginning?" she asked passionately. "Was I +born to be all I am, and fore-destined to do all I have done? Was she +born an angel and I a devil from hell? What is it all? What is this +life, and what is that other beyond it?" + +Behind her, in his chair, the Wanderer still slept. Still his face wore +the radiant look of joy that had so suddenly come into it as she turned +away. He scarcely breathed, so calmly he slept. But Unorna did not raise +her head nor look at him, and on the carpet near her feet Israel Kafka +lay as still and as deeply unconscious as the Wanderer himself. By a +strange destiny she sat there, between the two men in whom her whole +life had been wrecked, and she alone was waking. + +When she at last raised her eyes the dawn was breaking. 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. Unorna turned from the one and looked upon the other. +For the first time she saw how he had changed, and wondered. + +"How peacefully he sleeps!" she thought. "He is dreaming of her." + +The dawn came stealing on, not soft and blushing as in southern lands, +but cold, resistless and grim as ancient fate; not the maiden herald of +the sun with rose-tipped fingers and grey, liquid eyes, but hard, cruel, +sullen, and less darkness following upon a greater and going before a +dull, sunless and heavy day. + +The door opened somewhat noisily and a brisk step fell upon the marble +pavement. Unorna rose noiselessly to her feet and hastening along the +open space came face to face with Keyork Arabian. He stopped and looked +up at her from beneath his heavy brows, with surprise and suspicion. She +raised one finger to her lips. + +"You here already?" he asked, obeying her gesture and speaking in a low +voice. + +"Hush! Hush!" she whispered, not satisfied. "They are asleep. You will +wake them." + +Keyork came forward. He could move quietly enough when he chose. He +glanced at the Wanderer. + +"He looks comfortable enough," he whispered, half contemptuously. + +Then he bent down over Israel Kafka and carefully examined his face. To +him the ghastly pallor meant nothing. It was but the natural result of +excessive exhaustion. + +"Put him into a lethargy," said he under his breath, but with authority +in his manner. + +Unorna shook her head. Keyork's small eyes brightened angrily. + +"Do it," he said. "What is this caprice? Are you mad? I want to take his +temperature without waking him." + +Unorna folded her arms. + +"Do you want him to suffer more?" asked Keyork with a diabolical smile. +"If so I will wake him by all means; I am always at your service, you +know." + +"Will he suffer, if he wakes naturally?" + +"Horribly--in the head." + +Unorna knelt down and let her hand rest a few seconds on Kafka's brow. +The features, drawn with pain, immediately relaxed. + +"You have hypnotised the one," grumbled Keyork as he bent down again. "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. Unorna had risen to her +feet, disdaining to defend herself against the imputation expressed in +his face. Some minutes passed in silence. + +"He has no fever," said Keyork looking at the little instrument. "I will +call the Individual and we will take him away." + +"Where?" + +"To his lodging, of course. Where else?" He turned and went towards the +door. + +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. You will not forget all that has +happened, but you will never love me again. I forbid you ever to love me +again! Do you understand?" + +"I understand." + +"You will only forget that I have told you this, though you will obey. +You will see me again, and if you can forgive me of your own free will, +forgive me then. That must be of your own free will. Wake in two hours +of yourself, without pain or sickness." + +Again she touched his forehead and then sprang to her feet. Keyork was +coming back with his dumb servant. At a sign, the Individual lifted +Kafka from the floor, taking from him the Wanderer's furs and wrapping +him in others which Keyork had brought. The strong man walked away with +his burden as though he were carrying a child. Keyork Arabian lingered a +moment. + +"What made you come back so early?" he asked. + +"I will not tell you," she answered, drawing back. + +"No? Well, I am not curious. You have an excellent opportunity now." + +"An opportunity?" Unorna repeated with a cold interrogative. + +"Excellent," said the little man, standing on tiptoe to reach her ear, +for she would not bend her head. "You have only to whisper into his ear +that you are Beatrice and he will believe you for the rest of his life." + +"Go!" said Unorna. + +Though the word was not spoken above her breath it was fierce and +commanding. Keyork Arabian smiled in an evil way, shrugged his shoulders +and left her. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Unorna was left alone with the Wanderer. His attitude did not change, +his eyes did not open, as she stood before him. Still he wore the look +which had at first attracted Keyork Arabian's attention and which had +amazed Unorna herself. It was the expression that had come into his face +in the old cemetery when in his sleep she had spoken to him of love. + +"He is dreaming of her," Unorna said to herself again, as she turned +sadly away. + +But since Keyork had been with her a doubt had assailed her which +painfully disturbed her thoughts, so that her brow contracted with +anxiety and from time to time she drew a quick hard breath. Keyork had +taken it for granted that the Wanderer's sleep was not natural. + +She tried to recall what had happened shortly before dawn but it was +no wonder that her memory served her ill and refused to bring back +distinctly the words she had spoken. Her whole being was unsettled and +shaken, so that she found it hard to recognise herself. The stormy hours +through which she had lived since yesterday had left their trace; the +lack of rest, instead of producing physical exhaustion, had brought +about an excessive mental weariness, and it was not easy for her now to +find all the connecting links between her actions. Then, above all else, +there was the great revulsion that had swept over her after her last and +greatest plan of evil had failed, causing in her such a change as could +hardly have seemed natural or even possible to a calm person watching +her inmost thoughts. + +And yet such sudden changes take place daily in the world of crime and +passion. In one uncalled-for confession, of which it is hard to trace +the smallest reasonable cause, the intricate wickednesses of a lifetime +are revealed and repeated; in the mysterious impulse of a moment the +murderer turns back and delivers himself to justice; under an influence +for which there is often no accounting, the woman who has sinned +securely through long years lays bare her guilt and throws herself +upon the mercy of the man whom she has so skilfully and consistently +deceived. We know the fact. The reason we cannot know. Perhaps, to +natures not wholly bad, sin is a poison of which the moral organization +can only bear a certain fixed amount, great or small, before rejecting +it altogether and with loathing. We do not know. We speak of the +workings of conscience, not understanding what we mean. It is like that +subtle something which we call electricity; we can play with it, command +it, lead it, neutralise it and die of it, make light and heat with it, +or language and sound, kill with it and cure with it, while absolutely +ignorant of its nature. We are no nearer to a definition of it than the +Greek who rubbed a bit of amber and lifted with it a tiny straw, and +from amber, Elektron called the something electricity. Are we even as +near as that to a definition of the human conscience? + +The change that had come over Unorna, whether it was to be lasting or +not, was profound. The circumstances under which it took place are plain +enough. The reasons must be left to themselves--it remains only to tell +the consequences which thereon followed. + +The first of these was a hatred of that extraordinary power with which +nature had endowed her, which brought with it a determination never +again to make use of it for any evil purpose, and, if possible, never +even for good. + +But as though her unhappy fate were for ever fighting against her good +impulses, that power of hers had exerted itself unconsciously, since +her resolution had been formed. Keyork Arabian's words, and his evident +though unspoken disbelief in her denial, showed that he at least was +convinced of the fact that the Wanderer was not sleeping a natural +sleep. Unorna tried to recall what she had done and said, but all was +vague and indistinct. Of one thing she was sure. She had not laid her +hand upon his forehead, and she had not intentionally done any of those +things which she had always believed necessary for producing the results +of hypnotism. She had not willed him to do anything, she thought and she +felt sure that she had pronounced no words of the nature of a command. +Step by step she tried to reconstruct for her comfort a detailed +recollection of what had passed, but every effort in that direction was +fruitless. Like many men far wiser than herself, she believed in the +mechanics of hypnotic science, in the touches, in the passes, in the +fixed look, in the will to fascinate. More than once Keyork Arabian had +scoffed at what he called her superstitions, and had maintained that +all the varying phenomena of hypnotism, all the witchcraft of the darker +ages, all the visions undoubtedly shown to wondering eyes by mediaeval +sorcerers, were traceable to moral influence, and to no other cause. +Unorna could not accept his reasoning. For her there was a deeper and +yet a more material mystery in it, as in her own life, a mystery which +she cherished as an inheritance, which impressed her with a sense of +her own strange destiny and of the gulf which separated her from other +women. She could not detach herself from the idea that the supernatural +played a part in all her doings, and she clung to the use of gestures +and passes and words in the exercise of her art, in which she fancied +a hidden and secret meaning to exist. Certain things had especially +impressed her. The not uncommon answer of hypnotics to the question +concerning their identity, "I am the image in your eyes," is undoubtedly +elicited by the fact that their extraordinarily acute and, perhaps, +magnifying vision, perceives the image of themselves in the eyes of +the operator with abnormal distinctness, and, not impossibly, of a +size quite incompatible with the dimensions of the pupil. To Unorna the +answer meant something more. It suggested the actual presence of the +person she was influencing, in her own brain, and whenever she was +undertaking anything especially difficult, she endeavoured to obtain the +reply relating to the image as soon as possible. + +In the present case, she was sure that she had done none of the things +which she considered necessary to produce a definite result. She was +totally unconscious of having impressed upon the sleeper any suggestion +of her will. Whatever she had said, she had addressed the words to +herself without any intention that they should be heard and understood. + +These reflections comforted her as she paced the marble floor, and yet +Keyork's remark rang in her ears and disturbed her. She knew how vast +his experience was and how much he could tell by a single glance at +a human face. He had been familiar with every phase of hypnotism long +before she had known him, and might reasonably be supposed to know +by inspection whether the sleep were natural or not. That a person +hypnotised may appear to sleep as naturally as one not under the +influence is certain, but the condition of rest is also very often +different, to a practised eye, from that of ordinary slumber. There is +a fixity in the expression of the face, and in the attitude of the +body, which cannot continue under ordinary circumstances. He had perhaps +noticed both signs in the Wanderer. + +She went back to his side and looked at him intently. She had scarcely +dared to do so before, and she felt that she might have been mistaken. +The light, too, had changed, for it was broad day, though the lamps were +still burning. Yet, even now, she could not tell. Her judgment of what +she saw was disturbed by many intertwining thoughts. + +At least, he was happy. Whatever she had done, if she had done anything, +it had not hurt him. There was no possibility of misinterpreting the +sleeping man's expression. + +She wished that he would wake, though she knew how the smile would fade, +how the features would grow cold and indifferent, and how the grey eyes +she loved would open with a look of annoyance at seeing her before him. +It was like a vision of happiness in a house of sorrow to see him lying +there, so happy in his sleep, so loving, so peaceful. She could make +it all to last, too, if she would, and she realised that with a sudden +pang. The woman of whom he dreamed, whom he had loved so faithfully and +sought so long, was very near him. A word from Unorna and Beatrice could +come and find him as he lay asleep, and herself open the dear eyes. + +Was that sacrifice to be asked of her before she was taken away to the +expiation of her sins? Fate could not be so very cruel--and yet the mere +idea was an added suffering. The longer she looked at him the more the +possibility grew and tortured her. + +After all, it was almost certain that they would meet now, and at the +meeting she felt sure that all his memory would return. Why should she +do anything, why should she raise her hand, to bring them to each other? +It was too much to ask. Was it not enough that both were free, and both +in the same city together, and that she had vowed neither to hurt nor +hinder them? If it was their destiny to be joined together it would so +happen surely in the natural course; if not, was it her part to join +them? The punishment of her sins, whatever it should be, she could bear; +but this thing she could not do. + +She passed her hand across her eyes as though to drive it away, and +her thoughts came back to the point from which they had started. The +suspense became unbearable when she realised that she did not know in +what condition the Wanderer would wake, nor whether, if left to nature, +he would wake at all. She could not endure it any longer. She touched +his sleeve, lightly at first, and then more heavily. She moved his arm. +It was passive in her hand and lay where she placed it. Yet she would +not believe that she had made him sleep. She drew back and looked at +him. Then her anxiety overcame her. + +"Wake!" she cried, aloud. "For God's sake, wake! I cannot bear it!" + +His eyes opened at the sound of her voice, naturally and quietly. Then +they grew wide and deep and fixed themselves in a great wonder of many +seconds. Then Unorna saw no more. + +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. She had no power of thought left in her, as she felt herself +borne along, body and soul, in the rush of a passion more masterful than +her own. + +Then she was on her feet again, but his arms were round her still, and +hers, whether she would or not, were clasped about his neck. Dreams, +truth, faith kept or broken, hell and Heaven itself were swept away, all +wrecked together in the tide of love. And through it all his voice was +in her ear. + +"Love, love, at last! From all the years, you have come back--at +last--at last!" + +Broken and almost void of sense the words came then, through the storm +of his kisses and the tempest of her tears. She could no more resist him +nor draw herself away than the frail ship, wind-driven through crashing +waves, can turn and face the blast; no more than the long dry grass +can turn and quench the roaring flame; no more than the drooping willow +bough can dam the torrent and force it backwards up the steep mountain +side. + +In those short, false moments, Unorna knew what happiness could mean. +Torn from herself, lifted high above the misery and the darkness of +her real life, it was all true to her. There was no other Beatrice but +herself, no other woman whom he had ever loved. An enchantment greater +than her own was upon her and held her in bonds she could neither bend +nor break. + +She was sitting in her own chair now and he was kneeling before her, +holding her hands and looking up to her. For him the world held nothing +else. For him her hair was black as night; for him the unlike eyes +were dark and fathomless; for him the heavy marble hand was light, +responsive, delicate; for him her face was the face of Beatrice, as +he had last seen it long ago. The years had passed, indeed, and he had +sought her through many lands, but she had come back to him the same, in +the glory of her youth, in the strength of her love, in the divinity of +her dark beauty, his always, through it all, his now--for ever. + +For a long time he did not speak. The words rose to his lips and failed +of utterance, as the first mist of early morning is drawn heavenwards to +vanish in the rising sun. The long-drawn breath could have made no sound +of sweeter meaning than the unspoken speech that rose in the deep gray +eyes. Nature's grand organ, touched by hands divine, can yield no chord +more moving than a lover's sigh. + +Words came at last, as after the welcome shower in summer's heat the +song of birds rings through the woods, and out across the fields, upon +the clear, earth-scented air--words fresh from their long rest within +his heart, unused in years of loneliness but unforgotten and familiar +still--untarnished jewels from the inmost depths; rich treasures from +the storehouse of a deathless faith; diamonds of truth, rubies of +passion, pearls of devotion studding the golden links of the chain of +love. + +"At last--at last--at last! Life of my life, the day is come that is not +day without you, and now it will always be day for us two--day without +end and sun for ever! And yet, I have seen you always in my night, just +as I see you now. As I hold your dear hands, I have held them--day by +day and year by year--and I have smoothed that black hair of yours that +I love, and kissed those dark eyes of yours many and many a thousand +times. It has been so long, love, so very long! But I knew it would come +some day. I knew I should find you, for you have been always with me, +dear--always and everywhere. The world is all full of you, for I have +wandered through it all and taken you with me and made every place yours +with the thought of you, and the love of you and the worship of you. For +me, there is not an ocean nor a sea nor a river, nor rock nor island +nor broad continent of earth, that has not known Beatrice and loved +her name. Heart of my heart, soul of my soul--the nights and the +days without you, the lands and the oceans where you were not, the +endlessness of this little world that hid you somewhere, the littleness +of the whole universe without you--how can you ever know what it has +been to me? And so it is gone at last--gone as a dream of sickness in +the morning of health; gone as the blackness of storm-clouds in the +sweep of the clear west wind; gone as the shadow of evil before the face +of an angel of light! And I know it all. I see it all in your eyes. +You knew I was true, and you knew I sought you, and would find you at +last--and you have waited--and there has been no other, not the thought +of another, not the passing image of another between us. For I know +there has not been that and I should have known it anywhere in all these +years, the chill of it would have found me, the sharpness of it would +have been in my heart--no matter where, no matter how far--yet say it, +say it once--say that you have loved me, too--" + +"God knows how I have loved you--how I love you now!" Unorna said in a +low, unsteady voice. + +The light that had been in his face grew brighter still as she spoke, +while she looked at him, wondering, her head thrown back against the +high chair, her eyelids wet and drooping, her lips still parted, her +hand in his. Small wonder if he had loved her for herself, she was so +beautiful. Small wonder it would have been if she had taken Beatrice's +place in his heart during those weeks of close and daily converse. +But that first great love had left no fertile ground in which to plant +another seed, no warmth of kindness under which the tender shoot might +grow to strength, no room beneath its heaven for other branches than its +own. Alone it had stood in majesty as a lordly tree, straight, tall, and +ever green, on a silent mountain top. Alone it had borne the burden +of grief's heavy snows; unbent, for all its loneliness, it had stood +against the raging tempest; and green still, in all its giant strength +of stem and branch, in all its kingly robe of unwithered foliage. +Unscathed, unshaken, it yet stood. Neither storm nor lightning, wind +nor rain, sun nor snow had prevailed against it to dry it up and cast it +down that another might grow in its place. + +Yet this love was not for her to whom he spoke, and she knew it as she +answered him, though she answered truly, from the fulness of her heart. +She had cast an enchantment over him unwittingly, and she was taken in +the toils of her own magic even as she had sworn that she would never +again put forth her powers. She shuddered as she realised it all. In a +few short moments she had felt his kisses, and heard his words, and been +clasped to his heart, as she had many a time madly hoped. But in those +moments, too, she had known the truth of her woman's instinct when it +had told her that love must be for herself and for her own sake, or not +be love at all. + +The falseness, the fathomless untruth of it, would have been bad enough +alone. But the truth that was so strong made it horrible. Had she but +inspired in him a burning love for herself, however much against his +will, it would have been very different. She would have heard her name +from his lips, she would have known that all, however false, however +artificial, was for herself, while it might last. To know that it was +real, and not for her, was intolerable. To see this love of his break +out at last--this other love which she had dreaded, against which she +had fought, which she had met with a jealousy as strong as itself, and +struggled with and buried under an imposed forgetfulness--to feel its +great waves surging around her and beating up against her heart, was +more than she could bear. Her face grew whiter and her hands were cold. +She dreaded each moment lest he should call her Beatrice again, and say +that her fair hair was black and that he loved those deep dark eyes of +hers. + +There had been one moment of happiness, in that first kiss, in the first +pressure of those strong arms. Then night descended. The hands that held +her had not been yet unclasped, the kiss was not cold upon her cheek, +the first great cry of his love had hardly died away in a softened +echo, and her punishment was upon her. His words were lashes, his +touch poison, his eyes avenging fires. As in nature's great alchemy the +diamond and the blackened coal are one, as nature with the same elements +pours life and death from the same vial with the same hand, so now the +love which would have been life to Unorna was made worse than death +because it was not for her. + +Yet the disguise was terribly perfect. The unconscious spell had +done its work thoroughly. He took her for Beatrice, and her voice for +Beatrice's there in the broad light, in the familiar place where he had +so often talked with her for hours and known her for Unorna. But a few +paces away was the very spot where she had fallen at his feet last night +and wept and abused herself before him. There was the carpet on which +Israel Kafka had lain throughout the long hours while they had watched +together. Upon that table at her side a book lay which they had read +together but two days ago. In her own chair she sat, Unorna still, +unchanged, unaltered save for him. She doubted her own senses as she +heard him speak, and ever and again the name of Beatrice rang in her +ears. He looked at her hands, and knew them; at her black dress, +and knew it for her own, and yet he poured out the eloquence of his +love--kneeling, then standing, then sitting at her side, drawing her +head to his shoulder and smoothing her fair hair--so black to him--with +a gentle hand. She was passive through it all, as yet. There seemed to +be no other way. He paused sometimes, then spoke again. Perhaps, in +the dream that possessed him, he heard her speak. Possibly, he was +unconscious of her silence, borne along by the torrent of his own long +pent-up speech. She could not tell, she did not care to know. Of one +thing alone she thought, of how to escape from it all and be alone. + +She feared to move, still more to rise, not knowing what he would do. As +he was now, she could not tell what effect her words would have if +she spoke. It might be but a passing state after all. What would the +awakening be? Would his forgetfulness of Beatrice and his coldness to +herself return with the subsidence of his passion? Far better that than +to see him and hear him as he was now. + +And yet there were moments now and then when he pronounced no name, when +he recalled no memory of the past, when there was only the tenderness +of love itself in his words, and then, as she listened, she could almost +think it was for her. It was bitter joy, unreal and fantastic, but it +was a relief. Had she loved him less, such a conflict between sense and +senses would have been impossible even in imagination. But she loved +him greatly and the deep desire to be loved in turn was in her still, +shaming her better thoughts, but sometimes ruling her in spite of +herself and of the pain she suffered with each word self-applied. All +the vast contradictions, all the measureless inconsistency, all the +enormous selfishness of which human hearts are capable, had met in hers +as in a battle-ground, fighting each other, rending what they found +of herself amongst them, sometimes uniting to throw their whole weight +together against the deep-rooted passion, sometimes taking side with it +to drive out every other rival. + +It was shameful, base, despicable, and she knew it. A moment ago she had +longed to tear herself away, to silence him, to stop her ears, anything +not to hear those words that cut like whips and stung like scorpions. +And now again she was listening for the next, eagerly, breathlessly, +drunk with their sound and revelling almost in the unreality of the +happiness they brought. More and more she despised herself as the +intervals between one pang of suffering and the next grew longer, and +the illusion deeper and more like reality. + +After all, it was he, and no other. It was the man she loved who was +pouring out his own love into her ears, and smoothing her hair and +pressing the hand he held. Had he not said it once, and more than once? +What matter where, what matter how, provided that he loved? She had +received the fulfilment of her wish. He loved her now. Under another +name, in a vision, with another face and another voice, yet, still, she +was herself. + +As in a storm the thunder-claps came crashing through the air, deafening +and appalling at first, then rolling swiftly into a far distance, +fainter and fainter, till all is still and only the plash of the +fast-falling rain is heard, so, as she listened, the tempest of her pain +was passing away. Easier and easier it became to hear herself called +Beatrice, easier and easier it grew to take the other's place, to accept +the kiss, the touch, the word, the pressure of the hand that were all +another's due, and given to herself only for the mask she wore in his +dream. + +And the tide of the great temptation rose, and fell a little, and rose +higher again each time, till it washed the fragile feet of the last +good thought that lingered, taking refuge on the highest point above the +waves. On and on it came, receding and coming back, higher and higher, +surer and surer. Had she drawn back in time it would have been so easy. +Had she turned and fled when the first moment of senseless joy was +over, when she could still feel all the shame, and blush for all the +abasement, it would have been over now, and she would have been safe. +But she had learned to look upon the advancing water, and the sound of +it had no more terror for her. It was very high now. Presently it would +climb higher and close above her head. + +There were long intervals of silence now. The first rush of his speech +had spent itself, for he had told her much and she had heard it all, +even through the mists of her changing moods. And now that he was silent +she longed to hear him speak again. She could never weary of that voice. +It had been music to her in the days when it had been full of cold +indifference--now each vibration roused high harmonies in her heart, +each note was a full chord, and all the chords made but one great +progression. She longed to hear it all again, wondering greatly how it +could never have been not good to hear. + +Then with the greater temptation came the less, enclosed within it, +suddenly revealed to her. There was but one thing she hated in it all. +That was the name. Would he not give her another--her own perhaps? She +trembled as she thought of speaking. Would she still have Beatrice's +voice? Might not her own break down the spell and destroy all at once? +Yet she had spoken once before. She had told him that she loved him and +he had not been undeceived. + +"Beloved--" she said at last, lingering on the single word and then +hesitating. + +He looked into her face as he drew her to him, with happy eyes. She +might speak, then, for he would hear tones not hers. + +"Beloved, I am tired of my name. Will you not call me by another?" She +spoke very softly. + +"By another name?" he exclaimed, surprised, but smiling at what seemed a +strange caprice. + +"Yes. It is a sad name to me. It reminds me of many things--of a time +that is better forgotten since it is gone. Will you do it for me? It +will make it seem as though that time had never been." + +"And yet I love your own name," he said, thoughtfully. "It is so +much--or has been so much in all these years, when I had nothing but +your name to love." + +"Will you not do it? It is all I ask." + +"Indeed I will, if you would rather have it so. Do you think there is +anything that I would not do if you asked it of me?" + +They were almost the words she had spoken to him that night when they +were watching together by Israel Kafka's side. She recognised them and a +strange thrill of triumph ran through her. What matter how? What matter +where? The old reckless questions came to her mind again. If he loved +her, and if he would but call her Unorna, what could it matter, indeed? +Was she not herself? She smiled unconsciously. + +"I see it pleases you," he said tenderly. "Let it be as you wish. What +name will you choose for your dear self?" + +She hesitated. She could not tell how far he might remember what was +past. And yet, if he had remembered he would have seen where he was in +the long time that had passed since his awakening. + +"Did you ever--in your long travels--hear the name Unorna?" she asked +with a smile and a little hesitation. + +"Unorna? No. I cannot remember. It is a Bohemian word--it means 'she of +February.' It has a pretty sound--half familiar to me. I wonder where I +have heard it." + +"Call me Unorna, then. It will remind us that you found me in February." + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +After carefully locking and bolting the door of the sacristy Sister Paul +turned to Beatrice. She had set down her lamp upon the broad, polished +shelf which ran all round the place, forming the top of a continuous +series of cupboards, as in most sacristies, used for the vestments +of the church. At the back of these high presses rose half way to the +spring of the vault. + +The nun seemed a little nervous and her voice quavered oddly as she +spoke. If she had tried to take up her lamp her hand would have shaken. +In the moment of danger she had been brave and determined, but now that +all was over her enfeebled strength felt the reaction from the strain. +She turned to Beatrice and met her flashing black eyes. The young girl's +delicate nostrils quivered and her lips curled fiercely. + +"You are angry, my dear child," said Sister Paul. "So am I, and it seems +to me that our anger is just enough. 'Be angry and sin not.' I think we +can apply that to ourselves." + +"Who is that woman?" Beatrice asked. She was certainly angry, as the +nun had said, but she felt by no means sure that she could resist the +temptation of sinning if it presented itself as the possibility of +tearing Unorna to pieces. + +"She was once with us," the nun answered. "I knew her when she was a +mere girl--and I loved her then, in spite of her strange ways. But she +has changed. They call her a Witch--and indeed I think it is the only +name for her." + +"I do not believe in witches," said Beatrice, a little scornfully. "But +whatever she is, she is bad. I do not know what it was that she wanted +me to do in the church, upon the altar there--it was something horrible. +Thank God you came in time! What could it have been, I wonder?" + +Sister Paul shook her head sorrowfully, but said nothing. She knew +no more than Beatrice of Unorna's intention, but she believed in the +existence of a Black Art, full of sacrilegious practices, and credited +Unorna vaguely with the worst designs which she could think of, though +in her goodness she was not able to imagine anything much worse than +the saying of a _Pater Noster_ backwards in a consecrated place. But she +preferred to say nothing, lest she should judge Unorna unjustly. After +all, she did not know. What she had seen had seemed bad enough and +strange enough, but apart from the fact that Beatrice had been found +upon the altar, where she certainly had no business to be, and that +Unorna had acted like a guilty woman, there was little to lay hold of in +the way of fact. + +"My child," she said at last, "until we know more of the truth, and have +better advice than we can give each other, let us not speak of it to +any one of the sisters. In the morning I will tell all I have seen in +confession, and then I shall get advice. Perhaps you should do the same. +I know nothing of what happened before you left your room. Perhaps you +have something to reproach yourself with. It is not for me to ask. Think +it over." + +"I will tell you the whole truth," Beatrice answered, resting her elbow +upon the polished shelf and supporting her head in her hand, while she +looked earnestly into Sister Paul's faded eyes. + +"Think well, my daughter. I have no right to any confession from you. If +there is anything----" + +"Sister Paul--you are a woman, and I must have a woman's help. I have +learned something to-night which will change my whole life. No--do not +be afraid--I have done nothing wrong. At least, I hope not. While my +father lived, I submitted. I hoped, but I gave no sign. I did not even +write, as I once might have done. I have often wished that I had--was +that wrong?" + +"But you have told me nothing, dear child. How can I answer you?" The +nun was perplexed. + +"True. I will tell you. Sister Paul--I am five-and-twenty years old, +I am a grown woman and this is no mere girl's love story. Seven years +ago--I was only eighteen then--I was with my father as I have been ever +since. My mother had not been dead long then--perhaps that is the reason +why I seemed to be everything to my father. But they had not been +happy together, and I had loved her best. We were travelling--no +matter where--and then I met the man I have loved. He was not of our +country--that is, of my father's. He was of the same people as my +mother. Well--I loved him. How dearly you must guess, and try to +understand. I could not tell you that. No one could. It began gradually, +for he was often with us in those days. My father liked him for his wit, +his learning, though he was young; for his strength and manliness--for a +hundred reasons which were nothing to me. I would have loved him had +he been a cripple, poor, ignorant, despised, instead of being what he +was--the grandest, noblest man God ever made. For I did not love him +for his face, nor for his courtly ways, nor for such gifts as other men +might have, but for himself and for his heart--do you understand?" + +"For his goodness," said Sister Paul, nodding in approval. "I +understand." + +"No," Beatrice answered, half impatiently. "Not for his goodness either. +Many men are good, and so was he--he must have been, of course. No +matter. I loved him. That is enough. He loved me, too. And one day we +were alone, in the broad spring sun, upon a terrace. There were lemon +trees there--I can see the place. Then we told each other that we +loved--but neither of us could find the words--they must be somewhere, +those strong beautiful words that could tell how we loved. We told each +other--" + +"Without your father's consent?" asked the nun almost severely. + +Beatrice's eyes flashed. "Is a woman's heart a dog that must follow at +heel?" she asked fiercely. "We loved. That was enough. My father had +the power, but not the heart, to come between. We told him, then, for +we were not cowards. We told him boldly that it must be. He was a +thoughtful man, who spoke little. He said that we must part at once, +before we loved each other better--and that we should soon forget. We +looked at each other, the man I loved and I. We knew that we should love +better yet, parted or together, though we could not tell how that could +be. But we knew also that such love as there was between us was enough. +My father gave no reasons, but I knew that he hated the name of my +mother's nation. Of course we met again. I remember that I could cry in +those days. My father had not learned to part us then. Perhaps he was +not quite sure himself, at all events the parting did not come so soon. +We told him that we would wait, for ever if it must be. He may have been +touched, though little touched him at the best. Then, one day, suddenly +and without warning, he took me away to another city. And what of him? +I asked. He told me that there was an evil fever in the city and that +it had seized him--the man I loved. 'He is free to follow us if he +pleases,' said my father. But he never came. Then followed a journey, +and another, and another, until I knew that my father was travelling +to avoid him. When I saw that I grew silent, and never spoke his name +again. Farther and farther, longer and longer, to the ends of the earth. +We saw many people, many asked for my hand. Sometimes I heard of him, +from men who had seen him lately. I waited patiently, for I knew that he +was on our track, and sometimes I felt that he was near." + +Beatrice paused. + +"It is a strange story," said Sister Paul, who had rarely heard a tale +of love. + +"The strange thing is this," Beatrice answered. "That woman--what is her +name? Unorna? She loves him, and she knows where he is." + +"Unorna?" repeated the nun in bewilderment. + +"Yes. She met me after Compline to-night. I could not but speak to her, +and then I was deceived. I cannot tell whether she knew what I am to +him, but she deceived me utterly. She told me a strange story of her own +life. I was lonely. In all those years I have never spoken of what has +filled me. I cannot tell how it was. I began to speak, and then I forgot +that she was there, and told all." + +"She made you tell her, by her secret arts," said Sister Paul in a low +voice. + +"No--I was lonely and I believed that she was good, and I felt that I +must speak. Then--I cannot think how I could have been so mad--but I +thought that we should never meet again, and I showed her a likeness of +him. She turned on me. I shall not forget her face. I heard her say that +she knew him and loved him too. When I awoke I was lying on the altar. +That is all I know." + +"Her evil arts, her evil arts," repeated the nun, shaking her head. +"Come, my dear child, let us see if all is in order there, upon the +altar. If these things are to be known they must be told in the right +quarter. The sacristan must not see that any one has been in the +church." + +Sister Paul took up the lamp, but Beatrice laid a hand upon her arm. + +"You must help me to find him," she said firmly. "He is not far away." + +Her companion looked at her in astonishment. + +"Help you to find him?" she stammered. "But I cannot--I do not know--I +am afraid it is not right--an affair of love--" + +"An affair of life, Sister Paul, and of death too, perhaps. This woman +lives in Prague. She is rich and must be well known--" + +"Well known, indeed. Too well known--the Witch they call her." + +"Then there are those who know her. Tell me the name of one person +only--it is impossible that you should not remember some one who is +acquainted with her, who has talked with you of her--perhaps one of the +ladies who have been here in retreat." + +The nun was silent for a moment, gathering her recollections. + +"There is one, at least, who knows her," she said at length. "A great +lady here--it is said that she, too, meddles with forbidden practices +and that Unorna has often been with her--that together they have called +up the spirits of the dead with strange rappings and writings. She +knows her, I am sure, for I have talked with her and she says it is +all natural, and that there is a learned man with them sometimes, who +explains how all such things may happen in the course of nature--a +man--let me see, let me see--it is George, I think, but not as we +call it, not Jirgi, nor Jegor--no--it sounds harder--Ke-Keyrgi--no, +Keyork--Keyork Aribi----" + +"Keyork Arabian!" exclaimed Beatrice. "Is he here?" + +"You know him?" Sister Paul looked almost suspiciously at the young +girl. + +"Indeed I do. He was with us in Egypt once. He showed us wonderful +things among the tombs. A strange little man, who knew everything, but +very amusing." + +"I do not know. But that is his name. He lives in Prague." + +"How can I find him? I must see him at once--he will help me." + +The nun shook her head with disapproval. + +"I should be sorry that you should talk with him," she said. "I fear he +is no better than Unorna, and perhaps worse." + +"You need not fear," Beatrice answered, with a scornful smile. "I am not +in the least afraid. Only tell me how I am to find him. He lives here, +you say--is there no directory in the convent?" + +"I believe the portress keeps such a book," said Sister Paul still +shaking her head uneasily. "But you must wait until the morning, my +dear child, if you will do this thing. Of the two, I should say that you +would do better to write to the lady. Come, we must be going. It is very +late." + +She had taken the lamp again and was moving slowly towards the door. +Beatrice had no choice but to submit. It was evident that nothing more +could be done at present. The two women went back into the church, and +going round the high altar began to examine everything carefully. The +only trace of disorder they could discover was the fallen candlestick, +so massive and strong that it was not even bent or injured. They climbed +the short wooden steps, and uniting their strength, set it up again, +carefully and in its place, restoring the thick candle to the socket. +Though broken in the middle by the fall, the heavy wax supported itself +easily enough. Then they got down again and Sister Paul took away the +steps. For a few moments both women knelt down before the altar. + +They left the church by the nuns' staircase, bolting the door behind +them, and ascended to the corridors and reached Beatrice's room. +Unorna's door was open, as the nun had left it, and the yellow light +streamed upon the pavement. She went in and extinguished the lamp, and +then came back to Beatrice. + +"Are you not afraid to be alone after what has happened?" she asked. + +"Afraid? Of what? No, indeed." Then she thanked her companion again and +kissed Sister Paul's waxen cheek. + +"Say a prayer, my daughter--and may all be well with you, now and ever!" +said the good sister as she went away through the darkness. She needed +no light in the familiar way to her cell. + +Beatrice searched among her numerous belongings and at last brought out +a writing-case. Then she sat down to her table by the light of the lamp +that had illuminated so many strange sights that night. + +She wrote the name of the convent clearly upon the paper, and then wrote +a plain message in the fewest possible words. Something of her strong, +devoted nature showed itself in her handwriting. + + +"Beatrice Varanger begs that Keyork Arabian will meet her in the parlour +of the convent as soon after receiving this as possible. The matter is +very important." + + +She had reasons of her own for believing that Keyork had not forgotten +her in the five years or more since they had been in Egypt together. +Apart from the fact that his memory had always been surprisingly good, +he had at that time professed the most unbounded admiration for her, and +she remembered with a smile his quaint devotion, his fantastic courtesy, +and his gnome-like attempts at grace. + +She folded the note, to wait for the address which she could not +ascertain until the morning. She could do nothing more. It was nearly +two o'clock and there was evidently nothing to be done but to sleep. + +As she laid her head upon the pillow a few minutes later she was +amazed at her own calm. Strong natures, in great tests, often surprise +themselves far more than they surprise others. Others see the results, +always simpler in proportion as they are greater. But the actors +themselves alone know how hard the great and simple can seem. + +Beatrice's calmness was not only of the outward kind at the present +moment. She felt that she was alone in the world, and that she had taken +her life into her own hands. Fate had lent her the clue of her happiness +at last and she would hold it firmly to the end. It would be time enough +then to open the flood-gates. It would have been unlike her to dwell +long upon the thought of Unorna or to give way to any passionate +outbreak of hatred. Why should Unorna not love him? The whole world +loved him, and small wonder. She feared no rival. + +But he was near her now. Her heart leaped as she realised how very near +he might well be, then sank again to its calm beating. He had been near +her a score of times in the past years, and yet they had not met. But +she had not been free, then, as she was now. There was more hope than +before, but she could not delude herself with any belief in a certainty. + +So thinking, and so saying to herself, she fell asleep, and slept +soundly without dreaming as most people do who are young and strong, and +who are clear-headed and active when they are awake. + +It was late when she opened her eyes, and the broad cold light filled +the room. She lost no time in thinking over the events of the night, for +everything was fresh in her memory. Half dressed, she wrapped about her +a cloak that came down to her feet, and throwing a black veil over her +hair she went down to the portress's lodge. In five minutes she had +found Keyork's address and had despatched one of the convent gardeners +with the note. Then she leisurely returned to her room and set about +completing her toilet. She naturally supposed that an hour or two must +elapse before she received an answer, certainly before Keyork appeared +in person, a fact which showed that she had forgotten something of the +man's characteristics. + +Twenty minutes had scarcely passed, and she had not finished dressing +when Sister Paul entered the room, evidently in a state of considerable +anxiety. As has been seen, it chanced to be her turn to superintend the +guest's quarters at that time, and the portress had of course informed +her immediately of Keyork's coming, in order that she might tell +Beatrice. + +"He is there!" she said, as she came in. + +Beatrice was standing before the little mirror that hung upon the wall, +trying, under no small difficulties, to arrange her hair. He turned her +head quickly. + +"Who is there? Keyork Arabian?" + +Sister Paul nodded, glad that she was not obliged to pronounce the name +that had for her such an unChristian sound. + +"Where is he? I did not think he could come so soon. Oh, Sister Paul, do +help me with my hair! I cannot make it stay." + +"He is in the parlour, down stairs," answered the nun, coming to her +assistance. "Indeed, child, I do not see how I can help you." She +touched the black coils ineffectually. "There! Is that better?" she +asked in a timid way. "I do not know how to do it--" + +"No, no!" Beatrice exclaimed. "Hold that end--so--now turn it that +way--no, the other way--it is in the glass--so--now keep it there while +I put in a pin--no, no--in the same place, but the other way--oh, Sister +Paul! Did you never do your hair when you were a girl?" + +"That was so long ago," answered the nun meekly. "Let me try again." + +The result was passably satisfactory at last, and assuredly not wanting +in the element of novelty. + +"Are you not afraid to go alone?" asked Sister Paul with evident +preoccupation, as Beatrice put a few more touches to her toilet. + +But the young girl only laughed and made the more haste. Sister Paul +walked with her to the head of the stairs, wishing that the rules would +allow her to accompany Beatrice into the parlour. Then as the latter +went down the nun stood at the top looking after her and audibly +repeating prayers for her preservation. + +The convent parlour was a large, bare room, lighted by a high and grated +window. Plain, straight, modern chairs were ranged against the wall +at regular intervals. There was no table, but a square piece of green +carpet lay upon the middle of the stone pavement. A richly ornamented +glazed earthenware stove, in which a fire had just been lighted, +occupied one corner, a remnant of former aesthetic taste and strangely +out of place since the old carved furniture was gone. A crucifix of +inferior workmanship and realistically painted hung opposite the door. +The place was reserved for the use of ladies in retreat and was situated +outside the constantly closed door which shut off the cloistered part of +the convent from the small portion accessible to outsiders. + +Keyork Arabian was standing in the middle of the parlour waiting for +Beatrice. When she entered at last he made two steps forward, bowing +profoundly, and then smiled in a deferential manner. + +"My dear lady," he said, "I am here. I have lost no time. It so happened +that I received your note just as I was leaving my carriage after a +morning drive. I had no idea that you were in Bohemia." + +"Thanks. It was good of you to come so soon." + +She sat down upon one of the stiff chairs and motioned to him to follow +her example. + +"And your dear father--how is he?" inquired Keyork with suave +politeness, as he took his seat. + +"My father died a week ago," said Beatrice gravely. + +Keyork's face assumed all the expression of which it was capable. "I +am deeply grieved," he said, moderating his huge voice to a soft and +purring sub-bass. "He was an old and valued friend." + +There was a moment's silence. Keyork, who knew many things, was well +aware that a silent feud, of which he also knew the cause, had existed +between father and daughter when he had last been with them, and he +rightly judged from his knowledge of their obstinate characters that +it had lasted to the end. He thought therefore that his expression of +sympathy had been sufficient and could pass muster. + +"I asked you to come," said Beatrice at last, "because I wanted your +help in a matter of importance to myself. I understand that you know a +person who calls herself Unorna, and who lives here." + +Keyork's bright blue eyes scrutinized her face. He wondered how much she +knew. + +"Very well indeed," he answered, as though not at all surprised. + +"You know something of her life, then. I suppose you see her very often, +do you not?" + +"Daily, I can almost say." + +"Have you any objection to answering one question about her?" + +"Twenty if you ask them, and if I know the answers," said Keyork, +wondering what form the question would take, and preparing to meet a +surprise with indifference. + +"But will you answer me truly?" + +"My dear lady, I pledge you my sacred word of honour," Keyork answered +with immense gravity, meeting her eyes and laying his hand upon his +heart. + +"Does she love that man--or not?" Beatrice asked, suddenly showing him +the little miniature of the Wanderer, which she had taken from its case +and had hitherto concealed in her hand. + +She watched every line of his face for she knew something of him, and +in reality put very little more faith in his word of honour than he did +himself, which was not saying much. But she had counted upon surprising +him, and she succeeded, to a certain extent. His answer did not come as +glibly as he could have wished, though his plan was soon formed. + +"Who is it! Ah, dear me! My old friend. We call him the Wanderer. Well, +Unorna certainly knew him when he was here." + +"Then he is gone?" + +"Indeed, I am not quite sure," said Keyork, regaining all his +self-possession. "Of course I can find out for you, if you wish to know. +But as regards Unorna, I can tell you nothing. They were a good deal +together at one time. I fancy he was consulting her. You have heard that +she is a clairvoyant, I daresay." + +He made the last remark quite carelessly, as though he attached no +importance to the fact. + +"Then you do not know whether she loves him?" + +Keyork indulged himself with a little discreet laughter, deep and +musical. + +"Love is a very vague word," he said presently. + +"Is it?" Beatrice asked, with some coldness. + +"To me, at least," Keyork hastened to say, as though somewhat confused. +"But, of course, I can know very little about it in myself, and nothing +about it in others." + +Not knowing how matters might turn out, he was willing to leave Beatrice +with a suspicion of the truth, while denying all knowledge of it. + +"You know him yourself, of course," Beatrice suggested. + +"I have known him for years--oh, yes, for him, I can answer. He was not +in the least in love." + +"I did not ask that question," said Beatrice rather haughtily. "I knew +he was not." + +"Of course, of course. I beg your pardon!" + +Keyork was learning more from her than she from him. It was true that +she took no trouble to conceal her interest in the Wanderer and his +doings. + +"Are you sure that he has left the city?" Beatrice asked. + +"No, I am not positive. I could not say with certainty." + +"When did you see him last?" + +"Within the week, I am quite sure," Keyork answered with alacrity. + +"Do you know where he was staying?" + +"I have not the least idea," the little man replied, without the +slightest hesitation. "We met at first by chance in the Teyn Kirche, one +afternoon--it was a Sunday, I remember, about a month ago." + +"A month ago--on a Sunday," Beatrice repeated thoughtfully. + +"Yes--I think it was New Year's Day, too." + +"Strange," she said. "I was in the church that very morning, with my +maid. I had been ill for several days--I remember how cold it was. +Strange--the same day." + +"Yes," said Keyork, noting the words, but appearing to take no notice of +them. "I was looking at Tycho Brahe's monument. You know how it annoys +me to forget anything--there was a word in the inscription which I could +not recall. I turned round and saw him sitting just at the end of the +pew nearest to the monument." + +"The old red slab with a figure on it, by the last pillar?" Beatrice +asked eagerly. + +"Exactly. I daresay you know the church very well. You remember that +the pew runs very near to the monument so that there is hardly room to +pass." + +"I know--yes." + +She was thinking that it could hardly have been a mere accident which +had led the Wanderer to take the very seat she had occupied on the +morning of that day. He must have seen her during the Mass, but she +could not imagine how he could have missed her. They had been very near +then. And now, a whole month had passed, and Keyork Arabian professed +not to know whether the Wanderer was still in the city or not. + +"Then you wish to be informed of our friend's movements, as I understand +it?" said Keyork going back to the main point. + +"Yes--what happened on that day?" Beatrice asked, for she wished to hear +more. + +"Oh, on that day? Yes. Well, nothing happened worth mentioning. We +talked a little and went out of the church and walked a little way +together. I forget when we met next, but I have seen him at least a +dozen times since then, I am sure." + +Beatrice began to understand that Keyork had no intention of giving her +any further information. She reflected that she had learned much in +this interview. The Wanderer had been, and perhaps still was, in Prague. +Unorna loved him and they had been frequently together. He had been in +the Teyn Kirche on the day she had last been there herself, and in all +probability he had seen her, since he had chosen the very seat in which +she had sat. Further, she gathered that Keyork had some interest in +not speaking more frankly. She gave up the idea of examining him any +further. He was a man not easily surprised, and it was only by means +of a surprise that he could be induced to betray even by a passing +expression what he meant to conceal. Her means of attack were exhausted +for the present. She determined at least to repeat her request clearly +before dismissing him, in the hope that it might suit his plans to +fulfil it, but without the least trust in his sincerity. + +"Will you be so kind as to make some inquiry, and let me know the result +to-day?" she asked. + +"I will do everything to give you an early answer," said Keyork. "And +I shall be the more anxious to obtain one without delay in order that +I may have the very great pleasure of visiting you again. There is much +that I would like to ask you, if you would allow me. For old friends, +as I trust I may say that we are, you must admit that we have exchanged +few--very few--confidences this morning. May I come again to-day? It +would be an immense privilege to talk of old times with you, of our +friends in Egypt and of our many journeys. For you have no doubt +travelled much since then. Your dear father," he lowered his voice +reverentially, "was a great traveller, as well as a very learned man. +Ah, well, my dear lady--we must all make up our minds to undertake +that great journey one of these days. But I pain you. I was very much +attached to your dear father. Command all my service. I will come again +in the course of the day." + +With many sympathetic smiles and half-comic inclinations of his short, +broad body, the little man bowed himself out. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +Unorna drew one deep breath when she first heard her name fall with a +loving accent from the Wanderer's lips. Surely the bitterness of despair +was past since she was loved and not called Beatrice. The sigh that came +then was of relief already felt, the forerunner, as she fancied, too, +of a happiness no longer dimmed by shadows of fear and mists of rising +remorse. Gazing into his eyes, she seemed to be watching in their +reflection a magic change. She had been Beatrice to him, Unorna to +herself, but now the transformation was at hand--now it was to come. For +him she loved, and who loved her, she was Unorna even to the name, in +her own thoughts she had taken the dark woman's face. She had risked all +upon the chances of one throw and she had won. So long as he had called +her by another's name the bitterness had been as gall mingled in the +wine of love. But now that too was gone. She felt that it was complete +at last. Her golden head sank peacefully upon his shoulder in the +morning light. + +"You have been long in coming, love," she said, only half consciously, +"but you have come as I dreamed--it is perfect now. There is nothing +wanting any more." + +"It is all full, all real, all perfect," he answered, softly. + +"And there is to be no more parting, now----" + +"Neither here, nor afterwards, beloved." + +"Then this is afterwards. Heaven has nothing more to give. What is +Heaven? The meeting of those who love--as we have met. I have forgotten +what it was to live before you came----" + +"For me, there is nothing to remember between that day and this." + +"That day when you fell ill," Unorna said, "the loneliness, the fear for +you----" + +Unorna scarcely knew that it had not been she who had parted from him so +long ago. Yet she was playing a part, and in the semi-consciousness of +her deep self-illusion it all seemed as real as a vision in a dream so +often dreamed that it has become part of the dreamer's life. Those +who fall by slow degrees under the power of the all-destroying opium +remember yesterday as being very far, very long past, and recall faint +memories of last year as though a century had lived and perished since +then, seeing confusedly in their own lives the lives of others, and +other existences in their own, until identity is almost gone in the +endless transmigration of their souls from the shadow in one dream-tale +to the wraith of themselves that dreams the next. So, in that hour, +Unorna drifted through the changing scenes that a word had power to call +up, scarce able, and wholly unwilling, to distinguish between her real +and her imaginary self. What matter how? What matter where? The very +questions which at first she had asked herself came now but faintly as +out of an immeasurable distance, and always more faintly still. They +died away in her ears, as when, after long waiting, and false starts, +and turnings back and anxious words exchanged, the great race is at last +begun, the swift long limbs are gathered and stretched and strained +and gathered again, the thunder of flying hoofs is in the air, and the +rider, with low hands, and head inclined and eyes bent forward, hears +the last anxious word of parting counsel tremble and die in the rush of +the wind behind. + +She had really loved him throughout all those years; she had really +sought him and mourned for him and longed for a sight of his face; +they had really parted and had really found each other but a short hour +since; there was no Beatrice but Unorna and no Unorna but Beatrice, for +they were one and indivisible and interchangeable as the glance of +a man's two eyes that look on one fair sight; each sees alone, the +same--but seeing together, the sight grows doubly fair. + +"And all the sadness, where is it now?" she asked. "And all the +emptiness of that long time? It never was, my love--it was yesterday +we met. We parted yesterday, to meet to-day. Say it was yesterday--the +little word can undo seven years." + +"It seems like yesterday," he answered. + +"Indeed, I can almost think so, now, for it was all night between. +But not quite dark, as night is sometimes. It was a night full of +stars--each star was a thought of you, that burned softly and showed me +where heaven was. And darkest night, they say, means coming morning--so +when the stars went out I knew the sun must rise." + +The words fell from her lips naturally. To her it seemed true that she +had indeed waited long and hoped and thought of him. And it was not all +false. Ever since her childhood she had been told to wait, for her love +would come and would come only once. And so it was true, and the dream +grew sweeter and the illusion of the enchantment more enchanting still. +For it was an enchantment and a spell that bound them together there, +among the flowers, the drooping palms, the graceful tropic plants and +the shadowy leaves. And still the day rose higher, but still the lamps +burned on, fed by the silent, mysterious current that never tires, +blending a real light with an unreal one, an emblem of Unorna's self, +mixing and blending, too, with a self not hers. + +"And the sun is risen, indeed," she added presently. + +"Am I the sun, dear?" he asked, foretasting the delight of listening to +her simple answer. + +"You are the sun, beloved, and when you shine, my eyes can see nothing +else in heaven." + +"And what are you yourself--Beatrice--no, Unorna--is that the name you +chose? It is so hard to remember anything when I look at you." + +"Beatrice--Unorna--anything," came the answer, softly murmuring. +"Anything, dear, any name, any face, any voice, if only I am I, and you +are you, and we two love! Both, neither, anything--do the blessed souls +in Paradise know their own names?" + +"You are right--what does it matter? Why should you need a name at all, +since I have you with me always? It was well once--it served me when I +prayed for you--and it served to tell me that my heart was gold while +you were there, as the goldsmith's mark upon his jewel stamps the pure +metal, that all men may know it." + +"You need no sign like that to show me what you are," said she, with a +long glance. + +"Nor I to tell me you are in my heart," he answered. "It was a foolish +speech. Would you have me wise now?" + +"If wisdom is love--yes. If not----" She laughed softly. + +"Then folly?" + +"Then folly, madness, anything--so that this last, as last it must, or I +shall die!" + +"And why should it not last? Is there any reason, in earth or Heaven, +why we two should part? If there is--I will make that reason itself +folly, and madness, and unreason. Dear, do not speak of this not +lasting. Die, you say? Worse, far worse; as much as eternal death is +worse than bodily dying. Last? Does any one know what for ever means, +if we do not? Die, we must, in these dying bodies of ours, but part--no. +Love has burned the cruel sense out of that word, and bleached its +blackness white. We wounded the devil, parting, with one kiss, we killed +him with the next--this buries him--ah, love, how sweet----" + +There was neither resistance nor the thought of resisting. Their lips +met and were withdrawn only that their eyes might drink again the +draught the lips had tasted, long draughts of sweetness and liquid light +and love unfathomable. And in the interval of speech half false, +the truth of what was all true welled up from the clear depths and +overflowed the falseness, till it grew falser and more fleeting +still--as a thing lying deep in a bright water casts up a distorted +image on refracted rays. + +Glance and kiss, when two love, are as body and soul, supremely human +and transcendently divine. The look alone, when the lips cannot meet, +is but the disembodied spirit, beautiful even in its sorrow, sad, +despairing, saying "ever," and yet sighing "never," tasting and knowing +all the bitterness of both. The kiss without the glance? The body +without the soul? The mortal thing without the undying thought? Draw +down the thick veil and hide the sight, lest devils sicken at it, and +lest man should loathe himself for what man can be. + +Truth or untruth, their love was real, hers as much as his. She +remembered only what her heart had been without it. What her goal might +be, now that it had come, she guessed even then, but she would not ask. +Was there never a martyr in old times, more human than the rest, who +turned back, for love perhaps, if not for fear, and said that for love's +sake life still was sweet, and brought a milk-white dove to Aphrodite's +altar, or dropped a rose before Demeter's feet? There must have been, +for man is man, and woman, woman. And if in the next month, or even the +next year, or after many years, that youth or maid took heart to bear a +Christian's death, was there then no forgiveness, no sign of holy +cross upon the sandstone in the deep labyrinth of graves, no crown, no +sainthood, and no reverent memory of his name or hers among those of men +and women worthier, perhaps, but not more suffering? + +No one can kill Self. No one can be altogether another, save in the +passing passion of a moment's acting. I--in that syllable lies the whole +history of each human life; in that history lives the individuality; in +the clear and true conception of that individuality dwells such joint +foreknowledge of the future as we can have, such vague solution as to +us is possible of that vast equation in which all quantities are unknown +save that alone, that I which we know as we can know nothing else. + +"Bury it!" she said. "Bury that parting--the thing, the word, and the +thought--bury it with all others of its kind, with change, and old age, +and stealing indifference, and growing coldness, and all that cankers +love--bury them all, together, in one wide deep grave--then build on it +the house of what we are--" + +"Change? Indifference? I do not know those words," the Wanderer said. +"Have they been in your dreams, love? They have never been in mine." + +He spoke tenderly, but with the faintest echo of sadness in his voice. +The mere suggestion that such thoughts could have been near her was +enough to pain him. She was silent, and again her head lay upon his +shoulder. She found there still the rest and the peace. Knowing her own +life, the immensity of his faith and trust in that other woman were made +clear by the simple, heartfelt words. If she had been indeed Beatrice, +would he have loved her so? If it had all been true, the parting, the +seven years' separation, the utter loneliness, the hopelessness, the +despair, could she have been as true as he? In the stillness that +followed she asked herself the question which was so near a greater and +a deadlier one. But the answer came quickly. That, at least, she could +have done. She could have been true to him, even to death. It must be so +easy to be faithful when life was but one faith. In that chord at least +no note rang false. + +"Change in love--indifference to you!" she cried, all at once, hiding +her lovely face in his breast and twining her arms about his neck. "No, +no! I never meant that such things could be--they are but empty words, +words one hears spoken lightly by lips that never spoke the truth, by +men and women who never had such truth to speak as you and I." + +"And as for old age," he said, dwelling upon her speech, "what is that +to us? Let it come, since come it must. It is good to be young and fair +and strong, but would not you or I give up all that for love's sake, +each of us of our own free will, rather than lose the other's love?" + +"Indeed, indeed I would!" Unorna answered. + +"Then what of age? What is it after all? A few gray hairs, a wrinkle +here and there, a slower step, perhaps a dimmer glance. That is all +it is--the quiet, sunny channel between the sea of earthly joy and the +ocean of heavenly happiness. The breeze of love still fills the sails, +wafting us softly onward through the narrows, never failing, though it +be softer and softer, till we glide out, scarce knowing it, upon the +broader water and are borne swiftly away from the lost land by the first +breath of heaven." + +His words brought peace and the mirage of a far-off rest, that soothed +again the little half-born doubt. + +"Yes," she said. "It is better to think so. Then we need think of no +other change." + +"There is no other possible," he answered, gently pressing the shoulder +upon which his hand was resting. "We have not waited and believed, and +trusted and loved, for seven years, to wake at last--face to face as +we are to-day--and to find that we have trusted vainly and loved two +shadows, I yours, and you mine, to find at the great moment of all that +we are not ourselves, the selves we knew, but others of like passions +but of less endurance. Have we, beloved? And if we could love, and +trust, and believe without each other, each alone, is it not all the +more sure that we shall be unchanging together? It must be so. The whole +is greater than its parts, two loves together are greater and stronger +than each could be of itself. The strength of two strands close twined +together is more than twice the strength of each." + +She said nothing. By merest chance he had said words that had waked +the doubt again, so that it grew a little and took a firmer hold in her +unwilling heart. To love a shadow, he had said, to wake and find self +not self at all. That was what might come, would come, must come, +sooner or later, said the doubt. What matter where, or when, or how? The +question came again, vaguely, faintly as a mere memory, but confidently +as though knowing its own answer. Had she not rested in his arms, and +felt his kisses and heard his voice? What matter how, indeed? It matters +greatly, said the growing doubt, rearing its head and finding speech at +last. It matters greatly, it said, for love lies not alone in voice, +and kiss, and gentle touch, but in things more enduring, which to endure +must be sound and whole and not cankered to the core by a living lie. +Then came the old reckless reasoning again: Am I not I? Is he not he? Do +I not love him with my whole strength? Does he not love this very self +of mine, here as it is, my head upon his shoulder, my hand within his +hand? And if he once loved another, have I not her place, to have and +hold, that I may be loved in her stead? Go, said the doubt, growing +black and strong; go, for you are nothing to him but a figure in his +dream, disguised in the lines of one he really loved and loves; go +quickly, before it is too late, before that real Beatrice comes and +wakes him and drives you out of the kingdom you usurp. + +But she knew it was only a doubt, and had it been the truth, and had +Beatrice's foot been on the threshold, she would not have been driven +away by fear. But the fight had begun. + +"Speak to me, dear," she said. "I must hear your voice--it makes me know +that it is all real." + +"How the minutes fly!" he exclaimed, smoothing her hair with his hand. +"It seems to me that I was but just speaking when you spoke." + +"It seems so long--" She checked herself, wondering whether an hour had +passed or but a second. + +Though love be swifter than the fleeting hours, doubt can outrun a +lifetime in one beating of the heart. + +"Then how divinely long it all may seem," he answered. "But can we not +begin to think, and to make plans for to-morrow, and the next day, and +for the years before us? That will make more time for us, for with the +present we shall have the future, too. No--that is foolish again. And +yet it is so hard to say which I would have. Shall the moment linger +because it is so sweet? Or shall it be gone quickly, because the next is +to be sweeter still? Love, where is your father?" + +Unorna started. The question was suggested, perhaps, by his inclination +to speak of what was to be done, but it fell suddenly upon her ears, as +a peal of thunder when the sky has no clouds. Must she lie now, or break +the spell? One word, at least, she could yet speak with truth. + +"Dead." + +"Dead!" the Wanderer repeated, thoughtfully and with a faint surprise. +"Is it long ago, beloved?" he asked presently, in a subdued tone as +though fearing to wake some painful memory. + +"Yes," she answered. The great doubt was taking her heart in its strong +hands now and tearing it, and twisting it. + +"And whose house is this in which I have found you, darling? Was it +his?" + +"It is mine," Unorna said. + +How long would he ask questions to which she could find true answers? +What question would come next? There were so many he might ask and few +to which she could reply so truthfully even in that narrow sense of +truth which found its only meaning in a whim of chance. But for a moment +he asked nothing more. + +"Not mine," she said. "It is yours. You cannot take me and yet call +anything mine." + +"Ours, then, beloved. What does it matter? So he died long ago--poor +man! And yet, it seems but a little while since some one told me--but +that was a mistake, of course. He did not know. How many years may it +be, dear one? I see you still wear mourning for him." + +"No--that was but a fancy--to-day. He died--he died more than two years +ago." + +She bent her head. It was but a poor attempt at truth, a miserable lying +truth to deceive herself with, but it seemed better than to lie the +whole truth outright, and say that her father--Beatrice's father--had +been dead but just a week. The blood burned in her face. Brave natures, +good and bad alike, hate falsehood, not for its wickedness, perhaps, but +for its cowardice. She could do things as bad, far worse. She could lay +her hand upon the forehead of a sleeping man and inspire in him a deep, +unchangeable belief in something utterly untrue; but now, as it was, she +was ashamed and hid her face. + +"It is strange," he said, "how little men know of each other's lives +or deaths. They told me he was alive last year. But it has hurt you to +speak of it. Forgive me, dear, it was thoughtless of me." + +He tried to lift her head, but she held it obstinately down. + +"Have I pained you, Beatrice?" he asked, forgetting to call her by the +other name that was so new to him. + +"No--oh, no!" she exclaimed without looking up. + +"What is it then?" + +"Nothing--it is nothing--no, I will not look at you--I am ashamed." That +at least was true. + +"Ashamed, dear heart! Of what?" + +He had seen her face in spite of herself. Lie, or lose all, said a voice +within. + +"Ashamed of being glad that--that I am free," she stammered, struggling +on the very verge of the precipice. + +"You may be glad of that, and yet be very sorry he is dead," the +Wanderer said, stroking her hair. + +It was true, and seemed quite simple. She wondered that she had not +thought of that. Yet she felt that the man she loved, in all his +nobility and honesty, was playing the tempter to her, though he could +not know it. Deeper and deeper she sank, yet ever more conscious that +she was sinking. Before him she felt no longer as loving woman to loving +man--she was beginning to feel as a guilty prisoner before his judge. + +He thought to turn the subject to a lighter strain. By chance he glanced +at his own hand. + +"Do you know this ring?" he asked, holding it before her, with a smile. + +"Indeed, I know it," she answered, trembling again. + +"You gave it to me, love, do you remember? And I gave you a likeness of +myself, because you asked for it, though I would rather have given you +something better. Have you it still?" + +She was silent. Something was rising in her throat. Then she choked it +down. + +"I had it in my hand last night," she said in a breaking voice. True, +once more. + +"What is it, darling? Are you crying? This is no day for tears." + +"I little thought that I should have yourself to-day," she tried to say. + +Then the tears came, tears of shame, big, hot, slow. They fell upon his +hand. She was weeping for joy, he thought. What else could any man think +in such a case? He drew her to him, and pressed her cheek with his hand +as her head nestled on his shoulder. + +"When you put this ring on my finger, dear--so long ago----" + +She sobbed aloud. + +"No, darling--no, dear heart," he said, comforting her, "you must not +cry--that long ago is over now and gone for ever. Do you remember that +day, sweetheart, in the broad spring sun upon the terrace among the +lemon trees. No, dear--your tears hurt me always, even when they are +shed in happiness--no, dear, no. Rest there, let me dry your dear +eyes--so and so. Again? For ever, if you will. While you have tears, +I have kisses to dry them--it was so then, on that very day. I can +remember. I can see it all--and you. You have not changed, love, in all +those years, more than a blossom changes in one hour of a summer's day! +You took this ring and put it on my finger. Do you remember what I said? +I know the very words. I promised you--it needed no promise either--that +it should never leave its place until you took it back--and you--how +well I remember your face--you said that you would take it from my hand +some day, when all was well, when you should be free to give me another +in its stead, and to take one in return. I have kept my word, beloved. +Keep yours--I have brought you back the ring. Take it, sweetheart. It +is heavy with the burden of lonely years. Take it and give me that other +which I claim." + +She did not speak, for she was fighting down the choking sobs, +struggling to keep back the burning drops that scalded her cheeks, +striving to gather strength for the weight of a greater shame. Lie, or +lose all, the voice said. + +Very slowly she raised her head. She knew that his hand was close to +hers, held there that she might fulfil Beatrice's promise. Was she not +free? Could she not give him what he asked? No matter how--she tried to +say it to herself and could not. She felt his breath upon her hair. He +was waiting. If she did not act soon or speak he would wonder what held +her back--wonder--suspicion next and then? She put out her hand to touch +his fingers, half blinded, groping as though she could not see. He made +it easy for her. He fancied she was trembling, as she was weeping, with +the joy of it all. + +She felt the ring, though she dared not look at it. She drew it a little +and felt that it would come off easily. She felt the fingers she loved +so well, straight, strong and nervous, and she touched them lovingly. +The ring was not tight, it would pass easily over the joint that alone +kept it in its place. + +"Take it, beloved," he said. "It has waited long enough." + +He was beginning to wonder at her hesitation as she knew he would. After +wonder would come suspicion--and then? Very slowly--it was just upon the +joint of his finger now. Should she do it? What would happen? He would +have broken his vow--unwittingly. How quickly and gladly Beatrice would +have taken it. What would she say, if they lived and met--why should +they not meet? Would the spell endure that shock--who would Beatrice be +then? The woman who had given him this ring? Or another, whom he would +no longer know? But she must be quick. He was waiting and Beatrice would +not have made him wait. + +Her hand was like stone, numb, motionless, immovable, as though some +unseen being had taken it in an iron grasp and held it there, in +mid-air, just touching his. Yes--no--yes--she could not move--a hand +was clasped upon her wrist, a hand smaller than his, but strong as fate, +fixed in its grip as an iron vice. + +Unorna felt a cold breath, that was not his, upon her forehead, and she +felt as though her heavy hair were rising of itself upon her head. She +knew that horror, for she had been overtaken by it once before. She was +not afraid, but she knew what it was. There was a shadow, too, and a +dark woman, tall, queenly, with deep flashing eyes was standing beside +her. She knew, before she looked; she looked, and it was there. Her own +face was whiter than that other woman's. + +"Have you come already?" she asked of the shadow, in a low despairing +tone. + +"Beatrice--what has happened?" cried the Wanderer. To him, she seemed to +be speaking to the empty air and her white face startled him. + +"Yes," she said, staring still, in the same hopeless voice. "It is +Beatrice. She has come for you." + +"Beatrice--beloved--do not speak like that! For God's sake--what do you +see? There is nothing there." + +"Beatrice is there. I am Unorna." + +"Unorna, Beatrice--have we not said it should be all the same! +Sweetheart--look at me! Rest here--shut those dear eyes of yours. It is +gone now whatever it was--you are tired, dear--you must rest." + +Her eyes closed and her head sank. It was gone, as he said, and she +knew what it had been--a mere vision called up by her own over-tortured +brain. Keyork Arabian had a name for it. + +Frightened by your own nerves, laughed the voice, when, if you had not +been a coward, you might have faced it down and lied again, and all +would have been well. But you shall have another chance, and lying is +very easy, even when the nerves are over-wrought. You will do better the +next time. + +The voice was like Keyork Arabian's. Unstrung, almost forgetting all, +she wondered vaguely at the sound, for it was a real sound and a real +voice to her. Was her soul his, indeed, and was he drawing it on slowly, +surely to the end? Had he been behind her last night? Had he left an +hour's liberty only to come back again and take at last what was his? + +There is time yet, you have not lost him, for he thinks you mad. The +voice spoke once more. + +And at the same moment the strong dear arms were again around her, again +her head was on that restful shoulder of his, again her pale face was +turned up to his, and kisses were raining on her tired eyes, while +broken words of love and tenderness made music through the tempest. + +Again the vast temptation rose. How could he ever know? Who was to +undeceive him, if he was not yet undeceived? Who should ever make him +understand the truth so long as the spell lasted? Why not then take what +was given her, and when the end came, if it came, then tell all boldly? +Even then, he would not understand. Had he understood last night, when +she had confessed all that she had done before? He had not believed one +word of it, except that she loved him. Could she make him believe it +now, when he was clasping her so fiercely to his breast, half mad with +love for her himself? + +So easy, too. She had but to forget that passing vision, to put her arms +about his neck, to give kiss for kiss, and loving word for loving word. +Not even that. She had but to lie there, passive, silent if she could +not speak, and it would be still the same. No power on earth could undo +what she had done, unless she willed it. Neither man nor woman could +make his clasping hands let go of her and give her up. + +Be still and wait, whispered the voice, you have lost nothing yet. + +But Unorna would not. She had spoken and acted her last lie. It was +over. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +Unorna struggled for a moment. The Wanderer did not understand, but +loosed his arms, so that she was free. She rose to her feet and stood +before him. + +"You have dreamed all this," she said. "I am not Beatrice." + +"Dreamed? Not Beatrice?" she heard him cry in his bewilderment. + +Something more he said, but she could not catch the words. She was +already gone, through the labyrinth of the many plants, to the door +through which twelve hours earlier she had fled from Israel Kafka. She +ran the faster as she left him behind. She passed the entrance and the +passage and the vestibule beyond, not thinking whither she was going, or +not caring. She found herself in that large, well-lighted room in which +the ancient sleeper lay alone. Perhaps her instinct led her there as to +a retreat safer even than her own chamber. She knew that if she would +there was something there which she could use. + +She sank into a chair and covered her face, trembling from head to foot. +For many minutes after that she could neither see nor hear--she would +hardly have felt a wound or a blow. And yet she knew that she meant to +end her life, since all that made it life was ended. + +After a time, her hands fell in a despairing gesture upon her knees and +she stared about the room. Her eyes rested on the sleeper, then upon +his couch, lying as a prophet in state, the massive head raised upon a +silken pillow, the vast limbs just outlined beneath the snow-white robe, +the hoary beard flowing down over the great breast that slowly rose and +fell. + +To her there was a dreadful irony in that useless life, prolonged in +sleep beyond the limits of human age. Yet she had thought it worth the +labour and care and endless watchfulness it had cost for years. And now +her own, strong, young and fresh, seemed not only useless but fit only +to be cut off and cast away, as an existence that offended God and man +and most of all herself. + +But if she died then, there, in that secret chamber where she and her +companion had sought the secret of life for years, if she died now--how +would all end? Was it an expiation--or a flight? Would one short moment +of half-conscious suffering pay half her debt? + +She stared at the old man's face with wide, despairing eyes. Many a +time, unknown to Keyork and once to his knowledge, she had roused the +sleeper to speak, and on the whole he had spoken truly, wisely, and +well. She lacked neither the less courage to die, nor the greater +to live. She longed but to hear one honest word, not of hope, but of +encouragement, but one word in contrast to those hideous whispered +promptings that had come to her in Keyork Arabian's voice. How could she +trust herself alone? Her evil deeds were many--so many, that, although +she had turned at last against them, she could not tell where to strike. + +"If you would only tell me!" she cried leaning over the unconscious +head. "If you would only help me. You are so old that you must be wise, +and if so very wise, then you are good! Wake, but this once, and tell me +what is right!" + +The deep eyes opened and looked up to hers. The great limbs stirred, the +bony hands unclasped. There was something awe-inspiring in the ancient +strength renewed and filled with a new life. + +"Who calls me?" asked the clear, deep voice. + +"I, Unorna----" + +"What do you ask of me?" + +He had risen from his couch and stood before her, towering far above her +head. Even the Wanderer would have seemed but of common stature beside +this man of other years, of a forgotten generation, who now stood erect +and filled with a mysterious youth. + +"Tell me what I should do----" + +"Tell me what you have done." + +Then in one great confession, with bowed head and folded hands, she +poured out the story of her life. + +"And I am lost!" she cried at last. "One holds my soul, and one my +heart! May not my body die? Oh, say that it is right--that I may die!" + +"Die? Die--when you may yet undo?" + +"Undo?" + +"Undo and do. Undo the wrong and do the right." + +"I cannot. The wrong is past undoing--and I am past doing right." + +"Do not blaspheme--go! Do it." + +"What?" + +"Call her--that other woman--Beatrice. Bring her to him, and him to +her." + +"And see them meet!" + +She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped her +lips. + +"May I not die?" she cried despairingly. "May I not die--for him--for +her, for both? Would that not be enough? Would they not meet? Would they +not then be free?" + +"Do you love him still?" + +"With all my broken heart----" + +"Then do not leave his happiness to chance alone, but go at once. There +is one little act of Heaven's work still in your power. Make it all +yours." + +His great hands rested on her shoulders and his eyes looked down to +hers. + +"Is it so bitter to do right?" he asked. + +"It is very bitter," she answered. + +Very slowly she turned, and as she moved he went beside her, gently +urging her and seeming to support her. Slowly, through vestibule +and passage, they went on and entered together the great hall of the +flowers. The Wanderer was there alone. + +He uttered a short cry and sprang to meet her, but stepped back in awe +of the great white-robed figure that towered by her side. + +"Beatrice!" he cried, as they passed. + +"I am not Beatrice," she answered, her downcast eyes not raised to look +at him, moving still forward under the gentle guidance of the giant's +hand. + +"Not Beatrice--no--you are not she--you are Unorna! Have I dreamed all +this?" + +She had passed him now, and still she would not turn her head. But her +voice came back to him as she walked on. + +"You have dreamed what will very soon be true," she said. "Wait here, +and Beatrice will soon be with you." + +"I know that I am mad," the Wanderer cried, making one step to follow +her, then stopping short. Unorna was already at the door. The ancient +sleeper laid one hand upon her head. + +"You will do it now," he said. + +"I will do it--to the end," she answered. "Thank God that I have made +you live to tell me how." + +So she went out, alone, to undo what she had done so evilly well. + +The old man turned and went towards the Wanderer, who stood still in the +middle of the hall, confused, not knowing whether he had dreamed or was +really mad. + +"What man are you?" he asked, as the white-robed figure approached. + +"A man, as you are, for I was once young--not as you are, for I am very +old, and yet like you, for I am young again." + +"You speak in riddles. What are you doing here, and where have you sent +Unorna?" + +"When I was old, in that long time between, she took me in, and I have +slept beneath her roof these many years. She came to me to-day. She told +me all her story and all yours, waking me from my sleep, and asking me +what she should do. And she is gone to do that thing of which I told +her. Wait and you will see. She loves you well." + +"And you would help her to get my love, as she had tried to get it +before?" the Wanderer asked with rising anger. "What am I to you, or you +to me, that you would meddle in my life?" + +"You to me? Nothing. A man." + +"Therefore an enemy--and you would help Unorna--let me go! This home is +cursed. I will not stay in it." The hoary giant took his arm, and the +Wanderer started at the weight and strength of the touch. + +"You shall bless this house before you leave it. In this place, here +where you stand, you shall find the happiness you have sought through +all the years." + +"In Unorna?" the question was asked scornfully. + +"By Unorna." + +"I do not believe you. You are mad, as I am. Would you play the +prophet?" + +The door opened in the distance, and from behind the screen of plants +Keyork Arabian came forward into the hall, his small eyes bright, his +ivory face set and expressionless, his long beard waving in the swing of +his walk. The Wanderer saw him first and called to him. + +"Keyork--come here!" he said. "Who is this man?" + +For a moment Keyork seemed speechless with amazement. But it was anger +that choked his words. Then he came on quickly. + +"Who waked him?" he cried in fury. "What is this? Why is he here?" + +"Unorna waked me," answered the ancient sleeper very calmly. + +"Unorna? Again? The curse of The Three Black Angels on her! Mad again? +Sleep, go back! It is not ready yet, and you will die, and I shall lose +it all--all--all! Oh, she shall pay for this with her soul in hell!" + +He threw himself upon the giant, in an insane frenzy, clasping his arms +round the huge limbs and trying to force him backwards. + +"Go! go!" he cried frantically. "It may not be too late! You may yet +sleep and live! Oh, my Experiment, my great Experiment! All lost----" + +"What is this madness?" asked the Wanderer. "You cannot carry him, and +he will not go. Let him alone." + +"Madness?" yelled Keyork, turning on him. "You are the madman, you the +fool, who cannot understand! Help me to move him--you are strong and +young--together we can take him back--he may yet sleep and live--he must +and shall! I say it! Lay your hands on him--you will not help me? Then I +will curse you till you do----" + +"Poor Keyork!" exclaimed the Wanderer, half pitying him. "Your big +thoughts have cracked your little brain at last." + +"Poor Keyork? You call me poor Keyork? You boy! You puppet! You ball, +that we have bandied to and fro, half sleeping, half awake! It drives me +mad to see you standing there, scoffing instead of helping me!" + +"You are past my help, I fear." + +"Will you not move? Are you dead already, standing on your feet and +staring at me?" + +Again Keyork threw himself upon the huge old man, and stamped and +struggled and tried to move him backwards. He might as well have spent +his strength against a rock. Breathless but furious still, he desisted +at last, too much beside himself to see that he whose sudden death he +feared was stronger than he, because the great experiment had succeeded +far beyond all hope. + +"Unorna has done this!" he cried, beating his forehead in impotent rage. +"Unorna has ruined me, and all,--and everything--so she has paid me for +my help! Trust a woman when she loves? Trust angels to curse God, or +Hell to save a sinner! But she shall pay, too--I have her still. Why do +you stare at me? Wait, fool! You shall be happy now. What are you to me +that I should even hate you? You shall have what you want. I will bring +you the woman you love, the Beatrice you have seen in dreams--and then +Unorna's heart will break and she will die, and her soul--her soul----" + +Keyork broke into a peal of laughter, deep, rolling, diabolical in its +despairing, frantic mirth. He was still laughing as he reached the door. + +"Her soul, her soul!" they heard him cry, between one burst and another +as he went out, and from the echoing vestibule, and from the staircase +beyond, the great laughter rolled back to them when they were left +alone. + +"What is it all? I cannot understand," the Wanderer said, looking up to +the grand calm face. + +"It is not always given to evil to do good, even for evil's sake," said +the old man. "The thing that he would is done already. The wound that he +would make is already bleeding; the heart he is gone to break is broken; +the soul that he would torture is beyond all his torments." + +"Is Unorna dead?" the Wanderer asked, turning, he knew now why, with a +sort of reverence to his companion. + +"She is not dead." + +Unorna waited in the parlour of the convent. Then Beatrice came in, and +stood before her. Neither feared the other, and each looked into the +other's eyes. + +"I have come to undo what I have done," Unorna said, not waiting for the +cold inquiry which she knew would come if she were silent. + +"That will be hard, indeed," Beatrice answered. + +"Yes. It is very hard. Make it still harder if you can, I could still do +it." + +"And do you think I will believe you, or trust you?" asked the dark +woman. + +"I know that you will when you know how I have loved him." + +"Have you come here to tell me of your love?" + +"Yes. And when I have told you, you will forgive me." + +"I am no saint," said Beatrice, coldly. "I do not find forgiveness in +such abundance as you need." + +"You will find it for me. You are not bad, as I am, but you can +understand what I have done, nevertheless, for you know what you +yourself would do for the sake of him we love. No--do not be angry with +me yet--I love him and I tell you so--that you may understand." + +"At that price, I would rather not have the understanding. I do not care +to hear you say it. It is not good to hear." + +"Yet, if I did not love him as I do, I should not be here, of my own +free will, to take you to him. I came for that." + +"I do not believe you," Beatrice answered in tones like ice. + +"And yet you will, and very soon. Whether you forgive or not--that is +another matter. I cannot ask it. God knows how much easier it would have +been to die than to come here. But if I were dead you might never have +found him, nor he you, though you are so very near together. Do you +think it is easier for me to come to you, whom he loves, than it is for +you to hear me say I love him, when I come to give him to you? If you +had found it all, not as it is, but otherwise--if you had found that in +these years he had known me and loved me, as he once loved you, if he +turned from you coldly and bid you forget him, because he would be happy +with me, and because he had utterly forgotten you--would it be easy for +you to give him up?" + +"He loved me then--he loves me still," Beatrice said. "It is another +case." + +"A much more bitter case. Even then you would have the memory of his +love, which I can never have--in true reality, though I have much to +remember, in his dreams of you." + +Beatrice started a little, and her brow grew dark and angry. + +"Then you have tried to get what was not yours by your bad powers!" she +cried. "And you have made him sleep--and dream--what?" + +"Of you." + +"And he talked of love?" + +"Of love for you." + +"To you?" + +"To me." + +"And dreamed that you were I? That too?" + +"That I was you." + +"Is there more to tell?" Beatrice asked, growing white. "He kissed you +in that dream of his--do not tell me he did that--no, tell me--tell me +all!" + +"He kissed the thing he saw, believing the lips yours." + +"More--more--is it not done yet? Can you sting again? What else?" + +"Nothing--save that last night I tried to kill you, body and soul." + +"And why did you not kill me?" + +"Because you woke. Then the nun saved you. If she had not come, you +would have slept again, and slept for ever. And I would have let his +dreams last, and made it last--for him, I should have been the only +Beatrice." + +"You have done all this, and you ask me to forgive you?" + +"I ask nothing. If you will not go to him, I will bring him to you--" + +Beatrice turned away and walked across the room. + +"Loved her," she said aloud, "and talked to her of love, and kissed--" +She stopped suddenly. Then she came back again with swift steps and +grasped Unorna's arm fiercely. + +"Tell me more still--this dream has lasted long--you are man and wife!" + +"We might have been. He would still have thought me you, for months +and years. He would have had me take from his finger that ring you put +there. I tried--I tell you the whole truth--but I could not. I saw you +there beside me and you held my hand. I broke away and left him." + +"Left him of your free will?" + +"I could not lie again. It was too much. He would have broken a promise +if I had stayed. I love him--so I left him." + +"Is all this true?" + +"Every word." + +"Swear it to me." + +"How can I? By what shall I swear to you? Heaven itself would laugh at +any oath of mine. With my life I will answer for every word. With my +soul--no--it is not mine to answer with. Will you have my life? My last +breath shall tell you that I tell the truth. The dying do not lie." + +"You tell me that you love that man. You tell me that you made him think +in dreams that he loved you. You tell me that you might be man and wife. +And you ask me to believe that you turned back from such happiness +as would make an angel sin? If you had done this--but it is not +possible--no woman could! His words in your ear, and yet turn back? His +lips on yours, and leave him? Who could do that?" + +"One who loves him." + +"What made you do it?" + +"Love." + +"No--fear--nothing else----" + +"Fear? And what have I to fear? My body is beyond the fear of death, as +my soul is beyond the hope of life. If it were to be done again I should +be weak. I know I should. If you could know half of what the doing cost! +But let that alone. I did it, and he is waiting for you. Will you come?" + +"If I only knew it to be true----" + +"How hard you make it. Yet, it was hard enough." + +Beatrice touched her arm, more gently than before, and gazed into her +eyes. + +"If I could believe it all I would not make it hard. I would forgive +you--and you would deserve better than that, better than anything that +is mine to give." + +"I deserve nothing and ask nothing. If you will come, you will see, and, +seeing, you will believe. And if you then forgive--well then, you will +have done far more than I could do." + +"I would forgive you freely----" + +"Are you afraid to go with me?" + +"No. I am afraid of something worse. You have put something here--a +hope----" + +"A hope? Then you believe. There is no hope without a little belief in +it. Will you come?" + +"To him?" + +"To him." + +"It can but be untrue," said Beatrice, still hesitating. "I can but go. +What of him!" she asked suddenly. "If he were living--would you take me +to him? Could you?" + +She turned very pale, and her eyes stared madly at Unorna. + +"If he were dead," Unorna answered, "I should not be here." + +Something in her tone and look moved Beatrice's heart at last. + +"I will go with you," she said. "And if I find him--and if all is well +with him--then God in Heaven repay you, for you have been braver than +the bravest I ever knew." + +"Can love save a soul as well as lose it?" Unorna asked. + +Then they went away together. + +They were scarcely out of sight of the convent gate when another +carriage drove up. Almost before it had stopped, the door opened and +Keyork Arabian's short, heavy form emerged and descended hastily to the +pavement. He rang the bell furiously, and the old portress set the +gate ajar and looked out cautiously, fearing that the noisy peal meant +trouble or disturbance. + +"The lady Beatrice Varanger--I must see her instantly!" cried the little +man in terrible excitement. + +"She is gone out," the portress replied. + +"Gone out? Where? Alone?" + +"With a lady who was here last night--a lady with unlike eyes--" + +"Where? Where? Where are they gone?" asked Keyork hardly able to find +breath. + +"The lady bade the coachman drive her home--but where she lives--" + +"Home? To Unorna's home? It is not true! I see it in your eyes. Witch! +Hag! Let me in! Let me in, I say! May vampires get your body and the +Three Black Angels cast lots upon your soul!" + +In the storm of curses that followed, the convent door was violently +shut in his face. Within, the portress stood shaking with fear, crossing +herself again and again, and verily believing that the devil himself had +tried to force an entrance into the sacred place. + +In fearful anger Keyork drew back. He hesitated one moment and then +regained his carriage. + +"To Unorna's house!" he shouted, as he shut the door with a crash. + +"This is my house, and he is here," Unorna said, as Beatrice passed +before her, under the deep arch of the entrance. + +Then she lead the way up the broad staircase, and through the small +outer hall to the door of the great conservatory. + +"You will find him there," she said. "Go on alone." + +But Beatrice took her hand to draw her in. + +"Must I see it all?" Unorna asked, hopelessly. + +Then from among the plants and trees a great white-robed figure came +out and stood between them. Joining their hands he gently pushed them +forward to the middle of the hall where the Wanderer stood alone. + +"It is done!" Unorna cried, as her heart broke. + +She saw the scene she had acted so short a time before. She heard the +passionate cry, the rain of kisses, the tempest of tears. The expiation +was complete. Not a sight, not a sound was spared her. The strong arms +of the ancient sleeper held her upright on her feet. She could not fall, +she could not close her eyes, she could not stop her ears, no merciful +stupor overcame her. + +"Is it so bitter to do right?" the old man asked, bending low and +speaking softly. + +"It is the bitterness of death," she said. + +"It is well done," he answered. + +Then came a noise of hurried steps and a loud, deep voice, calling, +"Unorna! Unorna!" + +Keyork Arabian was there. He glanced at Beatrice and the Wanderer, +locked in each other's arms, then turned to Unorna and looked into her +face. + +"It has killed her," he said. "Who did it?" + +His low-spoken words echoed like angry thunder. + +"Give her to me," he said again. "She is mine--body and soul." + +But the great strong arms were around her and would not let her go. + +"Save me!" she cried in failing tones. "Save me from him!" + +"You have saved yourself," said the solemn voice of the old man. + +"Saved?" Keyork laughed. "From me?" He laid his hand upon her arm. Then +his face changed again, and his laughter died dismally away, and he hung +back. + +"Can you forgive her?" asked the other voice. + +The Wanderer stood close to them now, drawing Beatrice to his side. The +question was for them. + +"Can you forgive me?" asked Unorna faintly, turning her eyes towards +them. + +"As we hope to find forgiveness and trust in a life to come," they +answered. + +There was a low sound in the air, unearthly, muffled, desperate as of +a strong being groaning in awful agony. When they looked, they saw that +Keyork Arabian was gone. + +The dawn of a coming day rose in Unorna's face as she sank back. + +"It is over," she sighed, as her eyes closed. + +Her question was answered; her love had saved her. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Witch of Prague, by F. 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Hart +and may be reprinted only when these Etexts are free of all fees.] +[Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales +of Project Gutenberg Etexts or other materials be they hardware or +software or any other related product without express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.07/27/01*END* + + + + + + +Etext prepared by Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com +and John Bickers, jbickers@ihug.co.nz + + + + + + + +THE WITCH OF PRAGUE +A FANTASTIC TALE + +BY + +F. MARION CRAWFORD + + + + + +CHAPTER I + +A great multitude of people filled the church, crowded together in the +old black pews, standing closely thronged in the nave and aisles, +pressing shoulder to shoulder even in the two chapels on the right and +left of the apse, a vast gathering of pale men and women whose eyes +were sad and in whose faces was written the history of their nation. +The mighty shafts and pilasters of the Gothic edifice rose like the +stems of giant trees in a primeval forest from a dusky undergrowth, +spreading out and uniting their stony branches far above in the upper +gloom. From the clerestory windows of the nave an uncertain light +descended halfway to the depths and seemed to float upon the darkness +below as oil upon the water of a well. Over the western entrance the +huge fantastic organ bristled with blackened pipes and dusty gilded +ornaments of colossal size, like some enormous kingly crown long +forgotten in the lumber room of the universe, tarnished and overlaid +with the dust of ages. Eastwards, before the rail which separated the +high altar from the people, wax torches, so thick that a man might not +span one of them with both his hands, were set up at irregular +intervals, some taller, some shorter, burning with steady, golden +flames, each one surrounded with heavy funeral wreaths, and each +having a tablet below it, whereon were set forth in the Bohemian +idiom, the names, titles, and qualities of him or her in whose memory +it was lighted. Innumerable lamps and tapers before the side altars +and under the strange canopied shrines at the bases of the pillars, +struggled ineffectually with the gloom, shedding but a few sickly +yellow rays upon the pallid faces of the persons nearest to their +light. + +Suddenly the heavy vibration of a single pedal note burst from the +organ upon the breathing silence, long drawn out, rich, voluminous, +and imposing. Presently, upon the massive bass, great chords grew up, +succeeding each other in a simple modulation, rising then with the +blare of trumpets and the simultaneous crash of mixtures, fifteenths +and coupled pedals to a deafening peal, then subsiding quickly again +and terminating in one long sustained common chord. And now, as the +celebrant bowed at the lowest step before the high altar, the voices +of the innumerable congregation joined the harmony of the organ, +ringing up to the groined roof in an ancient Slavonic melody, +melancholy and beautiful, and rendered yet more unlike all other music +by the undefinable character of the Bohemian language, in which tones +softer than those of the softest southern tongue alternate so oddly +with rough gutturals and strident sibilants. + +The Wanderer stood in the midst of the throng, erect, taller than the +men near him, holding his head high, so that a little of the light +from the memorial torches reached his thoughtful, manly face, making +the noble and passionate features to stand out clearly, while losing +its power of illumination in the dark beard and among the shadows of +his hair. His was a face such as Rembrandt would have painted, seen +under the light that Rembrandt loved best; for the expression seemed +to overcome the surrounding gloom by its own luminous quality, while +the deep gray eyes were made almost black by the wide expansion of the +pupils; the dusky brows clearly defined the boundary in the face +between passion and thought, and the pale forehead, by its slight +recession into the shade from its middle prominence, proclaimed the +man of heart, the man of faith, the man of devotion, as well as the +intuitive nature of the delicately sensitive mind and the quick, +elastic qualities of the man's finely organized, but nervous bodily +constitution. The long white fingers of one hand stirred restlessly, +twitching at the fur of his broad lapel which was turned back across +his chest, and from time to time he drew a deep breath and sighed, not +painfully, but wearily and hopelessly, as a man sighs who knows that +his happiness is long past and that his liberation from the burden of +life is yet far off in the future. + +The celebrant reached the reading of the Gospel and the men and women +in the pews rose to their feet. Still the singing of the long-drawn- +out stanzas of the hymn continued with unflagging devotion, and still +the deep accompaniment of the ancient organ sustained the mighty +chorus of voices. The Gospel over, the people sank into their seats +again, not standing, as is the custom in some countries, until the +Creed had been said. Here and there, indeed, a woman, perhaps a +stranger in the country, remained upon her feet, noticeable among the +many figures seated in the pews. The Wanderer, familiar with many +lands and many varying traditions of worship, unconsciously noted +these exceptions, looking with a vague curiosity from one to the +other. Then, all at once, his tall frame shivered from head to foot, +and his fingers convulsively grasped the yielding sable on which they +lay. + +She was there, the woman he had sought so long, whose face he had not +found in the cities and dwellings of the living, neither her grave in +the silent communities of the dead. There, before the uncouth monument +of dark red marble beneath which Tycho Brahe rests in peace, there she +stood; not as he had seen her last on that day when his senses had +left him in the delirium of his sickness, not in the freshness of her +bloom and of her dark loveliness, but changed as he had dreamed in +evil dreams that death would have power to change her. The warm olive +of her cheek was turned to the hue of wax, the soft shadows beneath +her velvet eyes were deepened and hardened, her expression, once +yielding and changing under the breath of thought and feeling as a +field of flowers when the west wind blows, was now set, as though for +ever, in a death-like fixity. The delicate features were drawn and +pinched, the nostrils contracted, the colourless lips straightened out +of the lines of beauty into the mould of a lifeless mask. It was the +face of a dead woman, but it was her face still, and the Wanderer knew +it well; in the kingdom of his soul the whole resistless commonwealth +of the emotions revolted together to dethrone death's regent--sorrow, +while the thrice-tempered springs of passion, bent but not broken, +stirred suddenly in the palace of his body and shook the strong +foundations of his being. + +During the seconds that followed, his eyes were riveted upon the +beloved head. Then, as the Creed ended, the vision sank down and was +lost to his sight. She was seated now, and the broad sea of humanity +hid her from him, though he raised himself the full height of his +stature in the effort to distinguish even the least part of her head- +dress. To move from his place was all but impossible, though the +fierce longing to be near her bade him trample even upon the shoulders +of the throng to reach her, as men have done more than once to save +themselves from death by fire in crowded places. Still the singing of +the hymn continued, and would continue, as he knew, until the moment +of the Elevation. He strained his hearing to catch the sounds that +came from the quarter where she sat. In a chorus of a thousand singers +he fancied that he could have distinguished the tender, heart-stirring +vibration of her tones. Never woman sang, never could woman sing +again, as she had once sung, though her voice had been as soft as it +had been sweet, and tuned to vibrate in the heart rather than in the +ear. As the strains rose and fell, the Wanderer bowed his head and +closed his eyes, listening, through the maze of sounds, for the +silvery ring of her magic note. Something he heard at last, something +that sent a thrill from his ear to his heart, unless indeed his heart +itself were making music for his ears to hear. The impression reached +him fitfully, often interrupted and lost, but as often renewing itself +and reawakening in the listener the certainty of recognition which he +had felt at the sight of the singer's face. + +He who loves with his whole soul has a knowledge and a learning which +surpass the wisdom of those who spend their lives in the study of +things living or long dead, or never animate. They, indeed, can +construct the figure of a flower from the dried web of a single leaf, +or by the examination of a dusty seed, and they can set up the scheme +of life of a shadowy mammoth out of a fragment of its skeleton, or +tell the story of hill and valley from the contemplation of a handful +of earth or of a broken pebble. Often they are right, sometimes they +are driven deeper and deeper into error by the complicated +imperfections of their own science. But he who loves greatly possesses +in his intuition the capacities of all instruments of observation +which man has invented and applied to his use. The lenses of his eyes +can magnify the infinitesimal detail to the dimensions of common +things, and bring objects to his vision from immeasurable distances; +the labyrinth of his ear can choose and distinguish amidst the +harmonies and the discords of the world, muffling in its tortuous +passages the reverberation of ordinary sounds while multiplying a +hundredfold the faint tones of the one beloved voice. His whole body +and his whole intelligence form together an instrument of exquisite +sensibility whereby the perceptions of his inmost soul are hourly +tortured, delighted, caught up into ecstasy, torn and crushed by +jealousy and fear, or plunged into the frigid waters of despair. + +The melancholy hymn resounded through the vast church, but though the +Wanderer stretched the faculty of hearing to the utmost, he could no +longer find the note he sought amongst the vibrations of the dank and +heavy air. Then an irresistible longing came upon him to turn and +force his way through the dense throng of men and women, to reach the +aisle and press past the huge pillar till he could slip between the +tombstone of the astronomer and the row of back wooden seats. Once +there, he should see her face to face. + +He turned, indeed, as he stood, and he tried to move a few steps. On +all sides curious looks were directed upon him, but no one offered to +make way, and still the monotonous singing continued until he felt +himself deafened, as he faced the great congregation. + +"I am ill," he said in a low voice to those nearest to him. "Pray let +me pass!" + +His face was white, indeed, and those who heard his words believed +him. A mild old man raised his sad blue eyes, gazed at him, and while +trying to draw back, gently shook his head. A pale woman, whose sickly +features were half veiled in the folds of a torn black shawl, moved as +far as she could, shrinking as the very poor and miserable shrink when +they are expected to make way before the rich and the strong. A lad of +fifteen stood upon tiptoe to make himself even slighter than he was +and thus to widen the way, and the Wanderer found himself, after +repeated efforts, as much as two steps distant from his former +position. He was still trying to divide the crowd when the music +suddenly ceased, and the tones of the organ died away far up under the +western window. It was the moment of the Elevation, and the first +silvery tinkling of the bell, the people swayed a little, all those +who were able kneeling, and those whose movements were impeded by the +press of worshippers bending towards the altar as a field of grain +before the gale. The Wanderer turned again and bowed himself with the +rest, devoutly and humbly, with half-closed eyes, as he strove to +collect and control his thoughts in the presence of the chief mystery +of his Faith. Three times the tiny bell was rung, a pause followed, +and thrice again the clear jingle of the metal broke the solemn +stillness. Then once more the people stirred, and the soft sound of +their simultaneous motion was like a mighty sigh breathed up from the +secret vaults and the deep foundations of the ancient church; again +the pedal note of the organ boomed through the nave and aisles, and +again the thousands of human voices took up the strain of song. + +The Wanderer glanced about him, measuring the distance he must +traverse to reach the monument of the Danish astronomer and +confronting it with the short time which now remained before the end +of the Mass. He saw that in such a throng he would have no chance of +gaining the position he wished to occupy in less than half an hour, +and he had not but a scant ten minutes at his disposal. He gave up the +attempt therefore, determining that when the celebration should be +over he would move forward with the crowd, trusting to his superior +stature and energy to keep him within sight of the woman he sought, +until both he and she could meet, either just within or just without +the narrow entrance of the church. + +Very soon the moment of action came. The singing died away, the +benediction was given, the second Gospel was read, the priest and the +people repeated the Bohemian prayers, and all was over. The countless +heads began to move onward, the shuffling of innumerable feet sent +heavy, tuneless echoes through vaulted space, broken every moment by +the sharp, painful cough of a suffering child whom no one could see in +the multitude, or by the dull thud of some heavy foot striking against +the wooden seats in the press. The Wanderer moved forward with the +rest. Reaching the entrance of the pew where she had sat he was kept +back during a few seconds by the half dozen men and women who were +forcing their way out of it before him. But at the farthest end, a +figure clothed in black was still kneeling. A moment more and he might +enter the pew and be at her side. One of the other women dropped +something before she was out of the narrow space, and stooped, +fumbling and searching in the darkness. At the minute, the slight, +girlish figure rose swiftly and passed like a shadow before the heavy +marble monument. The Wanderer saw that the pew was open at the other +end, and without heeding the woman who stood in his way, he sprang +upon the low seat, passed her, stepped to the floor upon the other +side and was out in the aisle in a moment. Many persons had already +left the church and the space was comparatively free. + +She was before him, gliding quickly toward the door. Ere he could +reach her, he saw her touch the thick ice which filled the marble +basin, cross herself hurriedly and pass out. But he had seen her face +again, and he knew that he was not mistaken. The thin, waxen features +were as those of the dead, but they were hers, nevertheless. In an +instant he could be by her side. But again his progress was +momentarily impeded by a number of persons who were entering the +building hastily to attend the next Mass. Scarcely ten seconds later +he was out in the narrow and dismal passage which winds between the +north side of the Teyn Kirche and the buildings behind the Kinsky +Palace. The vast buttresses and towers cast deep shadows below them, +and the blackened houses opposite absorb what remains of the uncertain +winter's daylight. To the left of the church a low arch spans the +lane, affording a covered communication between the north aisle and +the sacristy. To the right the open space is somewhat broader, and +three dark archways give access to as many passages, leading in +radiating directions and under the old houses to the streets beyond. + +The Wanderer stood upon the steps, beneath the rich stone carvings +which set forth the Crucifixion over the door of the church, and his +quick eyes scanned everything within sight. To the left, no figure +resembling the one he sought was to be seen, but on the right, he +fancied that among a score of persons now rapidly dispersing he could +distinguish just within one of the archways a moving shadow, black +against the blackness. In an instant he had crossed the way and was +hurrying through the gloom. Already far before him, but visible and, +as he believed, unmistakable, the shade was speeding onward, light as +mist, noiseless as thought, but yet clearly to be seen and followed. +He cried aloud, as he ran, + +"Beatrice! Beatrice!" + +His strong voice echoed along the dank walls and out into the court +beyond. It was intensely cold, and the still air carried the sound +clearly to the distance. She must have heard him, she must have known +his voice, but as she crossed the open place, and the gray light fell +upon her, he could see that she did not raise her bent head nor +slacken her speed. + +He ran on, sure of overtaking her in the passage she had now entered, +for she seemed to be only walking, while he was pursuing her at a +headlong pace. But in the narrow tunnel, when he reached it, she was +not, though at the farther end he imagined that the fold of a black +garment was just disappearing. He emerged into the street, in which he +could now see in both directions to a distance of fifty yards or more. +He was alone. The rusty iron shutters of the little shops were all +barred and fastened, and every door within the range of his vision was +closed. He stood still in surprise and listened. There was no sound to +be heard, not the grating of a lock, nor the tinkling of a bell, nor +the fall of a footstep. + +He did not pause long, for he made up his mind as to what he should do +in the flash of a moment's intuition. It was physically impossible +that she should have disappeared into any one of the houses which had +their entrances within the dark tunnel he had just traversed. Apart +from the presumptive impossibility of her being lodged in such a +quarter, there was the self-evident fact that he must have heard the +door opened and closed. Secondly, she could not have turned to the +right, for in that direction the street was straight and without any +lateral exit, so that he must have seen her. Therefore she must have +gone to the left, since on that side there was a narrow alley leading +out of the lane, at some distance from the point where he was now +standing--too far, indeed, for her to have reached it unnoticed, +unless, as was possible, he had been greatly deceived in the distance +which had lately separated her from him. + +Without further hesitation, he turned to the left. He found no one in +the way, for it was not yet noon, and at that hour the people were +either at their prayers or at their Sunday morning's potations, and +the place was as deserted as a disused cemetery. Still he hastened +onward, never pausing for breath, till he found himself all at once in +the great Ring. He knew the city well, but in his race he had bestowed +no attention upon the familiar windings and turnings, thinking only of +overtaking the fleeting vision, no matter how, no matter where. Now, +on a sudden, the great, irregular square opened before him, flanked on +the one side by the fantastic spires of the Teyn Church, and the +blackened front of the huge Kinsky Palace, on the other by the half- +modern Town Hall with its ancient tower, its beautiful porch, and the +graceful oriel which forms the apse of the chapel in the second story. + +One of the city watchmen, muffled in his military overcoat, and +conspicuous by the great bunch of dark feathers that drooped from his +black hat, was standing idly at the corner from which the Wanderer +emerged. The latter thought of inquiring whether the man had seen a +lady pass, but the fellow's vacant stare convinced him that no +questioning would elicit a satisfactory answer. Moreover, as he looked +across the square he caught sight of a retreating figure dressed in +black, already at such a distance as to make positive recognition +impossible. In his haste he found no time to convince himself that no +living woman could have thus outrun him, and he instantly resumed his +pursuit, gaining rapidly upon her he was following. But it is not an +easy matter to overtake even a woman, when she has an advantage of a +couple of hundred yards, and when the race is a short one. He passed +the ancient astronomical clock, just as the little bell was striking +the third quarter after eleven, but he did not raise his head to watch +the sad-faced apostles as they presented their stiff figures in +succession at the two square windows. When the blackened cock under +the small Gothic arch above flapped his wooden wings and uttered his +melancholy crow, the Wanderer was already at the corner of the little +Ring, and he could see the object of his pursuit disappearing before +him into the Karlsgasse. He noticed uneasily that the resemblance +between the woman he was following and the object of his loving search +seemed now to diminish, as in a bad dream, as the distance between +himself and her decreased. But he held resolutely on, nearing her at +every step, round a sharp corner to the right, then to the left, to +the right again, and once more in the opposite direction, always, as +he knew, approaching the old stone bridge. He was not a dozen paces +behind her as she turned quickly a third time to the right, round the +wall of the ancient house which faces the little square over against +the enormous buildings comprising the Clementine Jesuit monastery and +the astronomical observatory. As he sprang past the corner he saw the +heavy door just closing and heard the sharp resounding clang of its +iron fastening. The lady had disappeared, and he felt sure that she +had gone through that entrance. + +He knew the house well, for it is distinguished from all others in +Prague, both by its shape and its oddly ornamented, unnaturally narrow +front. It is built in the figure of an irregular triangle, the blunt +apex of one angle facing the little square, the sides being erected on +the one hand along the Karlsgasse and on the other upon a narrow alley +which leads away towards the Jews' quarter. Overhanging passages are +built out over this dim lane, as though to facilitate the interior +communications of the dwelling, and in the shadow beneath them there +is a small door studded with iron nails which is invariably shut. The +main entrance takes in all the scant breadth of the truncated angle +which looks towards the monastery. Immediately over it is a great +window, above that another, and, highest of all, under the pointed +gable, a round and unglazed aperture, within which there is inky +darkness. The windows of the first and second stories are flanked by +huge figures of saints, standing forth in strangely contorted +attitudes, black with the dust of ages, black as all old Prague is +black, with the smoke of the brown Bohemian coal, with the dark and +unctuous mists of many autumns, with the cruel, petrifying frosts of +ten score winters. + +He who knew the cities of men as few have known them, knew also this +house. Many a time had he paused before it by day and by night, +wondering who lived within its massive, irregular walls, behind those +uncouth, barbarously sculptured saints who kept their interminable +watch high up by the lozenged windows. He would know now. Since she +whom he sought had entered, he would enter too; and in some corner of +that dwelling which had long possessed a mysterious attraction for his +eyes, he would find at last that being who held power over his heart, +that Beatrice whom he had learned to think of as dead, while still +believing that somewhere she must be yet alive, that dear lady whom, +dead or living, he loved beyond all others, with a great love, passing +words. + + + +CHAPTER II + +The Wanderer stood still before the door. In the freezing air, his +quick-drawn breath made fantastic wreaths of mist, white and full of +odd shapes as he watched the tiny clouds curling quickly into each +other before the blackened oak. Then he laid his hand boldly upon the +chain of the bell. He expected to hear the harsh jingling of cracked +metal, but he was surprised by the silvery clearness and musical +quality of the ringing tones which reached his ear. He was pleased, +and unconsciously took the pleasant infusion for a favourable omen. +The heavy door swung back almost immediately, and he was confronted by +a tall porter in dark green cloth and gold lacings, whose imposing +appearance was made still more striking by the magnificent fair beard +which flowed down almost to his waist. The man lifted his heavy cocked +hat and held it low at his side as he drew back to let the visitor +enter. The latter had not expected to be admitted thus without +question, and paused under the bright light which illuminated the +arched entrance, intending to make some inquiry of the porter. But the +latter seemed to expect nothing of the sort. He carefully closed the +door, and then, bearing his hat in one hand and his gold-headed staff +in the other, he proceeded gravely to the other end of the vaulted +porch, opened a great glazed door and held it back for the visitor to +pass. + +The Wanderer recognized that the farther he was allowed to penetrate +unhindered into the interior of the house, the nearer he should be to +the object of his search. He did not know where he was, nor what he +might find. For all that he knew, he might be in a club, in a great +banking-house, or in some semi-public institution of the nature of a +library, an academy or a conservatory of music. There are many such +establishments in Prague, though he was not acquainted with any in +which the internal arrangements so closely resembled those of a +luxurious private residence. But there was no time for hesitation, and +he ascended the broad staircase with a firm step, glancing at the rich +tapestries which covered the walls, at the polished surface of the +marble steps on either side of the heavy carpet, and at the elaborate +and beautiful iron-work of the hand-rail. As he mounted higher, he +heard the quick rapping of an electric signal above him, and he +understood that the porter had announced his coming. Reaching the +landing, he was met by a servant in black, as correct at all points as +the porter himself, and who bowed low as he held back the thick +curtain which hung before the entrance. Without a word the man +followed the visitor into a high room of irregular shape, which served +as a vestibule, and stood waiting to receive the guest's furs, should +it please him to lay them aside. To pause now, and to enter into an +explanation with a servant, would have been to reject an opportunity +which might never return. In such an establishment, he was sure of +finding himself before long in the presence of some more or less +intelligent person of his own class, of whom he could make such +inquiries as might enlighten him, and to whom he could present such +excuses for his intrusion as might seem most fitting in so difficult a +case. He let his sables fall into the hands of the servant and +followed the latter along a short passage. + +The man introduced him into a spacious hall and closed the door, +leaving him to his own reflections. The place was very wide and high +and without windows, but the broad daylight descended abundantly from +above through the glazed roof and illuminated every corner. He would +have taken the room for a conservatory, for it contained a forest of +tropical trees and plants, and whole gardens of rare southern flowers. +Tall letonias, date palms, mimosas and rubber trees of many varieties +stretched their fantastic spikes and heavy leaves half-way up to the +crystal ceiling; giant ferns swept the polished marble floor with +their soft embroideries and dark green laces; Indian creepers, full of +bright blossoms, made screens and curtains of their intertwining +foliage; orchids of every hue and of every exotic species bloomed in +thick banks along the walls. Flowers less rare, violets and lilies of +the valley, closely set and luxuriant, grew in beds edged with moss +around the roots of the larger plants and in many open spaces. The air +was very soft and warm, moist and full of heavy odours as the still +atmosphere of an island in southern seas, and the silence was broken +only by the light plash of softly-falling water. + +Having advanced a few steps from the door, the Wanderer stood still +and waited, supposing that the owner of the dwelling would be made +aware of a visitor's presence and would soon appear. But no one came. +Then a gentle voice spoke from amidst the verdure, apparently from no +great distance. + +"I am here," it said. + +He moved forward amidst the ferns and the tall plants, until he found +himself on the farther side of a thick network of creepers. Then he +paused, for he was in the presence of a woman, of her who dwelt among +the flowers. She was sitting before him, motionless and upright in a +high, carved chair, and so placed that the pointed leaves of the palm +which rose above her cast sharp, star-shaped shadows over the broad +folds of her white dress. One hand, as white, as cold, as heavily +perfect as the sculpture of a Praxiteles or a Phidias, rested with +drooping fingers on the arm of the chair. The other pressed the pages +of a great book which lay open on the lady's knee. Her face was turned +toward the visitor, and her eyes examined his face; calmly and with no +surprise in them, but not without a look of interest. Their expression +was at once so unusual, so disquieting, and yet so inexplicably +attractive as to fascinate the Wanderer's gaze. He did not remember +that he had ever seen a pair of eyes of distinctly different colours, +the one of a clear, cold gray, the other of a deep, warm brown, so +dark as to seem almost black, and he would not have believed that +nature could so far transgress the canons of her own art and yet +preserve the appearance of beauty. For the lady was beautiful, from +the diadem of her red gold hair to the proud curve of her fresh young +lips; from her broad, pale forehead, prominent and boldly modelled at +the angles of the brows, to the strong mouldings of the well-balanced +chin, which gave evidence of strength and resolution wherewith to +carry out the promise of the high aquiline features and of the wide +and sensitive nostrils. + +"Madame," said the Wanderer, bending his head courteously and +advancing another step, "I can neither frame excuses for having +entered your house unbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence for my +intrusion, unless you are willing in the first place to hear my short +story. May I expect so much kindness?" + +He paused, and the lady looked at him fixedly and curiously. Without +taking her eyes from his face, and without speaking, she closed the +book she had held on her knee, and laid it beside her upon a low +table. The Wanderer did not avoid her gaze, for he had nothing to +conceal, nor any sense of timidity. He was an intruder upon the +privacy of one whom he did not know, but he was ready to explain his +presence and to make such amends as courtesy required, if he had given +offence. + +The heavy odours of the flowers filled his nostrils with an unknown, +luxurious delight, as he stood there, gazing into the lady's eyes; he +fancied that a gentle breath of perfumed air was blowing softly over +his hair and face out of the motionless palms, and the faint plashing +of the hidden fountain was like an exquisite melody in his ears. It +was good to be in such a place, to look on such a woman, to breathe +such odours, and to hear such tuneful music. A dreamlike, half- +mysterious satisfaction of the senses dulled the keen self-knowledge +of body and soul for one short moment. In the stormy play of his +troubled life there was a brief interlude of peace. He tasted the +fruit of the lotus, his lips were moistened in the sweet waters of +forgetfulness. + +The lady spoke at last, and the spell left him, not broken, as by a +sudden shock, but losing its strong power by quick degrees until it +was wholly gone. + +"I will answer your question by another," said the lady. "Let your +reply be the plain truth. It will be better so." + +"Ask what you will. I have nothing to conceal." + +"Do you know who and what I am? Do you come here out of curiosity, in +the vain hope of knowing me, having heard of me from others?" + +"Assuredly not." A faint flush rose in the man's pale and noble face. +"You have my word," he said, in the tone of one who is sure of being +believed, "that I have never, to my knowledge, heard of your +existence, that I am ignorant even of your name--forgive my ignorance +--and that I entered this house, not knowing whose it might be, +seeking and following after one for whom I have searched the world, +one dearly loved, long lost, long sought." + +"It is enough. Be seated. I am Unorna." + +"Unorna?" repeated the Wanderer, with an unconscious question in his +voice, as though the name recalled some half-forgotten association. + +"Unorna--yes. I have another name," she added, with a shade of +bitterness, "but it is hardly mine. Tell me your story. You loved--you +lost--you seek--so much I know. What else?" + +The Wanderer sighed. + +"You have told in those few words the story of my life--the unfinished +story. A wanderer I was born, a wanderer I am, a wanderer I must ever +be, until at last I find her whom I seek. I knew her in a strange +land, far from my birthplace, in a city where I was known but to a +few, and I loved her. She loved me, too, and that against her father's +will. He would not have his daughter wed with one not of her race; for +he himself had taken a wife among strangers, and while she was yet +alive he had repented of what he had done. But I would have overcome +his reasons and his arguments--she and I could have overcome them +together, for he did not hate me, he bore me no ill-will. We were +almost friends when I last took his hand. Then the hour of destiny +came upon me. The air of that city was treacherous and deadly. I had +left her with her father, and my heart was full of many things, and of +words both spoken and unuttered. I lingered upon an ancient bridge +that spanned the river, and the sun went down. Then the evil fever of +the south laid hold upon me and poisoned the blood in my veins, and +stole the consciousness from my understanding. Weeks passed away, and +memory returned, with the strength to speak. I learned that she I +loved and her father were gone, and none knew whither. I rose and left +the accursed city, being at that time scarce able to stand upright +upon my feet. Finding no trace of those I sought, I journeyed to their +own country, for I knew where her father held his lands. I had been +ill many weeks and much time had passed, from the day on which I had +left her, until I was able to move from my bed. When I reached the +gates of her home, I was told that all had been lately sold, and that +others now dwelt within the walls. I inquired of those new owners of +the land, but neither they or any of all those whom I questioned could +tell me whither I should direct my search. The father was a strange +man, loving travel and change and movement, restless and unsatisfied +with the world, rich and free to make his own caprice his guide +through life; reticent he was, moreover, and thoughtful, not given to +speaking out his intentions. Those who administered his affairs in his +absence were honourable men, bound by his especial injunction not to +reveal his ever-varying plans. Many times, in my ceaseless search, I +met persons who had lately seen him and his daughter and spoken with +them. I was ever on their track, from hemisphere to hemisphere, from +continent to continent, from country to country, from city to city, +often believing myself close upon them, often learning suddenly that +an ocean lay between them and me. Was he eluding me, purposely, +resolutely, or was he unconscious of my desperate pursuit, being +served by chance alone and by his own restless temper? I do not know. +At last, some one told me that she was dead, speaking thoughtlessly, +not knowing that I loved her. He who told me had heard the news from +another, who had received it on hearsay from a third. None knew in +what place her spirit had parted; none knew by what manner of sickness +she had died. Since then, I have heard others say that she is not +dead, that they have heard in their turn from others that she yet +lives. An hour ago, I knew not what to think. To-day, I saw her in a +crowded church. I heard her voice, though I could not reach her in the +throng, struggle how I would. I followed her in haste, I lost her at +one turning, I saw her before me at the next. At last a figure, +clothed as she had been clothed, entered your house. Whether it was +she I know not certainly, but I do know that in the church I saw her. +She cannot be within your dwelling without your knowledge; if she be +here--then I have found her, my journey is ended, my wanderings have +led me home at last. If she be not here, if I have been mistaken, I +entreat you to let me set eyes on that other whom I mistook for her, +to forgive then my mannerless intrusion and to let me go." + +Unorna had listened with half-closed eyes, but with unfaltering +attention, watching the speaker's face from beneath her drooping lids, +making no effort to read his thoughts, but weighing his words and +impressing every detail of his story upon her mind. When he had done +there was silence for a time, broken only by the plash and ripple of +the falling water. + +"She is not here," said Unorna at last. "You shall see for yourself. +There is indeed in this house a young girl to whom I am deeply +attached, who has grown up at my side and has always lived under my +roof. She is very pale and dark, and is dressed always in black." + +"Like her I saw." + +"You shall see her again. I will send for her." Unorna pressed an +ivory key in the silver ball which lay beside her, attached to a thick +cord of white silk. "Ask Sletchna Axenia to come to me," she said to +the servant who opened the door in the distance, out of sight behind +the forest of plants. + +Amid less unusual surroundings the Wanderer would have rejected with +contempt the last remnants of his belief in the identity of Unorna's +companion, with Beatrice. But, being where he was, he felt unable to +decide between the possible and the impossible, between what he might +reasonably expect and what lay beyond the bounds of reason itself. The +air he breathed was so loaded with rich exotic perfumes, the woman +before him was so little like other women, her strangely mismatched +eyes had for his own such a disquieting attraction, all that he saw +and felt and heard was so far removed from the commonplaces of daily +life as to make him feel that he himself was becoming a part of some +other person's existence, that he was being gradually drawn away from +his identity, and was losing the power of thinking his own thoughts. +He reasoned as the shadows reason in dreamland, the boundaries of +common probability receded to an immeasurable distance, and he almost +ceased to know where reality ended and where imagination took up the +sequence of events. + +Who was this woman, who called herself Unorna? He tried to consider +the question, and to bring his intelligence to bear upon it. Was she a +great lady of Prague, rich, capricious, creating a mysterious +existence for herself, merely for her own good pleasure? Her language, +her voice, her evident refinement gave colour to the idea, which was +in itself attractive to a man who had long ceased to expect novelty in +this working-day world. He glanced at her face, musing and wondering, +inhaling the sweet, intoxicating odours of the flowers and listening +to the tinkling of the hidden fountain. Her eyes were gazing into his, +and again, as if by magic, the curtain of life's stage was drawn +together in misty folds, shutting out the past, the present, and the +future, the fact, the doubt, and the hope, in an interval of perfect +peace. + +He was roused by the sound of a light footfall upon the marble +pavement. Unorna's eyes were turned from his, and with something like +a movement of surprise he himself looked towards the new comer. A +young girl was standing under the shadow of a great letonia at a short +distance from him. She was very pale indeed, but not with that death- +like, waxen pallor which had chilled him when he had looked upon that +other face. There was a faint resemblance in the small, aquiline +features, the dress was black, and the figure of the girl before him +was assuredly neither much taller nor much shorter than that of the +woman he loved and sought. But the likeness went no further, and he +knew that he had been utterly mistaken. + +Unorna exchanged a few indifferent words with Axenia and dismissed +her. + +"You have seen," she said, when the young girl was gone. "Was it she +who entered the house just now?" + +"Yes. I was misled by a mere resemblance. Forgive me for my +importunity--let me thank you most sincerely for your great kindness." +He rose as he spoke. + +"Do not go," said Unorna, looking at him earnestly. + +He stood still, silent, as though his attitude should explain itself, +and yet expecting that she would say something further. He felt that +her eyes were upon him, and he raised his own to meet the look +frankly, as was his wont. For the first time since he had entered her +presence he felt that there was more than a mere disquieting +attraction in her steady gaze; there was a strong, resistless +fascination, from which he had no power to withdraw himself. Almost +unconsciously he resumed his seat, still looking at her, while telling +himself with a severe effort that he would look but one instant longer +and then turn away. Ten seconds passed, twenty, half a minute, in +total silence. He was confused, disturbed, and yet wholly unable to +shut out her penetrating glance. His fast ebbing consciousness barely +allowed him to wonder whether he was weakened by the strong emotions +he had felt in the church, or by the first beginning of some unknown +and unexpected malady. He was utterly weak and unstrung. He could +neither rise from his seat, nor lift his hand, nor close the lids of +his eyes. It was as though an irresistible force were drawing him into +the depths of a fathomless whirlpool, down, down, by its endless giddy +spirals, robbing him of a portion of his consciousness at every +gyration, so that he left behind him at every instant something of his +individuality, something of the central faculty of self-recognition. +He felt no pain, but he did not feel that inexpressible delight of +peace which already twice had descended upon him. He experienced a +rapid diminution of all perception, of all feeling, of all +intelligence. Thought, and the memory of thought, ebbed from his brain +and left it vacant, as the waters of a lock subside when the gates are +opened, leaving emptiness in their place. + +Unorna's eyes turned from him, and she raised her hand a moment, +letting it fall again upon her knee. Instantly the strong man was +restored to himself; his weakness vanished, his sight was clear, his +intelligence was awake. Instantly the certainty flashed upon him that +Unorna possessed the power of imposing the hypnotic sleep and had +exercised that gift upon him, unexpectedly and against his will. He +would have more willingly supposed that he had been the victim of a +momentary physical faintness, for the idea of having been thus +subjected to the influence of a woman, and of a woman whom he hardly +knew, was repugnant to him, and had in it something humiliating to his +pride, or at least to his vanity. But he could not escape the +conviction forced upon him by the circumstances. + +"Do not go far, for I may yet help you," said Unorna, quietly. "Let us +talk of this matter and consult what is best to be done. Will you +accept a woman's help?" + +"Readily. But I cannot accept her will as mine, nor resign my +consciousness into her keeping." + +"Not for the sake of seeing her whom you say you love?" + +The Wanderer was silent, being yet undetermined how to act, and still +unsteadied by what he had experienced. But he was able to reason, and +he asked of his judgment what he should do, wondering what manner of +woman Unorna might prove to be, and whether she was anything more than +one of those who live and even enrich themselves by the exercise of +the unusual faculties of powers nature has given them. He had seen +many of that class, and he considered most of them to be but half +fanatics, half charlatans, worshipping in themselves as something +almost divine that which was but a physical power, or weakness, beyond +their own limited comprehension. Though a whole school of wise and +thoughtful men had already produced remarkable results and elicited +astounding facts by sifting the truth through a fine web of closely +logical experiment, it did not follow that either Unorna, or any other +self-convinced, self-taught operator could do more than grope blindly +towards the light, guided by intuition alone amongst the varied and +misleading phenomena of hypnotism. The thought of accepting the help +of one who was probably, like most of her kind, a deceiver of herself +and therefore, and thereby, of others, was an affront to the dignity +of his distress, a desecration of his love's sanctity, a frivolous +invasion of love's holiest ground. But, on the other hand, he was +stimulated to catch at the veriest shadows of possibility by the +certainty that he was at last within the same city with her he loved, +and he knew that hypnotic subjects are sometimes able to determine the +abode of persons whom no one else can find. To-morrow it might be too +late. Even before to-day's sun had set Beatrice might be once more +taken from him, snatched away to the ends of the earth by her father's +ever-changing caprice. To lose a moment now might be to lose all. + +He was tempted to yield, to resign his will into Unorna's hands, and +his sight to her leading, to let her bid him sleep and see the truth. +But then, with a sudden reaction of his individuality, he realized +that he had another course, surer, simpler, more dignified. Beatrice +was in Prague. It was little probable that she was permanently +established in the city, and in all likelihood she and her father were +lodged in one of the two or three great hotels. To be driven from the +one to the other of these would be but an affair of minutes. Failing +information from this source, there remained the registers of the +Austrian police, whose vigilance takes note of every stranger's name +and dwelling-place. + +"I thank you," he said. "If all my inquiries fail, and if you will let +me visit you once more to-day, I will then ask your help." + +"You are right," Unorna answered. + + + +CHAPTER III + +He had been deceived in supposing that he must inevitably find the +names of those he sought upon the ordinary registers which chronicle +the arrival and departure of travellers. He lost no time, he spared no +effort, driving from place to place as fast as two sturdy Hungarian +horses could take him, hurrying from one office to another, and again +and again searching endless pages and columns which seemed full of all +the names of earth, but in which he never found the one of all others +which he longed to read. The gloom in the narrow streets was already +deepening, though it was scarcely two hours after mid-day, and the +heavy air had begun to thicken with a cold gray haze, even in the +broad, straight Przikopy, the wide thoroughfare which has taken the +place and name of the moat before the ancient fortifications, so that +distant objects and figures lost the distinctness of their outlines. +Winter in Prague is but one long, melancholy dream, broken sometimes +at noon by an hour of sunshine, by an intermittent visitation of +reality, by the shock and glare of a little broad daylight. The +morning is not morning, the evening is not evening; as in the land of +the Lotus, it is ever afternoon, gray, soft, misty, sad, save when the +sun, being at his meridian height, pierces the dim streets and sweeps +the open places with low, slanting waves of pale brightness. And yet +these same dusky streets are thronged with a moving multitude, are +traversed ever by ceaseless streams of men and women, flowing onward, +silently, swiftly, eagerly. The very beggars do not speak above a +whisper, the very dogs are dumb. The stillness of all voices leaves +nothing for the perception of the hearing save the dull thread of many +thousand feet and the rough rattle of an occasional carriage. Rarely, +the harsh tones of a peasant, or the clear voices of a knot of +strangers, unused to such oppressive silence, startle the ear, causing +hundreds of eager, half-suspicious, half-wondering eyes to turn in the +direction of the sound. + +And yet Prague is a great city, the capital of the Bohemian Crownland, +the centre of a not unimportant nation, the focus in which are +concentrated the hottest, if not the brightest, rays from the fire of +regeneration kindled within the last half century by the Slavonic +race. There is an ardent furnace of life hidden beneath the crust of +ashes: there is a wonderful language behind that national silence. + +The Wanderer stood in deep thought under the shadow of the ancient +Powder Tower. Haste had no further object now, since he had made every +inquiry within his power, and it was a relief to feel the pavement +beneath his feet and to breathe the misty frozen air after having been +so long in the closeness of his carriage. He hesitated as to what he +should do, unwilling to return to Unorna and acknowledge himself +vanquished, yet finding it hard to resist his desire to try every +means, no matter how little reasonable, how evidently useless, how +puerile and revolting to his sounder sense. The street behind him led +directly towards Unorna's house. Had he found himself in a more remote +quarter, he might have come to another and a wiser conclusion. Being +so near to the house of which he was thinking, he yielded to the +temptation. Having reached this stage of resolution, his mind began to +recapitulate the events of the day, and he suddenly felt a strong wish +to revisit the church, to stand in the place where Beatrice had stood, +to touch in the marble basin beside the door the thick ice which her +fingers had touched so lately, to traverse again the dark passages +through which he had pursued her. To accomplish his purpose he need +only turn aside a few steps from the path he was now following. He +left the street almost immediately, passing under a low arched way +that opened on the right-hand side, and a moment later he was within +the walls of the Teyn Kirche. + +The vast building was less gloomy than it had been in the morning. It +was not yet the hour of vespers, the funeral torches had been +extinguished, as well as most of the lights upon the high altar, there +were not a dozen persons in the church, and high up beneath the roof +broad shafts of softened sunshine, floating above the mists of the +city without, streamed through the narrow lancet windows and were +diffused in the great gloom below. The Wanderer went to the monument +of Brahe and sat down in the corner of the blackened pew. His hands +trembled a little as he clasped them upon his knee, and his head sank +slowly towards his breast. + +He thought of all that might have been if he had risked everything +that morning. He could have used his strength to force a way for +himself through the press, he could have thrust the multitude to the +right and left, and he could have reached her side. Perhaps he had +been weak, indolent, timid, and he accused himself of his own failure. +But then, again, he seemed to see about him the closely packed crowd, +the sea of faces, the thick, black mass of humanity, and he knew the +tremendous power that lay in the inert, passive resistance of a vast +gathering such as had been present. Had it been anywhere else, in a +street, in a theatre, anywhere except in a church, all would have been +well. It had not been his fault, for he knew, when he thought of it +calmly, that the strength of his body would have been but as a breath +of air against the silent, motionless, and immovable barrier presented +by a thousand men, standing shoulder to shoulder against him. He could +have done nothing. Once again his fate had defeated him at the moment +of success. + +He was aware that some one was standing very near to him. He looked up +and saw a very short, gray-bearded man engaged in a minute examination +of the dark red marble face on the astronomer's tomb. The man's head, +covered with closely-cropped gray hair, was half buried between his +high, broad shoulders, in an immense collar of fur, but the shape of +the skull was so singular as to distinguish its possessor, when +hatless, from all other men. The cranium was abnormally shaped, +reaching a great elevation at the summit, then sinking suddenly, then +spreading forward to an enormous development at the temple just +visible as he was then standing, and at the same time forming unusual +protuberances behind the large and pointed ears. No one who knew the +man could mistake his head, when even the least portion of it could be +seen. The Wanderer recognised him at once. + +As though he were conscious of being watched, the little man turned +sharply, exhibiting his wrinkled forehead, broad at the brows, narrow +and high in the middle, showing, too, a Socratic nose half buried in +the midst of the gray hair which grew as high as the prominent cheek +bones, and suggesting the idea of a polished ivory ball lying in a +nest of grayish wool. Indeed all that was visible of the face above +the beard might have been carved out of old ivory, so far as the hue +and quality of the surface were concerned; and if it had been +necessary to sculpture a portrait of the man, no material could have +been chosen more fitted to reproduce faithfully the deep cutting of +the features, to render the close network of the wrinkles which +covered them like the shadings of a line engraving, and at the same +time to give the whole that appearance of hardness and smoothness +which was peculiar to the clear, tough skin. The only positive colour +which relieved the half tints of the face lay in the sharp bright eyes +which gleamed beneath the busy eyebrows like tiny patches of vivid +blue sky seen through little rifts in a curtain of cloud. All +expression, all mobility, all life were concentrated in those two +points. + +The Wanderer rose to his feet. + +"Keyork Arabian!" he exclaimed, extending his hand. The little man +immediately gripped it in his small fingers, which, soft and +delicately made as they were, possessed a strength hardly to have been +expected either from their shape, or from the small proportions of him +to whom they belonged. + +"Still wandering?" asked the little man, with a slightly sarcastic +intonation. He spoke in a deep, caressing bass, not loud, but rich in +quality and free from that jarring harshness which often belongs to +very manly voices. A musician would have discovered that the pitch was +that of those Russian choristers whose deep throats yield organ tones, +a full octave below the compass of ordinary singers in other lands. + +"You must have wandered, too, since we last met," replied the taller +man. + +"I never wander," said Keyork. "When a man knows what he wants, knows +where it is to be found, and goes thither to take it, he is not +wandering. Moreover, I have no thought of removing myself or my goods +from Prague. I live here. It is a city for old men. It is saturnine. +The foundations of its houses rest on the silurian formation, which is +more than can be said for any other capital, as far as I know." + +"Is that an advantage?" inquired the Wanderer. + +"To my mind. I would say to my son, if I had one--my thanks to a blind +but intelligent destiny for preserving me from such a calamity!--I +would say to him, 'Spend thy youth among flowers in the land where +they are brightest and sweetest; pass thy manhood in all lands where +man strives with man, thought for thought, blow for blow; choose for +thine old age that spot in which, all things being old, thou mayest +for the longest time consider thyself young in comparison with thy +surroundings.' A man can never feel old if he contemplates and +meditates upon those things only which are immeasurably older than +himself. Moreover the imperishable can preserve the perishable." + +"It was not your habit to talk of death when we were together." + +"I have found it interesting of late years. The subject is connected +with one of my inventions. Did you ever embalm a body? No? I could +tell you something singular about the newest process." + +"What is the connection?" + +"I am embalming myself, body and mind. It is but an experiment, and +unless it succeeds it must be the last. Embalming, as it is now +understood, means substituting one thing for another. Very good. I am +trying to purge from my mind its old circulating medium; the new +thoughts must all be selected from a class which admits of no decay. +Nothing could be simpler." + +"It seems to me that nothing could be more vague." + +"You were not formerly so slow to understand me," said the strange +little man with some impatience. + +"Do you know a lady of Prague who calls herself Unorna?" the Wanderer +asked, paying no attention to his friend's last remark. + +"I do. What of her?" Keyork Arabian glanced keenly at his companion. + +"What is she? She has an odd name." + +"As for her name, it is easily accounted for. She was born on the +twenty-ninth day of February, the year of her birth being bisextile. +Unor means February, Unorna, derivative adjective, 'belonging to +February.' Some one gave her the name to commemorate the +circumstance." + +"Her parents, I suppose." + +"Most probably--whoever they may have been." + +"And what is she?" the Wanderer asked. + +"She calls herself a witch," answered Keyork with considerable scorn. +"I do not know what she is, or what to call her--a sensitive, an +hysterical subject, a medium, a witch--a fool, if you like, or a +charlatan if you prefer the term. Beautiful she is, at least, whatever +else she may not be." + +"Yes, she is beautiful." + +"So you have seen her, have you?" The little man again looked sharply +up at his tall companion. "You have had a consultation----" + +"Does she give consultations? Is she a professional seer?" The +Wanderer asked the question in a tone of surprise. "Do you mean that +she maintains an establishment upon such a scale out of the proceeds +of fortune-telling?" + +"I do not mean anything of the sort. Fortune-telling is excellent! +Very good!" Keyork's bright eyes flashed with amusement. "What are you +doing here--I mean in this church?" He put the question suddenly. + +"Pursuing--an idea, if you please to call it so." + +"Not knowing what you mean I must please to call your meaning by your +own name for it. It is your nature to be enigmatic. Shall we go out? +If I stay here much longer I shall be petrified instead of embalmed. I +shall turn into dirty old red marble like Tycho's effigy there, an +awful warning to future philosophers, and an example for the +edification of the faithful who worship here." + +They walked towards the door, and the contrast between the appearance +of the two brought the ghost of a smile to the thin lips of the pale +sacristan, who was occupied in renewing the tapers upon one of the +side altars. Keyork Arabian might have stood for the portrait of the +gnome-king. His high and pointed head, his immense beard, his stunted +but powerful and thickset limbs, his short, sturdy strides, the fiery, +half-humorous, half-threatening twinkle of his bright eyes gave him +all the appearance of a fantastic figure from a fairy tale, and the +diminutive height of his compact frame set off the noble stature and +graceful motion of his companion. + +"So you were pursuing an idea," said the little man as they emerged +into the narrow street. "Now ideas may be divided variously into +classes, as, for instance, ideas which are good, bad, or indifferent. +Or you may contrast the idea of Plato with ideas anything but platonic +--take it as you please. Then there is my idea, which is in itself, +good, interesting, and worthy of the embalming process; and there is +your idea, which I am human enough to consider altogether bad, +worthless, and frivolous, for the plain and substantial reason that it +is not mine. Perhaps that is the best division of all. Thine eye is +necessarily, fatally, irrevocably evil, because mine is essentially, +predestinately, and unchangeably good. If I secretly adopt your idea, +I openly assert that it was never yours at all, but mine from the +beginning, by the prerogatives of greater age, wider experience, and +immeasurably superior wisdom. If you have an idea upon any subject, I +will utterly annihilate it to my own most profound satisfaction; if +you have none concerning any special point, I will force you to accept +mine, as mine, or to die the intellectual death. That is the general +theory of the idea." + +"And what does it prove?" inquired the Wanderer. + +"If you knew anything," answered Keyork, with twinkling eyes, "you +would know that a theory is not a demonstration, but an explanation. +But, by the hypothesis, since you are not I, you can know nothing +certainly. Now my theory explains many things, and, among others, the +adamantine, imperishable, impenetrable nature of the substance vanity +upon which the showman, Nature, projects in fast fading colours the +unsubstantial images of men. Why do you drag me through this dismal +passage?" + +"I passed through it this morning and missed my way." + +"In pursuit of the idea, of course. That was to be expected. Prague is +constructed on the same principle as the human brain, full of winding +ways, dark lanes, and gloomy arches, all of which may lead somewhere, +or may not. Its topography continually misleads its inhabitants as the +convolutions of the brain mislead the thoughts that dwell there, +sometimes bringing them out at last, after a patient search for +daylight, upon a fine broad street where the newest fashions in +thought are exposed for sale in brightly illuminated shop windows and +showcases; conducting them sometimes to the dark, unsavoury court +where the miserable self drags out its unhealthy existence in the +single room of its hired earthly lodging." + +"The self which you propose to preserve from corruption," observed the +tall man, who was carefully examining every foot of the walls between +which he was passing with his companion, "since you think so poorly of +the lodger and the lodging, I wonder that you should be anxious to +prolong the sufferings of the one and his lease of the other." + +"It is all I have," answered Keyork Arabian. "Did you think of that?" + +"That circumstance may serve as an excuse, but it does not constitute +a reason." + +"Not a reason! Is the most abject poverty a reason for throwing away +the daily crust? My self is all I have. Shall I let it perish when an +effort may preserve it from destruction? On the one side of the line +stands Keyork Arabian, on the other floats the shadow of an +annihilation, which threatens to swallow up Keyork's self, while +leaving all that he has borrowed of life to be enjoyed, or wasted by +others. Could Keyork be expected to hesitate, so long as he may hope +to remain in possession of that inestimable treasure, his own +individuality, which is his only means for enjoying all that is not +his, but borrowed?" + +"So soon as you speak of enjoyment, argument ceases," answered the +Wanderer. + +"You are wrong, as usual," returned the other. "It is the other way. +Enjoyment is the universal solvent of all arguments. No reason can +resist its mordant action. It will dissolve any philosophy not founded +upon it and modelled out of its substance, as Aqua Regia will dissolve +all metals, even to gold itself. Enjoyment? Enjoyment is the protest +of reality against the tyranny of fiction." + +The little man stopped short in his walk, striking his heavy stick +sharply upon the pavement and looking up at his companion, very much +as a man of ordinary size looks up at the face of a colossal statue. + +"Have wisdom and study led you no farther than that conclusion?" + +Keyork's eyes brightened suddenly, and a peal of laughter, deep and +rich, broke from his sturdy breast and rolled long echoes through the +dismal lane, musical as a hunting-song heard among great trees in +winter. But his ivory features were not discomposed, though his white +beard trembled and waved softly like a snowy veil blown about by the +wind. + +"If wisdom can teach how to prolong the lease, what study can be +compared with that of which the results may beautify the dwelling? +What more can any man do for himself than make himself happy? The very +question is absurd. What are you trying to do for yourself at the +present moment? Is it for the sake of improving the physical condition +or of promoting the moral case of mankind at large that you are +dragging me through the slums and byways and alleys of the gloomiest +city on this side of eternal perdition? It is certainly not for my +welfare that you are sacrificing yourself. You admit that you are +pursuing an idea. Perhaps you are in search of some new and curious +form of mildew, and when you have found it--or something else--you +will name your discovery /Fungus Pragensis/, or /Cryptogamus minor +Errantis/--'the Wanderer's toadstool.' But I know you of old, my good +friend. The idea you pursue is not an idea at all, but that specimen +of the /genus homo/ known as 'woman,' species 'lady,' variety 'true +love,' vulgar designation 'sweetheart.'" + +The Wanderer stared coldly at his companion. + +"The vulgarity of the designation is indeed only equalled by that of +your taste in selecting it," he said slowly. Then he turned away, +intending to leave Keyork standing where he was. + +But the little man had already repented of his speech. He ran quickly +to his friend's side and laid one hand upon his arm. The Wanderer +paused and again looked down. + +"Is it of any use to be offended with my speeches? Am I an +acquaintance of yesterday? Do you imagine that it could ever be my +intention to annoy you?" the questions were asked rapidly in tones of +genuine anxiety. + +"Indeed, I hardly know how I could suppose that. You have always been +friendly--but I confess--your names for things are not--always----" + +The Wanderer did not complete the sentence, but looked gravely at +Keyork as though wishing to convey very clearly again what he had +before expressed in words. + +"If we were fellow-countrymen and had our native language in common, +we should not so easily misunderstand one another," replied the other. +"Come, forgive my lack of skill, and do not let us quarrel. Perhaps I +can help you. You may know Prague well, but I know it better. Will you +allow me to say that I know also whom it is you are seeking here?" + +"Yes. You know. I have not changed since we last met, nor have +circumstances favoured me." + +"Tell me--have you really seen this Unorna, and talked with her?" + +"This morning." + +"And she could not help you?" + +"I refused to accept her help, until I had done all that was in my own +power to do." + +"You were rash. And have you now done all, and failed?" + +"I have." + +"Then, if you will accept a humble suggestion from me, you will go +back to her at once." + +"I know very little of her. I do not altogether trust her--" + +"Trust! Powers of Eblis--or any other powers! Who talks of trust? Does +the wise man trust himself? Never. Then how can he dare trust any one +else?" + +"Your cynical philosophy again!" exclaimed the Wanderer. + +"Philosophy? I am a mysosophist! All wisdom is vanity, and I hate it! +Autology is my study, autosophy my ambition, autonomy my pride. I am +the great Panegoist, the would-be Conservator of Self, the inspired +prophet of the Universal I. I--I--I! My creed has but one word, and +that word but one letter, that letter represents Unity, and Unity is +Strength. I am I, one, indivisible, central! O I! Hail and live for +ever!" + +Again the little man's rich bass voice rang out in mellow laughter. A +very faint smile appeared upon his companion's sad face. + +"You are happy, Keyork," he said. "You must be, since you can laugh at +yourself so honestly." + +"At myself? Vain man! I am laughing at you, and at every one else, at +everything except myself. Will you go to Unorna? You need not trust +her any more than the natural infirmity of your judgment suggests." + +"Can you tell me nothing more of her? Do you know her well?" + +"She does not offer her help to every one. You would have done well to +accept it in the first instance. You may not find her in the same +humour again." + +"I had supposed from what you said of her that she made a profession +of clairvoyance, or hypnotism, or mesmerism--whatever may be the right +term nowadays." + +"It matters very little," answered Keyork, gravely. "I used to wonder +at Adam's ingenuity in naming all living things, but I think he would +have made but a poor figure in a tournament of modern terminologists. +No. Unorna does not accept remuneration for her help when she +vouchsafes to give it." + +"And yet I was introduced to her presence without even giving my +name." + +"That is her fancy. She will see any one who wishes to see her, +beggar, gentleman, or prince. But she only answers such questions as +she pleases to answer." + +"That is to say, inquiries for which she is already prepared with a +reply," suggested the Wanderer. + +"See for yourself. At all events, she is a very interesting specimen. +I have never known any one like her." + +Keyork Arabian was silent, as though he were reflecting upon Unorna's +character and peculiar gifts, before describing them to his friend. +His ivory features softened almost imperceptibly, and his sharp blue +eyes suddenly lost their light, as though they no longer saw the outer +world. But the Wanderer cared for none of these things, and bestowed +no attention upon his companion's face. 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?" + +"What?" asked the other vaguely, as though roused from sleep. + +"If I go to Unorna and ask a consultation of her, as though she were a +common somnambulist, and if she deigns to place her powers at my +disposal what sort of assistance shall I most probably get?" + +They had been walking slowly forward, and Keyork again stopped, +rapping the pavement with his iron-shod stick, and looking up from +under his bushy, overhanging eyebrows. + +"Of two things, one will happen," he answered. "Either she will +herself fall into the abnormal state and will answer correctly any +questions you put to her, or she will hypnotise you, and you will +yourself see--what you wish to see." + +"I myself?" + +"You yourself. The peculiarity of the woman is her duality, her double +power. She can, by an act of volition, become hypnotic, clairvoyant-- +whatever you choose to call it. Or, if her visitor is at all +sensitive, she can reverse the situation and play the part of the +hypnotiser. I never heard of a like case." + +"After all, I do not see why it should not be so," said the Wanderer +thoughtfully. "At all events, whatever she can do, is evidently done +by hypnotism, and such extraordinary experiments have succeeded of +late--" + +"I did not say that there was nothing but hypnotism in her processes." + +"What then? Magic?" The Wanderer's lip curled scornfully. + +"I do not know," replied the little man, speaking slowly. "Whatever +her secret may be, she keeps it, even when speaking in sleep. This I +can tell you. I suspect that there is some other being, or person, in +that queer old house of hers whom she consults on grave occasions. At +a loss for an answer to a difficult scientific question, I have known +her to leave the room and to come back in the course of a few minutes +with a reply which I am positive she could never have framed herself." + +"She may have consulted books," suggested the Wanderer. + +"I am an old man," said Keyork Arabian suddenly. "I am a very old man; +there are not many books which I have not seen and partially read at +one time or at another, and my memory is surprisingly good. I have +excellent reasons for believing that her information is not got from +anything that was ever written or printed." + +"May I ask of what general nature your questions were?" inquired the +other, more interested than he had hitherto been in the conversation. + +"They referred to the principles of embalmment." + +"Much has been written about that since the days of the Egyptians." + +"The Egyptians!" exclaimed Keyork with great scorn. "They embalmed +their dead after a fashion. Did you ever hear that they embalmed the +living?" The little man's eyes shot fire. + +"No, nor will I believe in any such outrageous impossibilities! If +that is all, I have little faith in Unorna's mysterious counsellor." + +"The faith which removes mountains is generally gained by experience +when it is gained at all, and the craving for explanation takes the +place, in some minds, of a willingness to learn. It is not my business +to find explanations, nor to raise my little self to your higher +level, by standing upon this curbstone, in order to deliver a lecture +in the popular form, upon matters that interest me. It is enough that +I have found what I wanted. Go and do likewise. See for yourself. You +have nothing to lose and everything to gain. You are unhappy, and +unhappiness is dangerous, in rare cases fatal. If you tell me +to-morrow that Unorna is a charlatan, you will be in no worse plight +than to-day, nor will your opinion of her influence mine. If she helps +you to find what you want--so much the better for you--how much the +better, and how great the risk you run, are questions for your +judgment." + +"I will go," answered the Wanderer, after a moment's hesitation. + +"Very good," said Keyork Arabian. "If you want to find me again, come +to my lodging. Do you know the house of the Black Mother of God?" + +"Yes--there is a legend about a Spanish picture of our Lady once +preserved there--" + +"Exactly, it takes its name from that black picture. It is on the +corner of the Fruit Market, over against the window at which the +Princess Windischgratz was shot. I live in the upper story. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye." + + + +CHAPTER IV + +After the Wanderer had left her, Unorna continued to hold in her hand +the book she had again taken up, following the printed lines +mechanically from left to right, from the top of the page to the foot. +Having reached that point, however, she did not turn over the leaf. +She was vaguely aware that she had not understood the sense of the +words, and she returned to the place at which she had begun, trying to +concentrate her attention upon the matter, moving her fresh lips to +form the syllables, and bending her brows in the effort of +understanding, so that a short, straight furrow appeared, like a sharp +vertical cut extending from between the eyes to the midst of the broad +forehead. One, two and three sentences she grasped and comprehended; +then her thoughts wandered again, and the groups of letters passed +meaningless before her sight. She was accustomed to directing her +intelligence without any perceptible effort, and she was annoyed at +being thus led away from her occupation, against her will and in spite +of her determination. A third attempt showed her that it was useless +to force herself any longer, and with a gesture and look of irritation +she once more laid the volume upon the table at her side. + +During a few minutes she sat motionless in her chair, her elbow +leaning on the carved arm-piece, her chin supported upon the back of +her half-closed hand, of which the heavy, perfect fingers were turned +inwards, drooping in classic curves towards the lace about her throat. +Her strangely mismatched eyes stared vacantly towards an imaginary +horizon, not bounded by banks of flowers, nor obscured by the +fantastic foliage of exotic trees. + +Presently she held up her head, her white hand dropped upon her knee, +she hesitated an instant, and then rose to her feet, swiftly, as +though she had made a resolution and was about to act upon it. She +made a step forward, and then paused again, while a half-scornful +smile passed like a shadow over her face. Very slowly she began to +pace the marble floor, up and down in the open space before her chair, +turning and turning again, the soft folds of her white gown following +her across the smooth pavement with a gentle, sweeping sound, such as +the breeze makes among flowers in spring. + +"Is it he?" she asked aloud in a voice ringing with the joy and the +fear of a passion that has waited long and is at last approaching the +fulfilment of satisfaction. + +No answer came to her from among the thick foliage nor in the scented +breath of the violets and the lilies. The murmuring song of the little +fountain alone disturbed the stillness, and the rustle of her own +garments as she moved. + +"Is it he? Is it he? Is it he?" she repeated again and again, in +varying tones, chiming the changes of hope and fear, of certainty and +vacillation, of sadness and of gladness, of eager passion and of +chilling doubt. + +She stood still, staring at the pavement, her fingers clasped +together, the palms of her hands turned downward, her arms relaxed. +She did not see the dark red squares of marble, alternating with the +white and the gray, but as she looked a face and a form rose before +her, in the contemplation of which all her senses and faculties +concentrated themselves. The pale and noble head grew very distinct in +her inner sight, the dark gray eyes gazed sadly upon her, the +passionate features were fixed in the expression of a great sorrow. + +"Are you indeed he?" she asked, speaking softly and doubtfully, and +yet unconsciously projecting her strong will upon the vision, as +though to force it to give the answer for which she longed. + +And the answer came, imposed by the effort of her imagination upon the +thing imagined. The face suddenly became luminous, as with a radiance +within itself; the shadows of grief melted away, and in their place +trembled the rising light of a dawning love. The lips moved and the +voice spoke, not as it had spoken to her lately, but in tones long +familiar to her in dreams by day and night. + +"I am he, I am that love for whom you have waited; you are that dear +one whom I have long sought throughout the world. The hour of our joy +has struck, the new life begins to-day, and there shall be no end." + +Unorna's arms went out to grasp the shadow, and she drew it to her in +her fancy and kissed its radiant face. + +"To ages of ages!" she cried. + +Then she covered her eyes as though to impress the sight they had seen +upon the mind within, and groping blindly for her chair sank back into +her seat. But the mechanical effort of will and memory could not +preserve the image. In spite of all inward concentration of thought, +its colours faded, its outlines trembled, grew faint and vanished, and +darkness was in its place. Unorna's hand dropped to her side, and a +quick throb of pain stabbed her through and through, agonising as the +wound of a blunt and jagged knife, though it was gone almost before +she knew where she had felt it. Then her eyes flashed with unlike +fires, the one dark and passionate as the light of a black diamond, +the other keen and daring as the gleam of blue steel in the sun. + +"Ah, but I will!" she exclaimed. "And what I will--shall be." + +As though she were satisfied with the promise thus made to herself, +she smiled, her eyelids drooped, the tension of her frame was relaxed, +and she sank again into the indolent attitude in which the Wanderer +had found her. A moment later the distant door turned softly upon its +hinges and a light footfall broke the stillness. There was no need for +Unorna to speak in order that the sound of her voice might guide the +new comer to her retreat. The footsteps approached swiftly and surely. +A young man of singular beauty came out of the green shadows and stood +beside the chair in the open space. + +Unorna betrayed no surprise as she looked up into her visitor's face. +She knew it well. In form and feature the youth represented the +noblest type of the Jewish race. It was impossible to see him without +thinking of a young eagle of the mountains, eager, swift, sure, +instinct with elasticity, far-sighted and untiring, strong to grasp +and to hold, beautiful with the glossy and unruffled beauty of a +plumage continually smoothed in the sweep and the rush of high, bright +air. + +Israel Kafka stood still, gazing down upon the woman he loved, and +drawing his breath hard between his parted lips. His piercing eyes +devoured every detail of the sight before him, while the dark blood +rose in his lean olive cheek, and the veins of his temples swelled +with the beating of his quickened pulse. + +"Well?" + +The single indifferent word received the value of a longer speech from +the tone in which it was uttered, and from the look and gesture which +accompanied it. Unorna's voice was gentle, soft, half-indolent, half- +caressing, half-expectant, and half-careless. There was something +almost insolent in its assumption of superiority, which was borne out +by the little defiant tapping of two long white fingers upon the arm +of the carved chair. And yet, with the rising inflection of the +monosyllable there went a raising of the brows, a sidelong glance of +the eyes, a slowly wreathing smile that curved the fresh lips just +enough to unmask two perfect teeth, all of which lent to the voice a +meaning, a familiarity, a pliant possibility of favourable +interpretation, fit rather to flatter a hope than to chill a passion. + +The blood beat more fiercely in the young man's veins, his black eyes +gleamed yet more brightly, his pale, high-curved nostrils quivered at +every breath he drew. The throbbings of his heart unseated his +thoughts and strongly took possession of the government of his body. +Under an irresistible impulse he fell upon his knees beside Unorna, +covering her marble hand with all his lean, dark fingers and pressing +his forehead upon them, as though he had found and grasped all that +could be dear to him in life. + +"Unorna! My golden Unorna!" he cried, as he knelt. + +Unorna looked down upon his bent head. The smile faded from her face, +and for a moment a look of hardness lingered there, which gave way to +an expression of pain and regret. As though collecting her thoughts +she closed her eyes, as she tried to draw back her hand; then as he +held it still, she leaned back and spoke to him. + +"You have not understood me," she said, as quietly as she could. + +The strong fingers were not lifted from hers, but the white face, now +bloodless and transparent, was raised to hers, and a look of such fear +as she had never dreamed of was in the wide black eyes. + +"Not--understood?" he repeated in startled, broken tones. + +Unorna sighed, and turned away, for the sight hurt her and accused +her. + +"No, you have not understood. Is it my fault? 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. Unorna +sat quite still, staring fixedly into the green shadows of the +foliage, as though not daring to meet the gaze she felt upon her. +Israel Kafka still knelt beside her, motionless and hardly breathing, +like a dangerous wild animal startled by an unexpected enemy, and +momentarily paralysed in the very act of springing, whether backward +in flight, or forward in the teeth of the foe, it is not possible to +guess. + +"I have been mistaken," Unorna continued at last. "Forgive--forget--" + +Israel Kafka rose to his feet and drew back a step from her side. All +his movements were smooth and graceful. The perfect man is most +beautiful in motion, the perfect woman in repose. + +"How easy it is for you!" exclaimed the Moravian. "How easy! How +simple! You call me, and I come. You let your eyes rest on me, and I +kneel before you. You sigh, and I speak words of love. You lift your +hand and I crouch at your feet. You frown--and I humbly leave you. How +easy!" + +"You are wrong, and you speak foolishly. You are angry, and you do not +weigh your words." + +"Angry! What have I to do with so common a madness as anger? I am more +than angry. Do you think that because I have submitted to the veering +gusts of your good and evil humours these many months, I have lost all +consciousness of myself? Do you think that you can blow upon me as +upon a feather, from east and west, from north and south, hotly or +coldly, as your unstable nature moves you? Have you promised me +nothing? Have you given me no hope? Have you said and done nothing +whereby you are bound? Or can no pledge bind you, no promise find a +foothold in your slippery memory, no word of yours have meaning for +those who hear it?" + +"I never gave you either pledge or promise," answered Unorna in a +harder tone. "The only hope I have ever extended to you was this, that +I would one day answer you plainly. I have done so. You are not +satisfied. Is there anything more to be said? I do not bid you leave +my house for ever, any more than I mean to drive you from my +friendship." + +"From your friendship! Ah, I thank you, Unorna; I most humbly thank +you! For the mercy you extend in allowing me to linger near you, I am +grateful! Your friend, you say? Ay, truly, your friend and servant, +your servant and your slave, your slave and your dog. Is the friend +impatient and dissatisfied with his lot? A soft word shall turn away +his anger. Is the servant over-presumptuous? Your scorn will soon +teach him his duty. Is the slave disobedient? Blows will cure him of +his faults. Does your dog fawn upon you too familiarly? Thrust him +from you with your foot and he will cringe and cower till you smile +again. 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!" + +"You are wise to suggest the latter alternative as a possibility," +said Unorna coldly and not heeding his approach. + +The young man stood still, and folded his arms. The colour had +returned to his face and a deep flush was rising under his olive skin. + +"Do you mean what you say?" he asked slowly. "Do you mean that I shall +not have all, but nothing? Do you still dare to mean that, after all +that has passed between you and me?" + +Unorna raised her eyes and looked steadily into his. + +"Israel Kafka, do not speak to me of daring." + +But the young man's glance did not waver. The angry expression of his +features did not relax; he neither drew back nor bent his head. Unorna +seemed to be exerting all the strength of her will in the attempt to +dominate him, but without result. In the effort she made to +concentrate her determination her face grew pale and her lips +trembled. Kafka faced her resolutely, his eyes on fire, the rich +colour mantling in his cheeks. + +"Where is your power now?" he asked suddenly. "Where is your witchery? +You are only a woman, after all. You are only a weak woman!" + +Very slowly he drew nearer to her side, his lithe figure bending a +little as he looked down upon her. Unorna leaned far back, withdrawing +her face from his as far as she could, but still trying to impose her +will upon him. + +"You cannot," he said between his teeth, answering her thought. + +Men who have tamed wild beasts alone know what such a moment is like. +A hundred times the brave man has held the tiger spell-bound and +crouching under his cold, fearless gaze. The beast, ever docile and +submissive, has cringed at his feet, fawned to his touch, and licked +the hand that snatched away the half-devoured morsel. Obedient to +voice and eye, the giant strength and sinewy grace have been debased +to make the sport of multitudes; the noble, pliant frame has contorted +itself to execute the mean antics of the low-comedy ape--to +counterfeit death like a poodle dog; to leap through gaudily-painted +rings at the word of command; to fetch and carry like a spaniel. A +hundred times the changing crowd has paid its paltry fee to watch the +little play that is daily acted behind the stout iron bars by the man +and the beast. The man, the nobler, braver creature, is arrayed in a +wretched flimsy finery of tights and spangles, parading his physical +weakness and inferiority in the toggery of a mountebank. The tiger, +vast, sleepy-eyed, mysterious, lies motionless in the front of his +cage, the gorgeous stripes of his velvet coat following each curve of +his body, from the cushions of his great fore paws to the arch of his +gathered haunches. The watchfulness and flexible activity of the +serpent and the strength that knows no master are clothed in the +magnificent robes of the native-born sovereign. Time and times again +the beautiful giant has gone through the slavish round of his +mechanical tricks, obedient to the fragile creature of intelligence, +to the little dwarf, man, whose power is in his eyes and heart only. +He is accustomed to the lights, to the spectators, to the laughter, to +the applause, to the frightened scream of the hysterical women in the +audience, to the close air and to the narrow stage behind the bars. +The tamer in his tights and tinsel has grown used to his tiger, to his +emotions, to his hourly danger. He even finds at last that his mind +wanders during the performance, and that at the very instant when he +is holding the ring for the leap, or thrusting his head into the +beast's fearful jaws, he is thinking of his wife, of his little child, +of his domestic happiness or household troubles, rather than of what +he is doing. Many times, perhaps many hundreds of times, all passes +off quietly and successfully. Then, inevitably, comes the struggle. +Who can tell the causes? The tiger is growing old, or is ill fed, or +is not well, or is merely in one of those evil humours to which +animals are subject as well as their masters. One day he refuses to go +through with the performance. First one trick fails, and then another. +The public grows impatient, the man in spangles grows nervous, raises +his voice, stamps loudly with his foot, and strikes his terrible slave +with his light switch. A low, deep sound breaks from the enormous +throat, the spectators hold their breath, the huge, flexible limbs are +gathered for the leap, and in the gaslight and the dead silence man +and beast are face to face. Life hangs in the balance, and death is at +the door. + +Then the tamer's heart beats loud, his chest heaves, his brows are +furrowed. Even then, in the instant that still separates him from +triumph or destruction, the thought of his sleeping child or of his +watching wife darts through his brain. But the struggle has begun and +there is no escape. One of two things must happen: he must overcome or +he must die. To draw back, to let his glance waver, to show so much as +the least sign of fear, is death. The moment is supreme, and he knows +it. + +Unorna grasped the arms of her chair as though seeking for physical +support in her extremity. She could not yield. Before her eyes arose a +vision unlike the reality in all its respects. She saw an older face, +a taller figure, a look of deeper thought between her and the angry +man who was trying to conquer her resistance with a glance. Between +her and her mistake the image of what should be stood out, bright, +vivid, and strong. A new conviction had taken the place of the old, a +real passion was flaming upon the altar whereon she had fed with +dreams the semblance of a sacred fire. + +"You do not really love me," she said softly. + +Israel Kafka started, as a man who is struck unawares. The monstrous +untruth which filled the words broke down his guard, sudden tears +veiled the penetrating sharpness of his gaze, and his hand trembled. + +"I do not love you? I! Unorna--Unorna!" + +The first words broke from him in a cry of horror and stupefaction. +But her name, when he spoke it, sounded as the death moan of a young +wild animal wounded beyond all power to turn at bay. + +He moved unsteadily and laid hold of the tall chair in which she sat. +He was behind her now, standing, but bending down so that his forehead +pressed his fingers. He could not bear to look upon her hair, still +less upon her face. Even his hands were white and bloodless. Unorna +could hear his quick breathing just above her shoulder. She sat quite +still, and her lips were smiling, though her brow was thoughtful and +almost sad. She knew that the struggle was over and that she had +gained the mastery, though the price of victory might be a broken +heart. + +"You thought I was jesting," she said in a low voice, looking before +her into the deep foliage, but knowing that her softest whisper would +reach him. "But there was no jest in what I said--nor any unkindness +in what I meant, though it is all my fault. But that is true--you +never loved me as I would be loved." + +"Unorna----" + +"No, I am not unkind. Your love is young, fierce, inconstant; half +terrible, half boyish, aflame to-day, asleep to-morrow, ready to turn +into hatred at one moment, to melt into tears at the next, +intermittent, unstable as water, fleeting as a cloud's shadow on the +mountain side--" + +"It pleased you once," said Israel Kafka in broken tones. "It is not +less love because you are weary of it, and of me." + +"Weary, you say? No, not weary--and very truly not of you. You will +believe that to-day, to-morrow, you will still try to force life into +your belief--and then it will be dead and gone like all thoughts which +have never entered into the shapes of reality. We have not loved each +other. We have but fancied that it would be sweet to love, and the +knife of truth has parted the web of our dreams, keenly, in the midst, +so that we see before us what is, though the ghost of what might have +been is yet lingering near." + +"Who wove that web, Unorna? You, or I?" He lifted his heavy eyes and +gazed at her coiled hair. + +"What matters it whether it was your doing or mine? But we wove it +together--and together we must see the truth." + +"If this is true, there is no more 'together' for you and me." + +"We may yet glean friendship in the fields where love has grown." + +"Friendship! The very word is a wound! Friendship! The very dregs and +lees of the wine of life! Friendship! The sour drainings of the +heart's cup, left to moisten the lips of the damned when the blessed +have drunk their fill! I hate the word, as I hate the thought!" + +Unorna sighed, partly, perhaps, that he might hear the sigh, and put +upon it an interpretation soothing to his vanity, but partly, too, +from a sincere regret that he should need to suffer as he was +evidently suffering. She had half believed that she loved him, and she +owed him pity. Women's hearts pay such debts unwillingly, but they do +pay them, nevertheless. She wished that she had never set eyes upon +Israel Kafka; she wished that she might never see him again; even his +death would hardly have cost her a pang, and yet she was sorry for +him. Diana, the huntress, shot her arrows with unfailing aim; Diana, +the goddess, may have sighed and shed one bright immortal tear, as she +looked into the fast-glazing eyes of the dying stag--may not Diana, +the maiden, have felt a touch of human sympathy and pain as she +listened to the deep note of her hounds baying on poor Actaeon's +track! No one is all bad, or all good. No woman is all earthly, nor +any goddess all divine. + +"I am sorry," said Unorna. "You will not understand----" + +"I have understood enough. I have understood that a woman can have two +faces and two hearts, two minds, two souls; it is enough, my +understanding need go no farther. You sighed before you spoke. It was +not for me; it was for yourself. You never felt pain or sorrow for +another." + +He was trying hard to grow cold and to find cold words to say, which +might lead her to believe him stronger than he was and able to master +his grief. But he was too young, too hot, too changeable for such a +part. Moreover, in his first violent outbreak Unorna had dominated +him, and he could not now regain the advantage. + +"You are wrong, Israel Kafka. You would make me less than human. If I +sighed, it was indeed for you. See--I confess that I have done you +wrong, not in deeds, but in letting you hope. Truly, I myself have +hoped also. I have thought that the star of love was trembling just +below the east, and that you and I might be one to another--what we +cannot be now. My wisdom has failed me, my sight has been deceived. Am +I the only woman in this world who has been mistaken? Can you not +forgive? If I had promised, if I had said one word--and yet, you are +right, too, for I have let you think in earnest what has been but a +passing dream of my own thoughts. It was all wrong; it was all my +fault. There, lay your hand in mine and say that you forgive, as I ask +forgiveness." + +He was still standing behind her, leaning against the back of her +chair. Without looking round she raised her hand above her shoulder as +though seeking for his. But he would not take it. + +"Is it so hard?" she asked softly. "Is it even harder for you to give +than for me to ask? Shall we part like this--not to meet again--each +bearing a wound, when both might be whole? Can you not say the word?" + +"What is it to you whether I forgive you or not?" + +"Since I ask it, believe that it is much to me," she answered, slowly +turning her head until, without catching sight of his face, she could +just see where his fingers were resting on her chair. Then, over her +shoulder, she touched them, and drew them to her cheek. He made no +resistance. + +"Shall we part without one kind thought?" Her voice was softer still +and so low and sweet that it seemed as though the words were spoken in +the ripple of the tiny fountain. There was magic in the place, in the +air, in the sounds, above all in the fair woman's touch. + +"Is this friendship?" asked Kafka. Then he sank upon his knees beside +her, and looked up into her face. + +"It is friendship; yes--why not? Am I like other women?" + +"Then why need there be any parting?" + +"If you will be my friend there need be none. You have forgiven me now +--I see it in your eyes. Is it not true?" + +He was at her feet, passive at last under the superior power which he +had never been able to resist. Unorna's fascination was upon him, and +he could only echo her words, as he would have executed her slightest +command, without consciousness of free will or individual thought. It +was enough that for one moment his anger should cease to give life to +his resistance; it was sufficient that Unorna should touch him thus, +and speak softly, his eyelids quivered and his look became fixed, his +strength was absorbed in hers and incapable of acting except under her +direction. So long as she might please the spell would endure. + +"Sit beside me now, and let us talk," she said. + +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. + +"I am only your slave, after all," he repeated. + +"I could touch you with my hand and you would hate me, and forget that +you ever loved me." + +This time the man was silent. There was a contraction of pain in his +face, as though a violent mental struggle were going on within him. +Unorna tapped the pavement impatiently with her foot and bent her +brows. + +"You would hate me and forget that you ever loved me," she repeated, +dwelling on each word as though to impress it on his consciousness. +"Say it. I order you." + +The contraction of his features disappeared. + +"I should hate you and forget that I ever loved you," he said slowly. + +"You never loved me." + +"I never loved you." + +Again Unorna laughed, and he joined in her laughter, unintelligently, +as he had done before. She leaned back in her seat, and her face grew +grave. Israel Kafka sat motionless in his chair, staring at her with +unwinking eyes. But his gaze did not disturb her. There was no more +meaning in it than in the expression of a marble statue, far less than +in that of a painted portrait. 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. Again and +again the vision of a newer happiness took shape and colour before +her, so clearly and vividly that she could have clasped it and held it +and believed in its reality, as she had done before Israel Kafka had +entered. But there was a doubt now, which constantly arose between her +and it, the dark and shapeless shadow of a reasoning she hated and yet +knew to be strong. + +"I must ask him," she said unconsciously. + +"You must ask him," repeated Israel Kafka from his seat. + +For the third time Unorna laughed aloud as she heard the echo of her +own words. + +"Whom shall I ask?" she inquired contemptuously, as she rose to her +feet. + +The dull, glassy eyes sought hers in painful perplexity, following her +face as she moved. + +"I do not know," answered the powerless man. + +Unorna came close to him and laid her hand upon his head. + +"Sleep, until I wake you," she said. + +The eyelids drooped and closed at her command, and instantly the man's +breathing became heavy and regular. Unorna's full lips curled as she +looked down at him. + +"And you would be my master!" she exclaimed. + +Then she turned and disappeared among the plants, leaving him alone. + + + +CHAPTER V + +Unorna passed through a corridor which was, indeed, only a long +balcony covered in with arches and closed with windows against the +outer air. At the farther end three steps descended to a dark door, +through the thickness of a massive wall, showing that at this point +Unorna's house had at some former time been joined with another +building beyond, with which it thus formed one habitation. Unorna +paused, holding the key as though hesitating whether she should put it +into the lock. It was evident that much depended upon her decision, +for her face expressed the anxiety she felt. Once she turned away, as +though to abandon her intention, hesitated, and then, with an +impatient frown, opened the door and went in. She passed through a +small, well-lighted vestibule and entered the room beyond. + +The apartment was furnished with luxury, but a stranger would have +received an oddly disquieting impression of the whole at a first +glance. There was everything in the place which is considered +necessary for a bedroom, and everything was perfect of its kind, +spotless and dustless, and carefully arranged in order. But almost +everything was of an unusual and unfamiliar shape, as though designed +for some especial reason to remain in equilibrium in any possible +position, and to be moved from place to place with the smallest +imaginable physical effort. The carved bedstead was fitted with wheels +which did not touch the ground, and levers so placed as to be within +the reach of a person lying in it. The tables were each supported at +one end only by one strong column, fixed to a heavy base set on broad +rollers, so that the board could be run across a bed or a lounge with +the greatest ease. There was but one chair made like ordinary chairs; +the rest were so constructed that the least motion of the occupant +must be accompanied by a corresponding change of position of the back +and arms, and some of them bore a curious resemblance to a surgeon's +operating table, having attachments of silver-plated metal at many +points, of which the object was not immediately evident. Before a +closed door a sort of wheeled conveyance, partaking of the nature of a +chair and of a perambulator, stood upon polished rails, which +disappeared under the door itself, showing that the thing was intended +to be moved from one room to another in a certain way and in a fixed +line. The rails, had the door been opened, would have been seen to +descend upon the other side by a gentle inclined plane into the centre +of a huge marble basin, and the contrivance thus made it possible to +wheel a person into a bath and out again without necessitating the +slightest effort or change of position in the body. In the bedroom the +windows were arranged so that the light and air could be regulated to +a nicety. The walls were covered with fine basket work, apparently +adapted in panels; but these panels were in reality movable trays, as +it were, forming shallow boxes fitted with closely-woven wicker +covers, and filled with charcoal and other porous substances intended +to absorb the impurities of the air, and thus easily changed and +renewed from time to time. Immediately beneath the ceiling were placed +delicate glass globes of various soft colours, with silken shades, +movable from below by means of brass rods and handles. In the ceiling +itself there were large ventilators, easily regulated as might be +required, and there was a curious arrangement of rails and wheels from +which depended a sort of swing, apparently adapted for moving a person +or a weight to different parts of the room without touching the floor. +In one of the lounges, not far from the window, lay a colossal old +man, wrapped in a loose robe of warm white stuff, and fast asleep. + +He was a very old man, so old, indeed, as to make it hard to guess his +age from his face and his hands, the only parts visible as he lay at +rest, the vast body and limbs lying motionless under his garment, as +beneath a heavy white pall. He could not be less than a hundred years +old, but how much older than that he might really be, it was +impossible to say. What might be called the waxen period had set in, +and the high colourless features seemed to be modelled in that soft, +semi-transparent material. The time had come when the stern furrows of +age had broken up into countless minutely-traced lines, so close and +fine as to seem a part of the texture of the skin, mere shadings, +evenly distributed throughout, and no longer affecting the expression +of the face as the deep wrinkles had done in former days; at +threescore and ten, at fourscore, and even at ninety years. The +century that had passed had taken with it its marks and scars, leaving +the great features in their original purity of design, lean, smooth, +and clearly defined. That last change in living man is rare enough, +but when once seen is not to be forgotten. There is something in the +faces of the very, very old which hardly suggests age at all, but +rather the vague possibility of a returning prime. Only the hands tell +the tale, with their huge, shining, fleshless joints, their shadowy +hollows, and their unnatural yellow nails. + +The old man lay quite still, breathing softly through his snowy beard. +Unorna came to his side. There was something of wonder and admiration +in her own eyes as she stood there gazing upon the face which other +generations of men and women, all long dead, had looked upon and +known. The secret of life and death was before her each day when she +entered that room, and on the very verge of solution. The wisdom +hardly gained in many lands was striving with all its concentrated +power to preserve that life; the rare and subtle gifts which she +herself possessed were daily exercised to their full in the suggestion +of vitality; the most elaborate inventions of skilled mechanicians +were employed in reducing the labour of living to the lowest +conceivable degree of effort. The great experiment was being tried. +What Keyork Arabian described as the embalming of a man still alive +was being attempted. And he lived. For years they had watched him and +tended him, and looked critically for the least signs of a diminution +or an augmentation in his strength. They knew that he was now in his +one hundred and seventh year, and yet he lived and was no weaker. Was +there a limit; or was there not, since the destruction of the tissues +was arrested beyond doubt, so far as the most minute tests could show? +Might there not be, in the slow oscillations of nature, a degree of +decay, on this side of death, from which a return should be possible, +provided that the critical moment were passed in a state of sleep and +under perfect conditions? How do we know that all men must die? We +suppose the statement to be true by induction, from the undoubted fact +that men have hitherto died within a certain limit of age. By +induction, too, our fathers, our grandfathers, knew that it was +impossible for man to traverse the earth faster than at the full speed +of a galloping horse. After several thousand years of experience that +piece of knowledge, which seemed to be singularly certain, was +suddenly proved to be the grossest ignorance by a man who had been in +the habit of playing with a tea-kettle when a boy. We ourselves, not +very long ago, knew positively, as all men had known since the +beginning of the world, that it was quite impossible to converse with +a friend at a distance beyond the carrying power of a speaking +trumpet. To-day, a boy who does not know that one may talk very +agreeably with a friend a thousand miles away is an ignoramus; and +experimenters whisper among themselves that, if the undulatory theory +of light have any foundation, there is no real reason why we may not +see that same friend at that same distance, as well as talk with him. +Ten years ago we were quite sure that it was beyond the bounds of +natural possibility to produce a bad burn upon the human body by +touching the flesh with a bit of cardboard or a common lead pencil. +Now we know with equal certainty that if upon one arm of a hypnotised +patient we impress a letter of the alphabet cut out of wood, telling +him that it is red-hot iron, the shape of the letter will on the +following day be found on a raw and painful wound not only in the +place we selected but on the other arm, in the exactly corresponding +spot, and reversed as though seen in a looking-glass; and we very +justly consider that a physician who does not know this and similar +facts is dangerously behind the times, since the knowledge is open to +all. The inductive reasoning of many thousands of years has been +knocked to pieces in the last century by a few dozen men who have +reasoned little but attempted much. It would be rash to assert that +bodily death may not some day, and under certain conditions, be +altogether escaped. It is nonsense to pretend that human life may not +possibly, and before long, be enormously prolonged, and that by some +shorter cut to longevity than temperance and sanitation. No man can +say that it will, but no man of average intelligence can now deny that +it may. + +Unorna had hesitated at the door, and she hesitated now. It was in her +power, and in hers only, to wake the hoary giant, or at least to +modify his perpetual sleep so far as to obtain from him answers to her +questions. It would be an easy matter to lay one hand upon his brow, +bidding him see and speak--how easy, she alone knew. But on the other +hand, to disturb his slumber was to interfere with the continuity of +the great experiment, to break through a rule lately made, to incur +the risk of an accident, if not of death itself. + +She drew back at the thought, as though fearing to startle him, and +then she smiled at her own nervousness. To wake him she must exercise +her will. There was no danger of his ever being roused by any sound or +touch not proceeding from herself. The crash of thunder had no +reverberation for his ears, the explosion of a cannon would not have +penetrated into his lethargy. She might touch him, move him, even +speak to him, but unless she laid her hand upon his waxen forehead and +bid him feel and hear, he would be as unconscious as the dead. She +returned to his side and gazed into his placid face. Strange faculties +were asleep in that ancient brain, and strange wisdom was stored +there, gathered from many sources long ago, and treasured +unconsciously by the memory to be recalled at her command. + +The man had been a failure in his day, a scholar, a student, a +searcher after great secrets, a wanderer in the labyrinths of higher +thought. He had been a failure and had starved, as failures must, in +order that vulgar success may fatten and grow healthy. He had outlived +the few that had been dear to him, he had outlived the power to feed +on thought, he had outlived generations of men, and cycles of changes, +and yet there had been life left in the huge gaunt limbs and sight in +the sunken eyes. Then he had outlived pride itself, and the ancient +scholar had begged his bread. In his hundredth year he had leaned for +rest against Unorna's door, and she had taken him in and cared for +him, and since that time she had preserved his life. For his history +was known in the ancient city, and it was said that he had possessed +great wisdom in his day. Unorna knew that this wisdom could be hers if +she could keep alive the spark of life, and that she could employ his +own learning to that end. Already she had much experience of her +powers, and knew that if she once had the mastery of the old man's +free will he must obey her fatally and unresistingly. Then she +conceived the idea of embalming, as it were, the living being, in a +perpetual hypnotic lethargy, from whence she recalled him from time to +time to an intermediate state, in which she caused him to do +mechanically all those things which she judged necessary to prolong +life. + +Seeing her success from the first, she had begun to fancy that the +present condition of things might be made to continue indefinitely. +Since death was to-day no nearer than it had been seven years ago, +there was no reason why it might not be guarded against during seven +years more, and if during seven, why not during ten, twenty, fifty? +She had for a helper a physician of consummate practical skill--a man +whose interest in the result of the trial was, if anything, more keen +than her own; a friend, above all, whom she believed she might trust, +and who appeared to trust her. + +But in the course of their great experiment they had together made +rules by which they had mutually agreed to be bound. They had of late +determined that the old man must not be disturbed in his profound rest +by any question tending to cause a state of mental activity. The test +of a very fine instrument had proved that the shortest interval of +positive lucidity was followed by a slight but distinctly perceptible +rise of temperature in the body, and this could mean only a waste of +the precious tissues they were so carefully preserving. They hoped and +believed that the grand crisis was at hand, and that, if the body did +not now lose strength and vitality for a considerable time, both would +slowly though surely increase, in consequence of the means they were +using to instill new blood into the system. But the period was +supreme, and to interfere in any way with the progress of the +experiment was to run a risk of which the whole extent could only be +realised by Unorna and her companion. + +She hesitated therefore, well knowing that her ally would oppose her +intention with all his might, and dreading his anger, bold as she was, +almost as much as she feared the danger to the old man's life. On the +other hand, she had a motive which the physician could not have, and +which, as she was aware, he would have despised and condemned. She had +a question to ask, which she considered of vital importance to +herself, to which she firmly believed that the true answer would be +given, and which, in her womanly impetuosity and impatience, she could +not bear to leave unasked until the morrow, much less until months +should have passed away. Two very powerful incentives were at work, +two of the very strongest which have influence with mankind, love and +a superstitious belief in an especial destiny of happiness, at the +present moment on the very verge of realisation. + +She believed profoundly in herself and in the suggestions of her own +imagination. So fixed and unalterable was that belief that it amounted +to positive knowledge, so far as it constituted a motive of action. In +her strange youth wild dreams had possessed her, and some of them, +often dreamed again, had become realities to her now. Her powers were +natural, those gifts which from time to time are seen in men and +women, which are alternately scoffed at as impostures, or accepted as +facts, but which are never understood either by their possessor or by +those who witness the results. She had from childhood the power to +charm with eye and hand all living things, the fascination which takes +hold of the consciousness through sight and touch and word, and lulls +it to sleep. It was witchery, and she was called a witch. In earlier +centuries her hideous fate would have been sealed from the first day +when, under her childish gaze, a wolf that had been taken alive in the +Bohemian forest crawled fawning to her feet, at the full length of its +chain, and laid its savage head under her hand, and closed its +bloodshot eyes and slept before her. Those who had seen had taken her +and taught her how to use what she possessed according to their own +shadowy beliefs and dim traditions of the half-forgotten magic in a +distant land. They had filled her heart with longings and her brain +with dreams, and she had grown up to believe that one day love would +come suddenly upon her and bear her away through the enchanted gates +of the earthly paradise; once only that love would come, and the +supreme danger of her life would be that she should not know it when +it was at hand. + +And now she knew that she loved, for the place of her fondness for the +one man had been taken by her passion for the other, and she felt +without reasoning, where, before, she had tried to reason herself into +feeling. The moment had come. She had seen the man in whom her +happiness was to be, the time was short, the danger great if she +should not grasp what her destiny would offer her but once. Had the +Wanderer been by her side, she would have needed to ask no question, +she would have known and been satisfied. But hours must pass before +she could see him again, and every minute spent without him grew more +full of anxiety and disturbing passion than the last. The wild love- +blossom that springs into existence in a single moment has elements +which do not enter into the gentler being of that other love which is +sown in indifference, and which grows up in slowly increasing +interest, tended and refreshed in the pleasant intercourse of close +acquaintance, to bud and bloom at last as a mild-scented garden +flower. Love at first sight is impatient, passionate, ruthless, cruel, +as the year would be, if from the calendar of the season the months of +slow transition were struck out; if the raging heat of August followed +in one day upon the wild tempests of the winter; if the fruit of the +vine but yesterday in leaf grew rich and black to-day, to be churned +to foam to-morrow under the feet of the laughing wine treaders. + +Unorna felt that the day would be intolerable if she could not hear +from other lips the promise of a predestined happiness. She was not +really in doubt, but she was under the imperious impulse of a passion +which must needs find some response, even in the useless confirmation +of its reality uttered by an indifferent person--the spirit of a +mighty cry seeking its own echo in the echoless, flat waste of the +Great Desert. + +Then, too, she placed a sincere faith in the old man's answers to her +questions, regardless of the matter inquired into. She believed that +in the mysterious condition between sleep and waking which she could +command, the knowledge of things to be was with him as certainly as +the memory of what had been and of what was even now passing in the +outer world. To her, the one direction of the faculty seemed no less +possible than the others, though she had not yet attained alone to the +vision of the future. Hitherto the old man's utterances had been +fulfilled to the letter. More than once, as Keyork Arabian had hinted, +she had consulted his second sight in preference to her own, and she +had not been deceived. His greater learning and his vast experience +lent to his sayings something divine in her eyes; she looked upon him +as the Pythoness of Delphi looked upon the divinity of her +inspiration. + +The irresistible longing to hear the passionate pleadings of her own +heart solemnly confirmed by the voice in which she trusted overcame at +last every obstacle. Unorna bent over the sleeper, looking earnestly +into his face, and she laid one hand upon his brow. + +"You hear me," she said, slowly and distinctly. "You are conscious of +thought, and you see into the future." + +The massive head stirred, the long limbs moved uneasily under the +white robe, the enormous, bony hands contracted, and in the cavernous +eyes the great lids were slowly lifted. A dull stare met her look. + +"Is it he?" she asked, speaking more quickly in spite of herself. "Is +it he at last?" + +There was no answer. The lips did not part, there was not even the +attempt to speak. She had been sure that the one word would be spoken +unhesitatingly, and the silence startled her and brought back the +doubt which she had half forgotten. + +"You must answer my question. I command you to answer me. Is it he?" + +"You must tell me more before I can answer." + +The words came in a feeble piping voice, strangely out of keeping with +the colossal frame and imposing features. + +Unorna's face was clouded, and the ready gleam of anger flashed in her +eyes as it ever did at the smallest opposition to her will. + +"Can you not see him?" she asked impatiently. + +"I cannot see him unless you lead me to him and tell me where he is." + +"Where are you?" + +"In your mind." + +"And what are you?" + +"I am the image in your eyes." + +"There is another man in my mind," said Unorna. "I command you to see +him." + +"I see him. He is tall, pale, noble, suffering. You love him." + +"Is it he who shall be my life and my death? Is it he who shall love +me as other women are not loved?" + +The weak voice was still for a moment, and the face seemed covered +with a veil of perplexity. + +"I see with your eyes," said the old man at last. + +"And I command you to see into the future with your own!" cried +Unorna, concentrating her terrible will as she grew more impatient. + +There was an evident struggle in the giant's mind, an effort to obey +which failed to break down an obstacle. She bent over him eagerly and +her whole consciousness was centered in the words she desired him to +speak. + +Suddenly the features relaxed into an expression of rest and +satisfaction. There was something unearthly in the sudden smile that +flickered over the old waxen face--it was as strange and unnatural as +though the cold marble effigy upon a sepulchre had laughed aloud in +the gloom of an empty church. + +"I see. He will love you," said the tremulous tones. + +"Then it is he?" + +"It is he." + +With a suppressed cry of triumph Unorna lifted her head and stood +upright. Then she started violently and grew very pale. + +"You have probably killed him and spoiled everything," said a rich +bass voice at her elbow--the very sub-bass of all possible voices. + +Keyork Arabian was beside her. In her intense excitement she had not +heard him enter the room, and he had surprised her at once in the +breaking of their joint convention and in the revelation of her +secret. If Unorna could be said to know the meaning of the word fear +in any degree whatsoever, it was in relation to Keyork Arabian, the +man who during the last few years had been her helper and associate in +the great experiment. Of all men she had known in her life, he was the +only one whom she felt to be beyond the influence of her powers, the +only one whom she felt that she could not charm by word, or touch, or +look. The odd shape of his head, she fancied, figured the outline and +proportions of his intelligence, which was, as it were, pyramidal, +standing upon a base so broad and firm as to place the centre of its +ponderous gravity far beyond her reach to disturb. There was certainly +no other being of material reality that could have made Unorna start +and turn pale by its inopportune appearance. + +"The best thing you can do is to put him to sleep at once," said the +little man. "You can be angry afterwards, and, I thank heaven, so can +I--and shall." + +"Forget," said Unorna, once more laying her hand upon the waxen brow. +"Let it be as though I had not spoken with you. Drink, in your sleep, +of the fountain of life, take new strength into your body and new +blood into your heart. Live, and when I next wake you be younger by as +many months as there shall pass hours till then. Sleep." + +A low sigh trembled in the hoary beard. The eyelids drooped over the +sunken eyes, there was a slight motion of the limbs, and all was +still, save for the soft and regular breathing. + +"The united patience of the seven archangels, coupled with that of Job +and Simon Stylites, would not survive your acquaintance for a day," +observed Keyork Arabian. + +"Is he mine or yours?" Unorna asked, turning to him and pointing to +the sleeper. + +She was quite ready to face her companion after the first shock of his +unexpected appearance. His small blue eyes sparkled angrily. + +"I am not versed in the law concerning real estate in human kind in +the Kingdom of Bohemia," he answered. "You may have property in a +couple of hundredweight, more or less, of old bones rather the worse +for the wear and tear of a century, but I certainly have some +ownership in the life. Without me, you would have been the possessor +of a remarkably fine skeleton by this time--and of nothing more." + +As he spoke, his extraordinary voice ran over half a dozen notes of +portentous depth, like the opening of a fugue on the pedals of an +organ. Unorna laughed scornfully. + +"He is mine, Keyork Arabian, alive or dead. If the experiment fails, +and he dies, the loss is mine, not yours. Moreover, what I have done +is done, and I will neither submit to your reproaches nor listen to +your upbraidings. Is that enough?" + +"Of its kind, quite. I will build an altar to Ingratitude, we will +bury our friend beneath the shrine, and you shall serve in the temple. +You could deify all the cardinal sins if you would only give your +attention to the subject, merely by the monstrously imposing +proportions you would know how to give them." + +"Does it ease you to make such an amazing noise?" inquired Unorna, +raising her eyebrows. + +"Immensely. Our friend cannot hear it, and you can. You dare to tell +me that if he dies you are the only loser. Do fifty years of study +count for nothing? Look at me. I am an old man, and unless I find the +secret of life here, in this very room, before many years are over, I +must die--die, do you understand? Do you know what it means to die? +How can you comprehend that word--you girl, you child, you thing of +five and twenty summers!" + +"It was to be supposed that your own fears were at the root of your +anger," observed Unorna, sitting down upon her chair and calmly +folding her hands as though to wait until the storm should pass over. + +"Is there anything at the root of anything except Self? You moth, you +butterfly, you thread of floating gossamer! How can you understand the +incalculable value of Self--of that which is all to me and nothing to +you, or which, being yours, is everything to you and to me nothing? +You are so young--you still believe in things, and interests, and good +and evil, and love and hate, truth and falsehood, and a hundred +notions which are not facts, but only contrasts between one self and +another! What were you doing here when I found you playing with life +and death, perhaps with my life, for a gipsy trick, in the crazy +delusion that this old parcel of humanity can see the shadows of +things which are not yet? I saw, I heard. How could he answer anything +save that which was in your own mind, when you were forcing him with +your words and your eyes to make a reply of some sort, or perish? Ah! +You see now. You understand now. I have opened your eyes a little. Why +did he hesitate, and suffer? Because you asked that to which he knew +there was no answer. And you tortured him with your will until his +individuality fell into yours, and spoke your words." + +Unorna's head sank a little and she covered her eyes. The truth of +what he said flashed upon her suddenly and unexpectedly, bringing with +it the doubt which had left her at the moment when the sleeper had +spoken. She could not hide her discomfiture and Keyork Arabian saw his +advantage. + +"And for what?" he asked, beginning to pace the broad room. "To know +whether a man will love you or not! You seem to have forgotten what +you are. Is not such a poor and foolish thing as love at the command +of those who can say to the soul, be this, or be that, and who are +obeyed? Have you found a second Keyork Arabian, over whom your eyes +have no power--neither the one nor the other?" + +He laughed rather brutally at the thought of her greatest physical +peculiarity, but then suddenly stopped short. She had lifted her face +and those same eyes were fastened upon him, the black and the gray, in +a look so savage and fierce that even he was checked, if not startled. + +"They are certainly very remarkable eyes," he said, more calmly, and +with a certain uneasiness which Unorna did not notice. "I wonder whom +you have found who is able to look you in the face without losing +himself. I suppose it can hardly be my fascinating self whom you wish +to enthrall," he added, conscious after a moment's trial that he was +proof against her influence. + +"Hardly," answered Unorna, with a bitter laugh. + +"If I were the happy man you would not need that means of bringing me +to your feet. It is a pity that you do not want me. We should make a +very happy couple. But there is much against me. I am an old man, +Unorna. My figure was never of divine proportions, and as for my face, +Nature made it against her will. I know all that--and yet, I was young +once, and eloquent. I could make love then--I believe that I could +still if it would amuse you." + +"Try it," said Unorna, who, like most people, could not long be angry +with the gnome-like little sage. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +"I could make love--yes, and since you tell me to try, I will." + +He came and stood before her, straightening his diminutive figure in a +comical fashion as though he were imitating a soldier on parade. + +"In the first place," he said, "in order to appreciate my skill, you +should realise the immense disadvantages under which I labour. I am a +dwarf, my dear Unorna. In the presence of that kingly wreck of a +Homeric man"--he pointed to the sleeper beside them--"I am a +Thersites, if not a pigmy. To have much chance of success I should ask +you to close your eyes, and to imagine that my stature matches my +voice. That gift at least, I flatter myself, would have been +appreciated on the plains of Troy. But in other respects I resemble +neither the long-haired Greeks nor the trousered Trojans. I am old and +hideous, and in outward appearance I am as like Socrates as in inward +disposition I am totally different from him. Admit, since I admit it, +that I am the ugliest and smallest man of your acquaintance." + +"It is not to be denied," said Unorna with a smile. + +"The admission will make the performance so much the more interesting. +And now, as the conjurer says when he begins, observe that there is no +deception. That is the figure of speech called lying, because there is +to be nothing but deception from beginning to end. Did you ever +consider the nature of a lie, Unorna? It is a very interesting +subject." + +"I thought you were going to make love to me." + +"True; how easily one forgets those little things! And yet no woman +ever forgave a man who forgot to make love when she expected him to do +so. For a woman, who is a woman, never forgets to be exigent. And now +there is no reprieve, for I have committed myself, am sentenced, and +condemned to be made ridiculous in your eyes. Can there be anything +more contemptible, more laughable, more utterly and hopelessly absurd, +than an old and ugly man declaring his unrequited passion for a woman +who might be his granddaughter? Is he not like a hoary old owl, who +leaves his mousing to perch upon one leg and hoot love ditties at the +evening star, or screech out amorous sonnets to the maiden moon?" + +"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. He had the power of +making his speech sound like a deep, soft music. + +"For what is love?" he asked. "Is it a garment, a jewel, a fanciful +ornament which only boys and girls may wear upon a summer's holiday? +May we take it or leave it, as we please? Wear it, if it shows well +upon our beauty, or cast it off for others to put on when we limp +aside out of the race of fashion to halt and breathe before we die? Is +love beauty? Is love youth? Is love yellow hair or black? Is love the +rose upon the lip or the peach blossom in the cheek, that only the +young may call it theirs? Is it an outward grace, which can live but +so long as the other outward graces are its companions, to perish when +the first gray hair streaks the dark locks? Is it a glass, shivered by +the first shock of care as a mirror by a sword-stroke? Is it a painted +mask, washed colourless by the first rain of autumn tears? Is it a +flower, so tender that it must perish miserably in the frosty rime of +earliest winter? Is love the accident of youth, the complement of a +fresh complexion, the corollary of a light step, the physical +concomitant of swelling pulses and unstrained sinews?" + +Keyork Arabian laughed softly. Unorna was grave and looked up into his +face, resting her chin upon her hand. + +"If that is love, if that is the idol of your shrine, the vision of +your dreams, the familiar genius of your earthly paradise, why then, +indeed, he who worships by your side, and who would share the +habitation of your happiness, must wear Absalom's anointed curls and +walk with Agag's delicate step. What matter if he be but a half-witted +puppet? He is fair. What matter if he be foolish, faithless, +forgetful, inconstant, changeable as the tide of the sea? He is young. +His youth shall cover all his deficiencies and wipe out all his sins! +Imperial love, monarch and despot of the human soul, is become the +servant of boys for the wage of a girl's first thoughtless kiss. If +that is love let it perish out of the world, with the bloom of the +wood violet in spring, with the flutter of the bright moth in June, +with the song of the nightingale and the call of the mocking-bird, +with all things that are fair and lovely and sweet but for a few short +days. If that is love, why then love never made a wound, nor left a +scar, nor broke a heart in this easy-going rose-garden of a world. The +rose blooms, blows, fades and withers and feels nothing. If that is +love, we may yet all develop into passionless promoters of a flat and +unprofitable commonwealth; the earth may yet be changed to a sweetmeat +for us to feed on, and the sea to sugary lemonade for us to drink, as +the mad philosopher foretold, and we may yet all be happy after love +has left us." + +Unorna smiled, while he laughed again. + +"Good," she said. "You tell me what love is not, but you have not told +me what it is." + +"Love is the immortal essence of mortal passion, together they are as +soul and body, one being; separate them, and the body without the soul +is a monster, the soul without the body is no longer human, nor +earthly, nor real to us at all, though still divine. Love is the +world's maker, master and destroyer, the magician whose word can +change water to blood, and blood to fire, the dove to a serpent, and +the serpent to a dove--ay, and can make of that same dove an eagle, +with an eagle's beak, and talons, and air-cleaving wing-stroke. Love +is the spirit of life and the angel of death. He speaks, and the +thorny wilderness of the lonely heart is become a paradise of flowers. +He is silent, and the garden is but a blackened desert over which a +destroying flame has passed in the arms of the east wind. Love stands +at the gateway of each human soul, holding in his hands a rose and a +drawn sword--the sword is for the many, the rose for the one." + +He sighed and was silent. Unorna looked at him curiously. + +"Have you ever loved, that you should talk like that?" she asked. He +turned upon her almost fiercely. + +"Loved? Yes, as you can never love; as you, in your woman's heart, can +never dream of loving--with every thought, with every fibre, with +every pulse, with every breath; with a love that is burning the old +oak through and through, root and branch, core and knot, to feathery +ashes that you may scatter with a sigh--the only sigh you will ever +breathe for me, Unorna. Have I loved? Can I love? Do I love to-day as +I loved yesterday and shall love to-morrow? Ah, child! That you should +ask that, with your angel's face, when I am in hell for you! When I +would give my body to death and my soul to darkness for a touch of +your hand, for as much kindness and gentleness in a word from your +dear lips as you give the beggars in the street! When I would tear out +my heart with my hands to feed the very dog that fawns on you--and who +is more to you than I, because he is yours, and all that is yours I +love, and worship, and adore!" + +Unorna had looked up and smiled at first, believing that it was all +but a comedy, as he had told her that it should be. But as he spoke, +and the strong words chased each other in the torrent of his +passionate speech, she was startled and surprised. There was a force +in his language, a fiery energy in his look, a ring of half-desperate +hope in his deep voice, which moved her to strange thoughts. His face, +too, was changed and ennobled, his gestures larger, even his small +stature ceased, for once, to seem dwarfish and gnome-like. + +"Keyork Arabian, is it possible that you love me?" she cried, in her +wonder. + +"Possible? True? There is neither truth nor possibility in anything +else for me, in anything, in any one, but you, Unorna. The service of +my love fills the days and the nights and the years with you--fills +the world with you only; makes heaven to be on earth, since heaven is +but the air that is made bright with your breath, as the temple of all +temples is but the spot whereon your dear feet stand. The light of +life is where you are, the darkness of death is everywhere where you +are not. But I am condemned to die, cut off, predestined to be lost-- +for you have no pity, Unorna, you cannot find it in you to be sorry +for the poor old man whose last pulse will beat for you; whose last +word will be your name; whose last look upon your beauty will end the +dream in which he lived his life. What can it be to you, that I love +you so? Why should it be anything to you? When I am gone--with the +love of you in my heart, Unorna--when they have buried the ugly old +body out of your sight, you will not even remember that I was once +your companion, still less that I knelt before you, that I kissed the +ground on which you stood; that I loved you as men love whose hearts +are breaking, that I touched the hem of your garment and was for one +moment young--that I besought you to press my hand but once, with one +thought of kindness, with one last and only word of human pity--" + +He broke off suddenly, and there was a tremor in his voice which lent +intense expression to the words. He was kneeling upon one knee beside +Unorna, but between her and the light, so that she saw his face +indistinctly. She could not but pity him. She took his outstretched +hand in hers. + +"Poor Keyork!" she said, very kindly and gently. "How could I have +ever guessed all this?" + +"It would have been exceedingly strange if you had," answered Keyork, +in a tone that made her start. + +Then a magnificent peal of bass laughter rolled through the room, as +the gnome sprang suddenly to his feet. + +"Did I not warn you?" asked Keyork, standing back and contemplating +Unorna's surprised face with delight. "Did I not tell you that I was +going to make love to you? That I was old and hideous and had +everything against me? That it was all a comedy for your amusement? +That there was to be nothing but deception from beginning to end? That +I was like a decrepit owl screeching at the moon, and many other +things to a similar effect?" + +Unorna smiled somewhat thoughtfully. + +"You are the greatest of great actors, Keyork Arabian. There is +something diabolical about you. I sometimes almost think that you are +the devil himself!" + +"Perhaps I am," suggested the little man cheerfully. + +"Do you know that there is a horror about all this?" Unorna rose to +her feet. Her smile had vanished and she seemed to feel cold. + +As though nothing had happened, Keyork began to make his daily +examination of his sleeping patient, applying his thermometer to the +body, feeling the pulse, listening to the beatings of the heart with +his stethoscope, gently drawing down the lower lid of one of the eyes +to observe the colour of the membrane, and, in a word, doing all those +things which he was accustomed to do under the circumstances with a +promptness and briskness which showed how little he feared that the +old man would wake under his touch. He noted some of the results of +his observations in a pocket-book. Unorna stood still and watched him. + +"Do you remember ever to have been in the least degree like other +people?" she asked, speaking after a long silence, as he was returning +his notes to his pocket. + +"I believe not," he answered. "Nature spared me that indignity--or +denied me that happiness--as you may look at it. I am not like other +people, as you justly remark. I need not say that it is the other +people who are the losers." + +"The strange thing is, that you should be able to believe so much of +yourself when you find it so hard to believe good of your fellow-men." + +"I object to the expression, 'fellow-men,'" returned Keyork promptly. +"I dislike phrases, and, generally, maxims as a whole, and all their +component parts. A woman must have invented that particular phrase of +yours in order to annoy a man she disliked." + +"And why, if you please?" + +"Because no one ever speaks of 'fellow-women.' The question of woman's +duty to man has been amply discussed since the days of Menes the +Thinite--but no one ever heard of a woman's duty to her fellow-women; +unless, indeed, her duty is to try and outdo them by fair means or +foul. Then why talk of man and his fellow-men? I can put the wisest +rule of life into two short phrases." + +"Give me the advantage of your wisdom." + +"The first rule is, Beware of women." + +"And the second?" + +"Beware of men," laughed the little sage. "Observe the simplicity and +symmetry. Each rule has three words, two of which are the same in +each, so that you have the result of the whole world's experience at +your disposal at the comparatively small expenditure of one verb, one +preposition, and two nouns." + +"There is little room for love in your system," remarked Unorna, "for +such love, for instance, as you described to me a few minutes ago." + +"There is too much room for it in yours," retorted Keyork. "Your +system is constantly traversed in all directions by bodies, sometimes +nebulous and sometimes fiery, which move in unknown orbits at enormous +rates of speed. In astronomy they call them comets, and astronomers +would be much happier without them." + +"I am not an astronomer." + +"Fortunately for the peace of the solar system. You have been sending +your comets dangerously near to our sick planet," he added, pointing +to the sleeper. "If you do it again he will break up into asteroids. +To use that particularly disagreeable and suggestive word invented by +men, he will die." + +"He seems no worse," said Unorna, contemplating the massive, peaceful +face. + +"I do not like the word 'seems,'" answered Keyork. "It is the refuge +of inaccurate persons, unable to distinguish between facts and +appearances." + +"You object to everything to-day. Are there any words which I may use +without offending your sense of fitness in language?" + +"None which do not express a willing affirmation of all I say. I will +receive any original speech on your part at the point of the sword. +You have done enough damage to-day, without being allowed the luxury +of dismembering common sense. Seems, you say! By all that is unholy! +By Eblis, Ahriman, and the Three Black Angels! He is worse, and there +is no seeming. The heat is greater, the pulse is weaker, the heart +flutters like a sick bird." + +Unorna's face showed her anxiety. + +"I am sorry," she said, in a low voice. + +"Sorry! No doubt you are. It remains to be seen whether your sorrow +can be utilized as a simple, or macerated in tears to make a tonic, or +sublimated to produce a corrosive which will destroy the canker, +death. But be sorry by all means. It occupies your mind without +disturbing me, or injuring the patient. Be sure that if I can find an +active application for your sentiment, I will give you the rare +satisfaction of being useful." + +"You have the art of being the most intolerably disagreeable of living +men when it pleases you." + +"When you displease me, you should say. I warn you that if he dies-- +our friend here--I will make further studies in the art of being +unbearable to you. You will certainly be surprised by the result." + +"Nothing that you could say or do would surprise me." + +"Indeed? We shall see." + +"I will leave you to your studies, then. I have been here too long as +it is." + +She moved and arranged the pillow under the head of the sleeping giant +and adjusted the folds of his robe. Her touch was tender and skilful +in spite of her ill-suppressed anger. Then she turned away and went +towards the door. Keyork Arabian watched her until her hand was upon +the latch. His sharp eyes twinkled, as though he expected something +amusing to occur. + +"Unorna!" he said, suddenly, in an altered voice. She stopped and +looked back. + +"Well?" + +"Do not be angry, Unorna. Do not go away like this." + +Unorna turned, almost fiercely, and came back a step. + +"Keyork Arabian, do you think you can play upon me as on an +instrument? Do you suppose that I will come and go at your word like a +child--or like a dog? Do you think you can taunt me at one moment, and +flatter me the next, and find my humour always at your command?" + +The gnome-like little man looked down, made a sort of inclination of +his short body, and laid his hand upon his heart. + +"I was never presumptuous, my dear lady. I never had the least +intention of taunting you, as you express it, and as for your humour-- +can you suppose that I could expect to command, where it is only mine +to obey?" + +"It is of no use to talk in that way," said Unorna, haughtily. "I am +not prepared to be deceived by your comedy this time." + +"Nor I to play one. Since I have offended you, I ask your pardon. +Forgive the expression, for the sake of the meaning; the thoughtless +word for the sake of the unworded thought." + +"How cleverly you turn and twist both thoughts and words!" + +"Do not be so unkind, dear friend." + +"Unkind to you? I wish I had the secret of some unkindness that you +should feel!" + +"The knowledge of what I can feel is mine alone," answered Keyork, +with a touch of sadness. "I am not a happy man. The world, for me, +holds but one interest and one friendship. Destroy the one, or +embitter the other, and Keyork's remnant of life becomes but a +foretaste of death." + +"And that interest--that friendship--where are they?" asked Unorna in +a tone still bitter, but less scornful than before." + +"Together, in this room, and both in danger, the one through your +young haste and impetuosity, the other through my wretched weakness in +being made angry; forgive me, Unorna, as I ask forgiveness----" + +"Your repentance is too sudden; it savours of the death-bed." + +"Small wonder, when my life is in the balance." + +"Your life?" She uttered the question incredulously, but not without +curiosity. + +"My life--and for your word," he answered, earnestly. He spoke so +impressively, and in so solemn a tone, that Unorna's face became +grave. She advanced another step towards him, and laid her hand upon +the back of the chair in which she previously had sat. + +"We must understand each other--to-day or never," she said. "Either we +must part and abandon the great experiment--for, if we part, it must +be abandoned--" + +"We cannot part, Unorna." + +"Then, if we are to be associates and companions--" + +"Friends," said Keyork in a low voice. + +"Friends? Have you laid the foundation for a friendship between us? +You say that your life is in the balance. That is a figure of speech, +I suppose. Or has your comedy another act? I can believe well enough +that your greatest interest in life lies there, upon that couch, +asleep. I know that you can do nothing without me, as you know it +yourself. But in your friendship I can never trust--never!--still less +can I believe that any words of mine can affect your happiness, unless +they be those you need for the experiment itself. Those, at least, I +have not refused to pronounce." + +While she was speaking, Keyork began to walk up and down the room, in +evident agitation, twisting his fingers and bending down his head. + +"My accursed folly!" he exclaimed, as though speaking to himself. "My +damnable ingenuity in being odious! It is not to be believed! That a +man of my age should think one thing and say another--like a tetchy +girl or a spoilt child! The stupidity of the thing! And then, to have +the idiotic utterances of the tongue registered and judged as a +confession of faith--or rather, of faithlessness! But it is only just +--it is only right--Keyork Arabian's self is ruined again by Keyork +Arabian's vile speeches, which have no more to do with his self than +the clouds on earth have with the sun above them! Ruined, ruined-- +lost, this time. Cut off from the only living being he respects--the +only being whose respect he covets; sent back to die in his +loneliness, to perish like a friendless beast, as he is, to the +funereal music of his own irrepressible snarling! To growl himself out +of the world, like a broken-down old tiger in the jungle, after +scaring away all possible peace and happiness and help with his +senseless growls! Ugh! It is perfectly just, it is absolutely right +and supremely horrible to think of! A fool to the last, Keyork, as you +always were--and who would make a friend of such a fool?" + +Unorna leaned upon the back of the chair watching him, and wondering +whether, after all, he were not in earnest this time. 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. His manner became very humble. + +"You are right, my dear lady," he said. "I have no claim to your +forbearance for my outrageous humours. I have offended you, insulted +you, spoken to you as no man should speak to any woman. I cannot even +ask you to forgive me, and, if I tell you that I am sorry, you will +not believe me. Why should you? But you are right. This cannot go on. +Rather than run the risk of again showing you my abominable temper, I +will go away." + +His voice trembled and his bright eyes seemed to grow dull and misty. + +"Let this be our parting," he continued, as though mastering his +emotion. "I have no right to ask anything, and yet I ask this of you. +When I have left you, when you are safe for ever from my humours and +my tempers and myself--then, do not think unkindly of Keyork Arabian. +He would have seemed the friend he is, but for his unruly tongue." + +Unorna hesitated a moment. Then she put out her hand, convinced of his +sincerity in spite of herself. + +"Let bygones be bygones, Keyork," she said. "You must not go, for I +believe you." + +At the words, the light returned to his eyes, and a look of ineffable +beatitude overspread the face which could be so immovably +expressionless. + +"You are as kind as you are good, Unorna, and as good as you are +beautiful," he said, and with a gesture which would have been courtly +in a man of nobler stature, but which was almost grotesque in such a +dwarf, he raised her fingers to his lips. + +This time, no peal of laugher followed to destroy the impression he +had produced upon Unorna. She let her hand rest in his a few seconds, +and then gently withdrew it. + +"I must be going," she said. + +"So soon?" exclaimed Keyork regretfully. "There were many things I had +wished to say to you to-day, but if you have no time----" + +"I can spare a few minutes," answered Unorna, pausing. "What is it?" + +"One thing is this." His face had again become impenetrable as a mask +of old ivory, and he spoke in his ordinary way. "This is the question. +I was in the Teyn Kirche before I came here." + +"In church!" exclaimed Unorna in some surprise, and with a slight +smile. + +"I frequently go to church," answered Keyork gravely. "While there, I +met an old acquaintance of mine, a strange fellow whom I have not seen +for years. The world is very small. He is a great traveller--a +wanderer through the world." + +Unorna looked up quickly, and a very slight colour appeared in her +cheeks. + +"Who is he?" she asked, trying to seem indifferent. "What is his +name?" + +"His name? It is strange, but I cannot recall it. He is very tall, +wears a dark beard, has a pale, thoughtful face. But I need not +describe him, for he told me that he had been with you this morning. +That is not the point." + +He spoke carelessly and scarcely glanced at Unorna while speaking. + +"What of him?" she inquired, trying to seem as indifferent as her +companion. + +"He is a little mad, poor man, that is all. It struck me that, if you +would, you might save him. I know something of his story, though not +much. He once loved a young girl, now doubtless dead, but whom he +still believes to be alive, and he spends--or wastes--his life in a +useless search for her. You might cure him of the delusion." + +"How do you know that the girl is dead?" + +"She died in Egypt, four years ago," answered Keyork. "They had taken +her there in the hope of saving her, for she was at death's door +already, poor child." + +"But if you convince him of that." + +"There is no convincing him, and if he were really convinced he would +die himself. I used to take an interest in the man, and I know that +you could cure him in a simpler and safer way. But of course it lies +with you." + +"If you wish it, I will try," Unorna answered, turning her face from +the light. "But he will probably not come back to me." + +"He will. I advised him very strongly to come back, very strongly +indeed. I hope I did right. Are you displeased?" + +"Not at all!" Unorna laughed a little. "And if he comes, how am I to +convince him that he is mistaken, and that the girl is dead?" + +"That is very simple. You will hypnotise him, he will yield very +easily, and you will suggest to him very forcibly to forget the girl's +existence. You can suggest to him to come back to-morrow and the next +day, or as often as you please, and you can renew the suggestion each +time. In a week he will have forgotten--as you know people can forget +--entirely, totally, without hope of recalling what is lost." + +"That is true," said Unorna, in a low voice. "Are you sure that the +effect will be permanent?" she asked with sudden anxiety. + +"A case of the kind occurred in Hungary last year. The cure was +effected in Pesth. I was reading it only a few months ago. The +oblivion was still complete, as long as six months after the +treatment, and there seems no reason to suppose that the patient's +condition will change. I thought it might interest you to try it." + +"It will interest me extremely. I am very grateful to you for telling +me about him." + +Unorna had watched her companion narrowly during the conversation, +expecting him to betray his knowledge of a connection between the +Wanderer's visit and the strange question she had been asking of the +sleeper when Keyork had surprised her. She was agreeably disappointed +in this however. He spoke with a calmness and ease of manner which +disarmed suspicion. + +"I am glad I did right," said he. + +He stood at the foot of the couch upon which the sleeper was lying, +and looked thoughtfully and intently at the calm features. + +"We shall never succeed in this way," he said at last. "This condition +may continue indefinitely, till you are old, and I--until I am older +than I am by many years. He may not grow weaker, but he cannot grow +stronger. Theories will not renew tissues." + +Unorna looked up. + +"That has always been the question," she answered. "At least, you have +told me so. Will lengthened rest and perfect nourishment alone give a +new impulse to growth or will they not?" + +"They will not. I am sure of it now. We have arrested decay, or made +it so slow as to be imperceptible. But we have made many attempts to +renew the old frame, and we are no farther advanced than we were +nearly four years ago. Theories will not make tissues." + +"What will?" + +"Blood," answered Keyork Arabian very softly. + +"I have heard of that being done for young people in illness," said +Unorna. + +"It has never been done as I would do it," replied the gnome, shaking +his head and gathering his great beard in his hand, as he gazed at the +sleeper. + +"What would you do?" + +"I would make it constant for a day, or for a week if I could--a +constant circulation; the young heart and the old should beat +together; it could be done in the lethargic sleep--an artery and a +vein--a vein and an artery--I have often thought of it; it could not +fail. The new young blood would create new tissue, because it would +itself constantly be renewed in the young body which is able to renew +it, only expending itself in the old. The old blood would itself +become young again as it passed to the younger man." + +"A man!" exclaimed Unorna. + +"Of course. An animal would not do, because you could not produce the +lethargy nor make use of suggestion for healing purposes--" + +"But it would kill him!" + +"Not at all, as I would do it, especially if the young man were very +strong and full of life. When the result is obtained, an antiseptic +ligature, suggestion of complete healing during sleep, proper +nourishment, such as we are giving at present, by recalling the +patient to the hypnotic state, sleep again, and so on; in eight and +forty hours your young man would be waked and would never know what +had happened to him--unless he felt a little older, by nervous +sympathy," added the sage with a low laugh. + +"Are you perfectly sure of what you say?" asked Unorna eagerly. + +"Absolutely. I have examined the question for years. There can be no +doubt of it. Food can maintain life, blood alone can renew it." + +"Have you everything you need here?" inquired Unorna. + +"Everything. There is no hospital in Europe that has the appliances we +have prepared for every emergency." + +He looked at her face curiously. It was ghastly pale with excitement. +The pupil of her brown eye was so widely expanded that the iris looked +black, while the aperture of the gray one was contracted to the size +of a pin's head, so that the effect was almost that of a white and +sightless ball. + +"You seem interested," said the gnome. + +"Would such a man--such a man as Israel Kafka answer the purpose?" she +asked. + +"Admirably," replied the other, beginning to understand. + +"Keyork Arabian," whispered Unorna, coming close to him and bending +down to his ear, "Israel Kafka is alone under the palm tree where I +always sit. He is asleep, and he will not wake." + +The gnome looked up and nodded gravely. But she was gone almost before +she had finished speaking the words. + +"As upon an instrument," said the little man, quoting Unorna's angry +speech. "Truly I can play upon you, but it is a strange music." + +Half an hour later Unorna returned to her place among the flowers, but +Israel Kafka was gone. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +The Wanderer, when Keyork Arabian had left him, had intended to +revisit Unorna without delay, but he had not proceeded far in the +direction of her house when he turned out of his way and entered a +deserted street which led towards the river. He walked slowly, drawing +his furs closely about him, for it was very cold. + +He found himself in one of those moments of life in which the +presentiment of evil almost paralyses the mind's power of making any +decision. In general, a presentiment is but the result upon the +consciousness of conscious or unconscious fear. This fear is very +often the natural consequence of the reaction which, in melancholy +natures, comes almost inevitably after a sudden and unexpected +satisfaction or after a period in which the hopes of the individual +have been momentarily raised by some unforeseen circumstance. It is by +no means certain that hope is of itself a good thing. The wise and +mournful soul prefers the blessedness of that non-expectancy which +shall not be disappointed, to the exhilarating pleasures of an +anticipation which may prove empty. In this matter lies one of the +great differences between the normal moral state of the heathen and +that of the Christian. The Greek hoped for all things in this world +and for nothing in the next; the Christian, on the contrary, looks for +a happiness to come hereafter, while fundamentally denying the reality +of any earthly joy whatsoever in the present. Man, however, is so +constituted as to find it almost impossible to put faith in either +bliss alone, without helping his belief by borrowing some little +refreshment from the hope of the other. The wisest of the Greeks +believed the soul to be immortal; the sternest of Christians cannot +forget that once or twice in his life he had been contemptibly happy, +and condemns himself for secretly wishing that he might be as happy +again before all is over. Faith is the evidence of things unseen, but +hope is the unreasoning belief that unseen things may soon become +evident. The definition of faith puts earthly disappointment out of +the question; that of hope introduces it into human affairs as a +constant and imminent probability. + +The development of psychologic research in our day has proved beyond a +doubt that individuals of a certain disposition may be conscious of +events actually occurring, or which have recently occurred, at a great +distance; but it has not shown satisfactorily that things yet to +happen are foreshadowed by that restless condition of the +sensibilities which we call presentiment. We may, and perhaps must, +admit that all that is or has been produces a real and perceptible +impression upon all else that is. But there is as yet no good reason +for believing that an impression of what shall be can be conveyed by +anticipation--without reasoning--to the mind of man. + +But though the realisation of a presentiment may be as doubtful as any +event depending upon chance alone, yet the immense influence which a +mere presentiment may exercise is too well known to be denied. The +human intelligence has a strong tendency to believe in its own +reasonings, of which, indeed, the results are often more accurate and +reliable than those reached by the physical perceptions alone. The +problems which can be correctly solved by inspection are few indeed +compared with those which fall within the province of logic. Man +trusts to his reason, and then often confounds the impressions +produced by his passions with the results gained by semi-conscious +deduction. His love, his hate, his anger create fears, and these +supply him with presentiments which he is inclined to accept as so +many well-reasoned grounds of action. If he is often deceived, he +becomes aware of his mistake, and, going to the other extreme, +considers a presentiment as a sort of warning that the contrary of +what he expects will take place; if he chances to be often right he +grows superstitious. + +The lonely man who was pacing the icy pavement of the deserted street +on that bitter winter's day felt the difficulty very keenly. He would +not yield and he could not advance. His heart was filled with +forebodings which his wisdom bade him treat with indifference, while +his passion gave them new weight and new horror with every minute that +passed. + +He had seen with his eyes and heard with his ears. Beatrice had been +before him, and her voice had reached him among the voices of +thousands, but now, since the hours has passed and he had not found +her, it was as though he had been near her in a dream, and the strong +certainty took hold of him that she was dead and that he had looked +upon her wraith in the shadowy church. + +He was a strong man, not accustomed to distrust his senses, and his +reason opposed itself instantly to the suggestion of the supernatural. +He had many times, on entering a new city, felt himself suddenly +elated by the irresistible belief that his search was at an end, and +that within a few hours he must inevitably find her whom he had sought +so long. Often as he passed through the gates of some vast burying- +place, he had almost hesitated to walk through the silent ways, +feeling all at once convinced that upon the very first headstone he +was about to see the name that was ever in his heart. But the +expectation of final defeat, like the anticipation of final success, +had been always deceived. Neither living nor dead had he found her. + +Two common, reasonable possibilities lay before him, and two only. He +had either seen Beatrice, or he had not. If she had really been in the +Teyn Kirche, she was in the city and not far from him. If she had not +been there, he had been deceived by an accidental but extraordinary +likeness. Within the logical concatenation of cause and effect there +was no room for any other supposition, and it followed that his course +was perfectly clear. He must continue his search until he should find +the person he had seen, and the result would be conclusive, for he +would again see the same face and hear the same voice. Reason told him +that he had in all likelihood been mistaken after all. Reason reminded +him that the church had been dark, the multitude of worshippers +closely crowded together, the voices that sang almost innumerable and +wholly undistinguishable from each other. Reason showed him a throng +of possibilities, all pointing to an error of his perceptions and all +in direct contradiction with the one fact which his loving instinct +held for true. + +The fear of evil, the presentiment of death, defied logic and put its +own construction and interpretation upon the strange event. He neither +believed, nor desired to believe, in a supernatural visitation, yet +the inexplicable certainty of having seen a ghostly vision overwhelmed +reason and all her arguments. Beatrice was dead. Her spirit had passed +in that solemn hour when the Wanderer had stood in the dusky church; +he had looked upon her shadowy wraith, and had heard the echo of a +voice from beyond the stars, whose crystal tones already swelled the +diviner harmony of an angelic strain. + +The impression was so strong at first as to be but one step removed +from conviction. The shadow of a great mourning fell upon him, of a +grief too terrible for words, too solemn for tears, too strong to find +any expression save in death itself. He walked heavily, bending his +head, his eyes half closed as though in bodily pain, the icy pavement +rang like iron under his tread, the frozen air pierced through him, as +his sorrow pierced his heart, the gloom of the fast-sinking winter's +day deepened as the darkness in his own soul. He, who was always +alone, knew at last what loneliness could mean. While she had lived +she had been with him always, a living, breathing woman, visible to +his inner eyes, speaking to his inward hearing, waking in his +sleepless love. He had sought her with restless haste and untiring +strength through the length and breadth of the whole world, but yet +she had never left him, he had never been separated from her for one +moment, never, in the years of his wandering, had he entered the +temple of his heart without finding her in its most holy place. Men +had told him that she was dead, but he had looked within himself and +had seen that she was still alive; the dread of reading her sacred +name carved upon the stone that covered her resting-place, had chilled +him and made his sight tremble, but he had entered the shrine of his +soul and had found her again, untouched by death, unchanged by years, +living, loved, and loving. But now, when he shut out the dismal street +from view, and went to the sanctuary and kneeled upon the threshold, +he saw but a dim vision, as of something lying upon an altar in the +dark, something shrouded in white, something shapely and yet +shapeless, something that had been and was not any more. + +He reached the end of the street, but he felt a reluctance to leave +it, and turned back again, walking still more slowly and heavily than +before. So far as any outward object or circumstance could be said to +be in harmony with his mood, the dismal lane, the failing light, the +bitter air, were at that moment sympathetic to him. The tomb itself is +not more sepulchral than certain streets and places in Prague on a +dark winter's afternoon. In the certainty that the last and the +greatest of misfortunes had befallen him, the Wanderer turned back +into the gloomy by-way as the pale, wreathing ghosts, fearful of the +sharp daylight and the distant voices of men, sink back at dawn into +the graves out of which they have slowly risen to the outer air in the +silence of the night. + +Death, the arch-steward of eternity, walks the bounds of man's +entailed estate, and the headstones of men's graves are landmarks in +the great possession committed to his stewardship, enclosing within +their narrow ring the wretched plot of land which makes up all of +life's inheritance. From ever to always the generations of men do +bondsmen's service in that single field, to plough it and sow it, and +harrow it and water it, to lay the sickle to the ripe corn if so be +that their serfdom falls in the years of plenty and the ear is full, +to eat the bread of tears, if their season of servitude be required of +them in a time of scarcity and famine. Bondsmen of death, from birth, +they are sent forth out of the sublime silence of the pathless forest +which hems in the open glebe land of the present and which is +eternity, past and to come; bondsmen of death, from youth to age, they +join in the labour of the field, they plough, they sow, they reap, +perhaps, tears they shed many, and of laughter there is also a little +amongst them; bondsmen of death, to the last, they are taken in the +end, when they have served their tale of years, many or few, and they +are led from furrow and grass land, willing or unwilling, mercifully +or cruelly, to the uttermost boundary, and they are thrust out quickly +into the darkness whence they came. For their place is already filled, +and the new husbandmen, their children, have in their turn come into +the field, to eat of the fruit they sowed, to sow in turn a seed of +which they themselves shall not see the harvest, whose sheaves others +shall bind, whose ears others shall thresh, and of whose corn others +shall make bread after them. With our eyes we may yet see the graves +of two hundred generations of men, whose tombs serve but to mark that +boundary more clearly, whose fierce warfare, when they fought against +the master, could not drive back that limit by a handbreadth, whose +uncomplaining labour, when they accepted their lot patiently, earned +them not one scant foot of soil wherewith to broaden their inheritance +as reward for their submission; and of them all, neither man nor woman +was ever forgotten in the day of reckoning, nor was one suffered to +linger in the light. Death will bury a thousand generations more, in +graves as deep, strengthening year by year the strong chain of his +grim landmarks. He will remember us every one when the time comes; to +some of us he will vouchsafe a peaceful end, but some shall pass away +in mortal agony, and some shall be dragged unconscious to the other +side; but all must go. Some shall not see him till he is at hand, and +some shall dream of him in year-long dreams of horror, to be taken +unawares at the last. He will remember us every one and will come to +us, and the place of our rest shall be marked for centuries, for +years, or for seconds, for each a stone, or a few green sods laid upon +a mound beneath the sky, or the ripple on a changing wave when the +loaded sack has slipped from the smooth plank, and the sound of a dull +splash has died away in the wind. There be strong men, as well as +weak, who shudder and grow cold when they think of that yet undated +day which must close with its black letter their calendar of joy and +sorrow; there are weaklings, as well as giants, who fear death for +those they love, but who fear not anything else at all. The master +treats courage and cowardice alike; Achilles and Thersites must alike +perish, and none will be so bold as to say that he can tell the dust +of the misshapen varlet from the ashes of the swift-footed destroyer, +whose hair was once so bright, whose eyes were so fierce, whose mighty +heart was so slothless, so wrathful, so inexorable and so brave. + +The Wanderer was of those who dread nothing save for the one dearly- +beloved object, but who, when that fear is once roused by a real or an +imaginary danger, can suffer in one short moment the agony which +should be distributed through a whole lifetime. The magnitude of his +passion could lend to the least thought or presentiment connected with +it the force of a fact and the overwhelming weight of a real calamity. + +In order to feel any great or noble passion a man must have an +imagination both great and sensitive in at least one direction. The +execution of a rare melody demands as a prime condition an instrument +of wide compass and delicate construction, and one of even more rich +and varied capabilities is needed to render those grand harmonies +which are woven in the modulation of sonorous chords. A skilful hand +may draw a scale from wooden blocks set upon ropes of straw, but the +great musician must hold the violin, or must feel the keys of the +organ under his fingers and the responsive pedals at his feet, before +he can expect to interpret fittingly the immortal thought of the +composer. The strings must vibrate in perfect tune, the priceless wood +must be seasoned and penetrated with the melodies of years, and scores +of years, the latent music must be already trembling to be free, +before the hand that draws the bow can command the ears and hearts of +those who hear. So, too, love, the chief musician of this world, must +find an instrument worthy of his touch before he can show all his +power, and make heart and soul ring with the lofty strains of a +sublime passion. Not every one knows what love means; few indeed know +all that love can mean. There is no more equality among men than there +is likeness between them, and no two are alike. The many have little, +the few have much. To the many is given the faint perception of higher +things, which is either the vestige, or the promise, of a nobler +development, past or yet to come. As through a veil they see the line +of beauty which it is not theirs to trace; as in a dream they hear the +succession of sweet tones which they can themselves never bring +together, though their half-grown instinct feels a vague satisfaction +in the sequence; as from another world, they listen to the poet's +song, wondering, admiring, but powerless over the great instrument of +human speech, from whose 15,000 keys their touch can draw but the +dull, tuneless prose of daily question and answer; as in a mirage of +things unreal, they see the great deeds that are done in their time +for love or hate, for race or country, for ambition and for vengeance, +but though they see the result, and know the motive, the inward +meaning and spirit of it all escapes them. It is theirs to be, and +existence is in itself their all. To think, to create, to act, to feel +can be only for the few. To one is given the transcendent genius that +turns the very stones along life's road to precious gems of thought; +whose gift it is to find speech in dumb things and eloquence in the +ideal half of the living world; to whom sorrow is a melody and joy +sweet music; to whom the humblest effort of a humble life can furnish +an immortal lyric, and in whom one thought of the Divine can inspire a +sublime hymn. Another stoops and takes a handful of clay from the +earth, and with the pressure of his fingers moulds it to the reality +of an unreal image seen in dreams; or, standing before the vast, rough +block of marble, he sees within the mass the perfection of a faultless +form--he lays the chisel to the stone, the mallet strikes the steel, +one by one the shapeless fragments fly from the shapely limbs, the +matchless curves are uncovered, the breathing mouth smiles through the +petrifaction of a thousand ages, the shroud of stone falls from the +godlike brow, and the Hermes of Olympia stands forth in all his +deathless beauty. Another is born to the heritage of this world's +power, fore-destined to rule and fated to destroy; the naked sword of +destiny lies in his cradle; the axe of a king-maker awaits the +awakening of his strength; the sceptre of supreme empire hangs within +his reach. Unknown, he dreams and broods over the future; unheeded, he +begins to move among his fellows; a smile, half of encouragement, half +of indifference, greets his first effort; he advances a little +farther, and thoughtful men look grave, another step, and suddenly all +mankind cries out and faces him and would beat him back; but it is too +late; one struggle more, and the hush of a great and unknown fear +falls on the wrangling nations; they are silent, and the world is his. +He is the man who is already thinking when others have scarcely begun +to feel; who is creating before the thoughts of his rivals have +reached any conclusion; who acts suddenly, terribly and irresistibly, +before their creations have received life. And yet, the greatest and +the richest inheritance of all is not his, for it has fallen to +another, to the man of heart, and it is the inheritance of the kingdom +of love. + +In all ages the reason of the world has been at the mercy of brute +force. The reign of law has never had more than a passing reality, and +never can have more than that so long as man is human. The individual +intellect and the aggregate intelligence of nations and races have +alike perished in the struggles of mankind, to revive again, indeed, +but as surely to be again put to the edge of the sword. Here and there +great thoughts and great masterpieces have survived the martyrdom of a +thinker, the extinction of a school, the death of a poet, the wreck of +a high civilisation. Socrates is murdered with the creed of +immortality on his very lips; hardly had he spoken the wonderful words +recorded in the /Phaedo/ when the fatal poison sent its deathly chill +through his limbs; the Greeks are gone, yet the Hermes of Olympia +remains, mutilated and maimed, indeed, but faultless still, and still +supreme. The very name of Homer is grown wellnigh as mythic as his +blindness. There are those to-day who, standing by the grave of +William Shakespeare, say boldly that he was not the creator of the +works that bear his name. And still, through the centuries, Achilles +wanders lonely by the shore of the sounding sea; Paris loves, and +Helen is false; Ajax raves, and Odysseus steers his sinking ship +through the raging storm. Still, Hamlet the Avenger swears, hesitates, +kills at last, and then himself is slain; Romeo sighs in the ivory +moonlight, and love-bound Juliet hears the triumphant lark carolling +his ringing hymn high in the cool morning air, and says it is the +nightingale--Immortals all, the marble god, the Greek, the Dane, the +love-sick boy, the maiden foredoomed to death. But how short is the +roll-call of these deathless ones! Through what raging floods of +destruction have they lived, through what tempests have they been +tossed, upon what inhospitable shores have they been cast up by the +changing tides of time! Since they were called to life by the great, +half-nameless departed, how often has their very existence been +forgotten by all but a score in tens of millions? Has it been given to +those embodied thoughts of transcendent genius to ride in the +whirlwind of men's passions or to direct the stormy warfare of half +frantic nations? Since they were born in all their bright perfection, +to live on in unchanging beauty, violence has ruled the world; many a +time since then the sword has mown down its harvest of thinkers, many +a time has the iron harrow of war torn up and scarred the face of the +earth. Athens still stands in broken loveliness, and the Tiber still +rolls its tawny waters heavily through Rome; but Rome and Athens are +to-day but places of departed spirits; they are no longer the seats of +life, their broken hearts are petrified. All men may see the ports +through which the blood flowed to the throbbing centre, the traces of +the mighty arteries through which it was driven to the ends of the +earth. But the blood is dried up, the hearts are broken, and though in +their stony ruins those dead world-hearts be grander and more enduring +than any which in our time are whole and beating, yet neither their +endurance nor their grandeur have saved them from man, the destroyer, +nor was the beauty of their thoughts or the thoughtfully-devised +machinery of their civilisation a shield against a few score thousand +rough-hammered blades, wielded by rough-hewn mortals who recked +neither of intellect nor of civilisation, nor yet of beauty, being but +very human men, full of terribly strong and human passions. Look where +you will, throughout the length and breadth of all that was the world +five thousand, or five hundred years ago; everywhere passion has swept +thought before it, and belief, reason. And we, too, with our reason +and our thoughts, shall be swept from existence and the memory of it. +Is this the age of reason, and is this the reign of law? In the midst +of this civilisation of ours three millions of men lie down nightly by +their arms, men trained to handle rifle and sword, taught to destroy +and to do nothing else; and nearly as many more wait but a summons to +leave their homes and join the ranks. And often it is said that we are +on the eve of a universal war. At the command of a few individuals, at +the touch of a few wires, more than five millions of men in the very +prime and glory of strength, armed as men never were armed since time +began, will arise and will kill civilisation and thought, as both the +one and the other have been slain before by fewer hands and less +deadly weapons. Is this reason, or is this law? Passion rules the +world, and rules alone. And passion is neither of the head, nor of the +hand, but of the heart. Passion cares nothing for the mind. Love, +hate, ambition, anger, avarice, either make a slave of intelligence to +serve their impulses, or break down its impotent opposition with the +unanswerable argument of brute force, and tear it to pieces with iron +hands. + +Love is the first, the greatest, the gentlest, the most cruel, the +most irresistible of passions. In his least form he is mighty. A +little love has destroyed many a great friendship. The merest outward +semblance of love has made such havoc as no intellect could repair. +The reality has made heroes and martyrs, traitors and murderers, whose +names will not be forgotten, for glory or for shame. Helen is not the +only woman whose smile has kindled the beacon of a ten years' war, nor +Antony the only man who has lost the world for a caress. It may be +that the Helen who shall work our destruction is even now twisting and +braiding her golden hair; it may be that the new Antony, who is to +lose this same old world again, already stands upon the steps of +Cleopatra's throne. Love's day is not over yet, nor has man outgrown +the love of woman. + +But the power to love greatly is a gift, differing much in kind, +though little in degree, from the inspiration of the poet, the genius +of the artist, or the unerring instinct and eagle's glance of the +conqueror; for conqueror, artist and poet are moved by passion and not +by reason, which is but their servant in so far as it can be commanded +to move others, and their deadliest enemy when it would move +themselves. Let the passion and the instrument but meet, being suited +to each other, and all else must go down before them. Few, indeed, are +they to whom is given that rich inheritance, and they themselves alone +know all their wealth, and all their misery, all the boundless +possibilities of happiness that are theirs, and all the dangers and +the terrors that beset their path. He who has won woman in the face of +daring rivals, of enormous odds, of gigantic obstacles, knows what +love means; he who has lost her, having loved her, alone has measured +with his own soul the bitterness of earthly sorrow, the depth of total +loneliness, the breadth of the wilderness of despair. And he who has +sorrowed long, who has long been alone, but who has watched the small, +twinkling ray still burning upon the distant border of his desert--the +faint glimmer of a single star that was still above the horizon of +despair--he only can tell what utter darkness can be upon the face of +the earth when that last star has set for ever. With it are gone +suddenly the very quarters and cardinal points of life's chart, there +is no longer any right hand or any left, any north or south, any +rising of the sun or any going down, any forward or backward direction +in his path, any heaven above, or any hell below. The world has stood +still and there is no life in the thick, black stillness. Death +himself is dead, and one living man is forgotten behind, to mourn him +as a lost friend, to pray that some new destroyer, more sure of hand +than death himself, may come striding through the awful silence to +make an end at last of the tormented spirit, to bear it swiftly to the +place where that last star ceased to shine, and to let it down into +the restful depths of an unremembering eternity. But into that place, +which is the soul of man, no destroyer can penetrate; that solitary +life neither the sword, nor pestilence, nor age, nor eternity can +extinguish; that immortal memory no night can obscure. There was a +beginning indeed, but end there can be none. + +Such a man was the Wanderer, as he paced the deserted street in the +cruel, gloomy cold of the late day. Between his sight and the star of +his own hope an impenetrable shadow had arisen, so that he saw it no +more. The memory of Beatrice was more than ever distinct to his inner +sense, but the sudden presentiment of her death, real in its working +as any certainty, had taken the reality of her from the ground on +which he stood. For that one link had still been between them. +Somewhere, near or far, during all these years, she, too, had trodden +the earth with her light footsteps, the same universal mother earth on +which they both moved and lived. The very world was hers, since she +was touching it, and to touch it in his turn was to feel her presence. +For who could tell what hidden currents ran in the secret depths, or +what mysterious interchange of sympathy might not be maintained +through them? The air itself was hers, since she was somewhere +breathing it; the stars, for she looked on them; the sun, for it +warmed her; the cold of winter, for it chilled her too; the breezes of +spring, for they fanned her pale cheek and cooled her dark brow. All +had been hers, and at the thought that she had passed away, a cry of +universal mourning broke from the world she had left behind, and +darkness descended upon all things, as a funeral pall. + +Cold and dim and sad the ancient city had seemed before, but it was a +thousandfold more melancholy now, more black, more saturated with the +gloom of ages. From time to time the Wanderer raised his heavy lids, +scarcely seeing what was before him, conscious of nothing but the +horror which had so suddenly embraced his whole existence. Then, all +at once, he was face to face with some one. A woman stood still in the +way, a woman wrapped in rich furs, her features covered by a dark veil +which could not hide the unequal fire of the unlike eyes so keenly +fixed on his. + +"Have you found her?" asked the soft voice. + +"She is dead," answered the Wanderer, growing very white. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +During the short silence which followed, and while the two were still +standing opposite to each other, the unhappy man's look did not +change. Unorna saw that he was sure of what he said, and a thrill of +triumph, as jubilant as his despair was profound ran through her. If +she had cared to reason with herself and to examine into her own +sincerity, she would have seen that nothing but genuine passion, good +or bad, could have lent the assurance of her rival's death such power +to flood the dark street with sunshine. But she was already long past +doubt upon that question. The enchanter had bound her heart with his +spells at the first glance, and the wild nature was already on fire. +For one instant the light shot from her eyes, and then sank again as +quickly as it had come. She had other impulses than those of love, and +subtle gifts of perception that condemned her to know the truth, even +when the delusion was most glorious. He was himself deceived, and she +knew it. Beatrice might, indeed, have died long ago. She could not +tell. But as she sought in the recesses of his mind, she saw that he +had no certainty of it, she saw the black presentiment between him and +the image, for she could see the image too. She saw the rival she +already hated, not receiving a vision of the reality, but perceiving +it through his mind, as it had always appeared to him. For one moment +she hesitated still, and she knew that her whole life was being +weighed in the trembling balance of that hesitation. For one moment +her face became an impenetrable mask, her eyes grew dull as uncut +jewels, her breathing ceased, her lips were set like cold marble. Then +the stony mask took life again, the sight grew keen, and a gentle sigh +stirred the chilly air. + +"She is not dead." + +"Not dead!" The Wanderer started, but fully two seconds after she had +spoken, as a man struck by a bullet in battle, in whom the suddenness +of the shock has destroyed the power of instantaneous sensation. + +"She is not dead. You have dreamed it," said Unorna, looking at him +steadily. + +He pressed his hand to his forehead and then moved it, as though +brushing away something that troubled him. + +"Not dead? Not dead!" he repeated, in changing tones. + +"Come with me. I will show her to you." + +He gazed at her and his senses reeled. Her words sounded like rarest +music in his ear; in the darkness of his brain a soft light began to +diffuse itself. + +"Is it possible? Have I been mistaken?" he asked in a low voice, as +though speaking to himself. + +"Come!" said Unorna again very gently. + +"Whither? With you? How can you bring me to her? What power have you +to lead the living to the dead?" + +"To the living. Come." + +"To the living--yes. I have dreamed an evil dream--a dream of death. +She is not--no, I see it now. She is not dead. She is only very far +from me, very, very far. And yet it was this morning--but I was +mistaken, deceived by some faint likeness. Ah, God! I thought I knew +her face! What is it that you want with me?" + +He asked the question as though again suddenly aware of Unorna's +presence. She had lifted her veil and her eyes drew his soul into +their mysterious depths. + +"She calls you. Come." + +"She? She is not here. What can you know of her? Why do you look at me +so?" + +He felt an unaccountable uneasiness under her gaze, like a warning of +danger not far off. The memory of his meeting with her on that same +morning was not clear at that moment, but he had not forgotten the odd +disturbance of his faculties which had distressed him at the time. He +was inclined to resist any return of the doubtful state and to oppose +Unorna's influence. He felt the fascination of her glance, and he +straightened himself rather proudly and coldly as though to withdraw +himself from it. It was certain that Unorna, at the surprise of +meeting her, had momentarily dispelled the gloomy presentiment which +had given him such terrible pain. And yet, even his disturbed and +anxious consciousness found it more than strange that she should thus +press him to go with her, and so boldly promise to bring him to the +object of his search. He resisted her, and found that resistance was +not easy. + +"And yet," said she, dropping her eyes and seeming to abandon the +attempt, "you said that if you failed to-day you would come back to +me. Have you succeeded, that you need no help?" + +"I have not succeeded." + +"And if I had not come to you--if I had not met you here, you would +have failed for the last time. You would have carried with you the +conviction of her death to the moment of your own." + +"It was a horrible delusion, but since it was a delusion it would have +passed away in time." + +"With your life, perhaps. 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. Her strong will was suddenly veiled by the most gentle and +womanly manner, and a little shiver, real or feigned, passed over her +as she drew the folds of her fur more closely round her. The man +before her could resist the aggressive manifestation of her power, but +he was far too courteous to refuse her request. + +"Which way?" he asked quietly. + +"To the river," she answered. + +He turned and took his place by her side. For some moments they walked +on in silence. It was already almost twilight. + +"How short the days are!" exclaimed Unorna, rather suddenly. + +"How long, even at their shortest!" replied her companion. + +"They might be short--if you would." + +He did not answer her, though he glanced quickly at her face. She was +looking down at the pavement before her, as though picking her way, +for there were patches of ice upon the stones. She seemed very quiet. +He could not guess that her heart was beating violently, and that she +found it hard to say six words in a natural tone. + +So far as he himself was concerned he was in no humour for talking. He +had seen almost everything in the world, and had read or heard almost +everything that mankind had to say. The streets of Prague had no +novelty for him, and there was no charm in the chance acquaintance of +a beautiful woman, to bring words to his lips. Words had long since +grown useless in the solitude of a life that was spent in searching +for one face among the millions that passed before his sight. Courtesy +had bidden him to walk with her, because she had asked it, but +courtesy did not oblige him to amuse her, he thought, and she had not +the power that Keyork Arabian had to force him into conversation, +least of all into conversing upon his own inner life. He regretted the +few words he had spoken, and would have taken them back, had it been +possible. He felt no awkwardness in the long silence. + +Unorna for the first time in her life felt that she had not full +control of her faculties. She who was always so calm, so thoroughly +mistress of her own powers, whose judgment Keyork Arabian could +deceive, but whose self-possession he could not move, except to anger, +was at the present moment both weak and unbalanced. Ten minutes +earlier she had fancied that it would be an easy thing to fix her eyes +on his and to cast the veil of a half-sleep over his already half- +dreaming senses. She had fancied that it would be enough to say +"Come," and that he would follow. She had formed the bold scheme of +attaching him to herself, by visions of the woman whom he loved as she +wished to be loved by him. She believed that if he were once in that +state she could destroy the old love for ever, or even turn it to +hate, at her will. And it had seemed easy. That morning, when he had +first come to her, she had fastened her glance upon him more than +once, and she had seen him turn a shade paler, had noticed the +drooping of his lids and the relaxation of his hands. She had sought +him in the street, guided by something surer than instinct, she had +found him, had read his thoughts, and had felt him yielding to her +fixed determination. Then, suddenly, her power had left her, and as +she walked beside him, she knew that if she looked into his face she +would blush and be confused like a shy girl. She almost wished that he +would leave her without a word and without an apology. + +It was not possible, however, to prolong the silence much longer. A +vague fear seized her. Had she really lost all her dominating strength +in the first moments of the first sincere passion she had ever felt? +Was she reduced to weakness by his presence, and unable so much as to +sustain a fragmentary conversation, let alone suggesting to his mind +the turn it should take? She was ashamed of her poverty of spirit in +the emergency. She felt herself tongue-tied, and the hot blood rose to +her face. He was not looking at her, but she could not help fancying +that he knew her secret embarrassment. She hung her head and drew her +veil down so that it should hide even her mouth. + +But her trouble increased with every moment, for each second made it +harder to break the silence. She sought madly for something to say, +and she knew that her cheeks were on fire. Anything would do, no +matter what. The sound of her own voice, uttering the commonest of +commonplaces, would restore her equanimity. But that simple, almost +meaningless phrase would not be found. She would stammer, if she tried +to speak, like a child that has forgotten its lesson and fears the +schoolmaster as well as the laughter of its schoolmates. It would be +so easy if he would say something instead of walking quietly by her +side, suiting his pace to hers, shifting his position so that she +might step upon the smoothest parts of the ill-paved street, and +shielding her, as it were, from the passers-by. There was a courteous +forethought for her convenience and safety in every movement of his, a +something which a woman always feels when traversing a crowded +thoroughfare by the side of a man who is a true gentleman in every +detail of life, whether husband, or friend, or chance acquaintance. +For the spirit of the man who is really thoughtful for woman, as well +as sincerely and genuinely respectful in his intercourse with them, is +manifest in his smallest outward action. + +While every step she took increased the violence of the passion which +had suddenly swept away her strength, every instant added to her +confusion. She was taken out of the world in which she was accustomed +to rule, and was suddenly placed in one where men are men, and women +are women, and in which social conventionalities hold sway. She began +to be frightened. The walk must end, and at the end of it they must +part. Since she had lost her power over him he might go away, for +there would be nothing to bring him to her. She wondered why he would +not speak, and her terror increased. She dared not look up, lest she +should find him looking at her. + +Then they emerged from the street and stood by the river, in a lonely +place. The heavy ice was gray with old snow in some places and black +in others, where the great blocks had been cut out in long strips. It +was lighter here. A lingering ray of sunshine, forgotten by the +departing day, gilded the vast walls and turrets of venerable +Hradschin, far above them on the opposite bank, and tinted the sharp +dark spires of the half-built cathedral which crowns the fortress. The +distant ring of fast-moving skates broke the stillness. + +"Are you angry with me?" asked Unorna, almost humbly, and hardly +knowing what she said. The question had risen to her lips without +warning, and was asked almost unconsciously. + +"I do not understand. Angry? At what? Why should you think I am +angry?" + +"You are so silent," she answered, regaining courage from the mere +sound of her own words. "We have been walking a long time, and you +have said nothing. I thought you were displeased." + +"You must forgive me. I am often silent." + +"I thought you were displeased," she repeated. "I think that you were, +though you hardly knew it. I should be very sorry if you were angry." + +"Why would you be sorry?" asked the Wanderer with a civil indifference +that hurt Unorna more than any acknowledgment of his displeasure could +have done. + +"Because I would help you, if you would let me." + +He looked at her with sudden keenness. In spite of herself she blushed +and turned her head away. He hardly noticed the fact, and, if he had, +would assuredly not have put upon it any interpretation approaching to +the truth. He supposed that she was flushed with walking. + +"No one has ever helped me, least of all in the way you mean," he +said. "The counsels of wise men--of the wisest--have been useless, as +well as the dreams of women who fancy they have the gift of mental +sight beyond the limit of bodily vision." + +"Who fancy they see!" exclaimed Unorna, almost glad to find that she +was still strong enough to feel annoyance at the slight. + +"I beg your pardon. I do not mean to doubt your powers, of which I +have had no experience." + +"I did not offer to see for you. I did not offer you a dream." + +"Would you show me that which I already see, waking and sleeping? +Would you bring to my hearing the sound of a voice which I can hear +even now? I need no help for that." + +"I can do more than that--for you." + +"And why for me?" he asked with some curiosity. + +"Because--because you are Keyork Arabian's friend." She glanced at his +face, but he showed no surprise. + +"You have seen him this afternoon, of course," he remarked. + +And odd smile passed over Unorna's face. + +"Yes. I have seen him this afternoon. He is a friend of mine, and of +yours--do you understand?" + +"He is the wisest of men," said the Wanderer. "And also the maddest," +he added thoughtfully. + +"And you think it was in his madness, rather than in his wisdom, that +he advised you to come to me?" + +"Possibly. In his belief in you, at least." + +"And that may be madness?" She was gaining courage. + +"Or wisdom--if I am mad. He believes in you. That is certain." + +"He has no beliefs. Have you known him long, and do not know that? +With him there is nothing between knowledge and ignorance." + +"And he knows, of course, by experience what you can do and what you +cannot do?" + +"By very long experience, as I know him." + +"Neither your gifts nor his knowledge of them can change dreams to +facts." + +Unorna smiled again. + +"You can produce a dream--nothing more," continued the Wanderer, drawn +at last into argument. "I, too, know something of these things. The +wisdom of the Egyptians is not wholly lost yet. You may possess some +of it, as well as the undeveloped power which could put all their +magic within your reach if you knew how to use it. Yet a dream is a +dream." + +"Philosophers have disputed that," answered Unorna. "I am no +philosopher, but I can overthrow the results of all their +disputations." + +"You can do this. If I resign my will into your keeping you can cause +me to dream. You can call up vividly before me the remembered and +unremembered sights of my life. You can make me see clearly the sights +impressed upon your own memory. You might do that, and yet you could +be showing me nothing which I do not see now before me--of those +things which I care to see." + +"But suppose that you were wrong, and that I had no dream to show you, +but a reality?" + +She spoke the words very earnestly, gazing into his eyes at last +without fear. Something in her tone struck him and fixed his +attention. + +"There is no sleep needed to see realities," he said. + +"I did not say that there was. I only asked you to come with me to the +place where she is." + +The Wanderer started slightly and forgot all the instinct of +opposition to her which he had felt so strongly before. + +"Do you mean that you know--that you can take me to her----" he could +not find words. A strange, overmastering astonishment took possession +of him, and with it came wild hope and the wilder longing to reach its +realisation instantly. + +"What else could I have meant? What else did I say?" Her eyes were +beginning to glitter in the gathering dusk. + +The Wanderer no longer avoided their look, but he passed his hand over +his brow, as though dazed. + +"I only asked you to come with me," she repeated softly. "There is +nothing supernatural about that. When I saw that you did not believe +me I did not try to lead you then, though she is waiting for you. She +bade me bring you to her." + +"You have seen her? You have talked with her? She sent you? Oh, for +God's sake, come quickly!--come, come!" + +He put out his hand as though to take hers and lead her away. She +grasped it eagerly. He had not seen that she had drawn off her glove. +He was lost. Her eyes held him and her fingers touched his bare wrist. +His lids drooped and his will was hers. In the intolerable anxiety of +the moment he had forgotten to resist, he had not even thought of +resisting. + +There were great blocks of stone in the desolate place, landed there +before the river had frozen for a great building, whose gloomy, +unfinished mass stood waiting for the warmth of spring to be +completed. She led him by the hand, passive and obedient as a child, +to a sheltered spot and made him sit down upon one of the stones. It +was growing dark. + +"Look at me," she said, standing before him, and touching his brow. He +obeyed. + +"You are the image in my eyes," she said, after a moment's pause. + +"Yes. I am the image in your eyes," he answered in a dull voice. + +"You will never resist me again, I command it. Hereafter it will be +enough for me to touch your hand, or to look at you, and if I say, +'Sleep,' you will instantly become the image again. Do you understand +that?" + +"I understand it." + +"Promise!" + +"I promise," he replied, without perceptible effort. + +"You have been dreaming for years. From this moment you must forget +all your dreams." + +His face expressed no understanding of what she said. She hesitated a +moment and then began to walk slowly up and down before him. His half- +glazed look followed her as she moved. She came back and laid her hand +upon his head. + +"My will is yours. You have no will of your own. You cannot think +without me," She spoke in a tone of concentrated determination, and a +slight shiver passed over him. + +"It is of no use to resist, for you have promised never to resist me +again," she continued. "All that I command must take place in your +mind instantly, without opposition. Do you understand?" + +"Yes," he answered, moving uneasily. + +For some seconds she again held her open palm upon his head. She +seemed to be evoking all her strength for a great effort. + +"Listen to me, and let everything I say take possession of your mind +for ever. My will is yours, you are the image in my eyes, my word is +your law. You know what I please that you should know. You forget what +I command you to forget. You have been mad these many years, and I am +curing you. You must forget your madness. You have now forgotten it. I +have erased the memory of it with my hand. There is nothing to +remember any more." + +The dull eyes, deep-set beneath the shadows of the overhanging brow, +seemed to seek her face in the dark, and for the third time there was +a nervous twitching of the shoulders and limbs. Unorna knew the +symptom well, but had never seen it return so often, like a protest of +the body against the enslaving of the intelligence. She was nervous in +spite of her success. The immediate results of hypnotic suggestion are +not exactly the same in all cases, even in the first moments; its +consequences may be widely different with different individuals. +Unorna, indeed, possessed an extraordinary power, but on the other +hand she had to deal with an extraordinary organisation. She knew this +instinctively, and endeavoured to lead the sleeping mind by degrees to +the condition in which she wished it to remain. + +The repeated tremor in the body was the outward sign of a mental +resistance which it would not be easy to overcome. The wisest course +was to go over the ground already gained. This she was determined to +do by means of a sort of catechism. + +"Who am I?" she asked. + +"Unorna," answered the powerless man promptly, but with a strange air +of relief. + +"Are you asleep?" + +"No." + +"Awake?" + +"No." + +"In what state are you?" + +"I am an image." + +"And where is your body?" + +"Seated upon that stone." + +"Can you see your face?" + +"I see it distinctly. The eyes in the body are glassy." + +"The body is gone now. You do not see it any more. Is that true?" + +"It is true. I do not see it. I see the stone on which it was +sitting." + +"You are still in my eyes. Now"--she touched his head again--"now, you +are no longer an image. You are my mind." + +"Yes. I am your mind." + +"You, my Mind, know that I met to-day a man called the Wanderer, whose +body you saw when you were in my eyes. Do you know that or not?" + +"I know it. I am your mind." + +"You know, Mind, that the man was mad. He had suffered for many years +from a delusion. In pursuit of the fixed idea he had wandered far +through the world. Do you know whither his travels had led him?" + +"I do not know. That is not in your mind. You did not know it when I +became your mind." + +"Good. Tell me, Mind, what was this man's delusion?" + +"He fancied that he loved a woman whom he could not find." + +"The man must be cured. You must know that he was mad and is now sane. +You, my Mind, must see that it was really a delusion. You see it now." + +"Yes. I see it." + +Unorna watched the waking sleeper narrowly. It was now night, but the +sky had cleared and the starlight falling upon the snow in the lonely, +open place, made it possible to see very well. Unorna seemed as +unconscious of the bitter cold as her subject, whose body was in a +state past all outward impressions. So far she had gone through all +the familiar process of question and answer with success, but this was +not all. She knew that if, when he awoke, the name he loved still +remained in his memory, the result would not be accomplished. She must +produce entire forgetfulness, and to do this, she must wipe out every +association, one by one. She gathered her strength during a short +pause. She was greatly encouraged by the fact that the acknowledgment +of the delusion had been followed by no convulsive reaction in the +body. She was on the very verge of a complete triumph, and the +concentration of her will during a few moments longer might win the +battle. + +She could not have chosen a spot better suited for her purpose. Within +five minutes' walk of streets in which throngs of people were moving +about, the scene which surrounded her was desolate and almost wild. +The unfinished building loomed like a ruin behind her; the rough hewn +blocks lay like boulders in a stony desert; the broad gray ice lay +like a floor of lustreless iron before her under the uncertain +starlight. Only afar off, high up in the mighty Hradschin, lamps +gleamed here and there from the windows, the distant evidences of +human life. All was still. Even the steely ring of the skates had +ceased. + +"And so," she continued, presently, "this man's whole life has been a +delusion, ever since he began to fancy in the fever of an illness that +he loved a certain woman. Is this clear to you, my Mind?" + +"It is quite clear," answered the muffled voice. + +"He was so utterly mad that he even gave that woman a name--a name, +when she had never existed except in his imagination." + +"Except in his imagination," repeated the sleeper, without resistance. + +"He called her Beatrice. The name was suggested to him because he had +fallen ill in a city of the South where a woman called Beatrice once +lived and was loved by a great poet. That was the train of self- +suggestion in his delirium. Mind, do you understand?" + +"He suggested to himself the name in his illness." + +"In the same way that he suggested to himself the existence of the +woman whom he afterwards believed he loved?" + +"In exactly the same way." + +"It was all a curious and very interesting case of auto-hypnotic +suggestion. It made him very mad. He is now cured of it. Do you see +that he is cured?" + +The sleeper gave no answer. The stiffened limbs did not move, indeed, +nor did the glazed eyes reflect the starlight. But he gave no answer. +The lips did not even attempt to form words. Had Unorna been less +carried away by the excitement in her own thoughts, or less absorbed +in the fierce concentration of her will upon its passive subject, she +would have noticed the silence and would have gone back again over the +old ground. As it was, she did not pause. + +"You understand therefore, my Mind, that this Beatrice was entirely +the creature of the man's imagination. Beatrice does not exist, +because she never existed. Beatrice never had any real being. Do you +understand?" + +This time she waited for an answer, but none came. + +"There never was any Beatrice," she repeated firmly, laying her hand +upon the unconscious head and bending down to gaze into the sightless +eyes. + +The answer did not come, but a shiver like that of an ague shook the +long, graceful limbs. + +"You are my Mind," she said fiercely. "Obey me! There never was any +Beatrice, there is no Beatrice now, and there never can be." + +The noble brow contracted in a look of agonising pain, and the whole +frame shook like an aspen leaf in the wind. The mouth moved +spasmodically. + +"Obey me! Say it!" cried Unorna with passionate energy. + +The lips twisted themselves, and the face was as gray as the gray +snow. + +"There is--no--Beatrice." The words came out slowly, and yet not +distinctly, as though wrung from the heart by torture. + +Unorna smiled at last, but the smile had not faded from her lips when +the air was rent by a terrible cry. + +"By the Eternal God of Heaven!" cried the ringing voice. "It is a lie! +--a lie!--a lie!" + +She who had never feared anything earthly or unearthly shrank back. +She felt her heavy hair rising bodily upon her head. + +The Wanderer had sprung to his feet. The magnitude and horror of the +falsehood spoken had stabbed the slumbering soul to sudden and +terrible wakefulness. The outline of his tall figure was distinct +against the gray background of ice and snow. He was standing at his +full height, his arms stretched up to heaven, his face luminously +pale, his deep eyes on fire and fixed upon her face, forcing back her +dominating will upon itself. But he was not alone! + +"Beatrice!" he cried in long-drawn agony. + +Between him and Unorna something passed by, something dark and soft +and noiseless, that took shape slowly--a woman in black, a veil thrown +back from her forehead, her white face turned towards the Wanderer, +her white hands hanging by her side. She stood still, and the face +turned, and the eyes met Unorna's, and Unorna knew that it was +Beatrice. + +There she stood, between them, motionless as a statue, impalpable as +air, but real as life itself. The vision, if it was a vision, lasted +fully a minute. Never, to the day of her death, was Unorna to forget +that face, with its deathlike purity of outline, with its unspeakable +nobility of feature. + +It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. A low broken sound of pain +escaped from the Wanderer's lips, and with his arms extended he fell +forwards. The strong woman caught him and he sank to the ground +gently, in her arms, his head supported upon her shoulder, as she +kneeled under the heavy weight. + +There was a sound of quick footsteps on the frozen snow. A Bohemian +watchman, alarmed by the loud cry, was running to the spot. + +"What has happened?" he asked, bending down to examine the couple. + +"My friend has fainted," said Unorna calmly. "He is subject to it. You +must help me to get him home." + +"Is it far?" asked the man. + +"To the House of the Black Mother of God." + + + +CHAPTER IX + +The principal room of Keyork Arabian's dwelling was in every way +characteristic of the man. In the extraordinary confusion which at +first disturbed a visitor's judgment, some time was needed to discover +the architectural bounds of the place. The vaulted roof was indeed +apparent, as well as small portions of the wooden flooring. Several +windows, which might have been large had they filled the arched +embrasures in which they were set, admitted the daylight when there +was enough of it in Prague to serve the purpose of illumination. So +far as could be seen from the street, they were commonplace windows +without shutters and with double casements against the cold, but from +within it was apparent that the tall arches in the thick walls had +been filled in with a thinner masonry in which the modern frames were +set. So far as it was possible to see, the room had but two doors; the +one, masked by a heavy curtain made of a Persian carpet, opened +directly upon the staircase of the house; the other, exactly opposite, +gave access to the inner apartments. On account of its convenient +size, however, the sage had selected for his principal abiding place +this first chamber, which was almost large enough to be called a hall, +and here he had deposited the extraordinary and heterogeneous +collection of objects, or, more property speaking, of remains, upon +the study of which he spent a great part of his time. + +Two large tables, three chairs and a divan completed the list of all +that could be called furniture. The tables were massive, dark, and +old-fashioned; the feet at each end consisted of thick flat boards +sawn into a design of simple curves, and connected by strong +crosspieces keyed to them with large wooden bolts. The chairs were +ancient folding stools, with movable backs and well-worn cushions of +faded velvet. The divan differed in no respect from ordinary oriental +divans in appearance, and was covered with a stout dark Bokhara carpet +of no great value; but so far as its use was concerned, the disorderly +heaps of books and papers that lay upon it showed that Keyork was more +inclined to make a book-case of it than a couch. + +The room received its distinctive character however neither from its +vaulted roof, nor from the deep embrasures of its windows, nor from +its scanty furniture, but from the peculiar nature of the many curious +objects, large and small, which hid the walls and filled almost all +the available space on the floor. It was clear that every one of the +specimens illustrated some point in the great question of life and +death which formed the chief study of Keyork Arabian's latter years; +for by far the greater number of the preparations were dead bodies, of +men, of women, of children, of animals, to all of which the old man +had endeavoured to impart the appearance of life, and in treating some +of which he had attained results of a startling nature. The osteology +of man and beast was indeed represented, for a huge case, covering one +whole wall, was filled to the top with a collection of many hundred +skulls of all races of mankind, and where real specimens were missing, +their place was supplied by admirable casts of craniums; but this +reredos, so to call it, of bony heads, formed but a vast, grinning +background for the bodies which stood and sat and lay in half-raised +coffins and sarcophagi before them, in every condition produced by +various known and lost methods of embalming. There were, it is true, a +number of skeletons, disposed here and there in fantastic attitudes, +gleaming white and ghostly in their mechanical nakedness, the bones of +human beings, the bones of giant orang-outangs, of creatures large and +small down to the flimsy little framework of a common bull frog, +strung on wires as fine as hairs, which squatted comfortably upon an +old book near the edge of a table, as though it had just skipped to +that point in pursuit of a ghostly fly and was pausing to meditate a +farther spring. But the eye did not discover these things at the first +glance. Solemn, silent, strangely expressive, lay three slim +Egyptians, raised at an angle as though to give them a chance of +surveying their fellow-dead, the linen bandages unwrapped from their +heads and arms and shoulders, their jet-black hair combed and arranged +and dressed by Keyork's hand, their faces softened almost to the +expression of life by one of his secret processes, their stiffened +joints so limbered by his art that their arms had taken natural +positions again, lying over the edges of the sarcophagi in which they +had rested motionless and immovable through thirty centuries. For the +man had pursued his idea in every shape and with every experiment, +testing, as it were, the potential imperishability of the animal frame +by the degree of life-like plumpness and softness and flexibility +which it could be made to take after a mummification of three thousand +years. And he had reached the conclusion that, in the nature of +things, the human body might vie, in resisting the mere action of +time, with the granite of the pyramids. Those had been his earliest +trials. The results of many others filled the room. Here a group of +South Americans, found dried in the hollow of an ancient tree, had +been restored almost to the likeness of life, and were apparently +engaged in a lively dispute over the remains of a meal--as cold as +themselves and as human. There, towered the standing body of an +African, leaning upon a knotted club, fierce, grinning, lacking only +sight in the sunken eyes to be terrible. There again, surmounting a +lay figure wrapped in rich stuffs, smiled the calm and gentle face of +a Malayan lady--decapitated for her sins, so marvellously preserved +that the soft dark eyes still looked out from beneath the heavy, half- +drooping lids, and the full lips, still richly coloured, parted a +little to show the ivory teeth. Other sights there were, more ghastly +still, triumphs of preservation, if not of semi-resuscitation, over +decay, won on its own most special ground. Triumphs all, yet almost +failures in the eyes of the old student, they represented the mad +efforts of an almost supernatural skill and superhuman science to +revive, if but for one second, the very smallest function of the +living body. Strange and wild were the trials he had made; many and +great the sacrifices and blood offerings lavished on his dead in the +hope of seeing that one spasm which would show that death might yet be +conquered; many the engines, the machines, the artificial hearts, the +applications of electricity that he had invented; many the powerful +reactives he had distilled wherewith to excite the long dead nerves, +or those which but two days had ceased to feel. The hidden essence was +still undiscovered, the meaning of vitality eluded his profoundest +study, his keenest pursuit. The body died, and yet the nerves could +still be made to act as though alive for the space of a few hours--in +rare cases for a day. With his eyes he had seen a dead man spring half +across a room from the effects of a few drops of musk--on the first +day; with his eyes he had seen the dead twist themselves, and move and +grin under the electric current--provided it had not been too late. +But that "too late" had baffled him, and from his first belief that +life might be restored when once gone, he had descended to what seemed +the simpler proposition of the two, to the problem of maintaining life +indefinitely so long as its magic essence lingered in the flesh and +blood. And now he believed that he was very near the truth; how +terribly near he had yet to learn. + +On that evening when the Wanderer fell to the earth before the shadow +of Beatrice, Keyork Arabian sat alone in his charnel-house. The +brilliant light of two powerful lamps illuminated everything in the +place, for Keyork loved light, like all those who are intensely +attached to life for its own sake. The yellow rays flooded the life- +like faces of his dead companions, and streamed upwards to the +heterogeneous objects that filled the shelves almost to the spring of +the vault--objects which all reminded him of the conditions of lives +long ago extinct, endless heaps of barbarous weapons, of garments of +leather and of fish skin, Amurian, Siberian, Gothic, Mexican, and +Peruvian; African and Red Indian masks, models of boats and canoes, +sacred drums, Liberian idols, Runic calendars, fiddles made of human +skulls, strange and barbaric ornaments, all producing together an +amazing richness of colour--all things in which the man himself had +taken but a passing interest, the result of his central study--life in +all its shapes. + +He sat alone. The African giant looked down at his dwarf-like form as +though in contempt of such half-grown humanity; the Malayan lady's +bodiless head turned its smiling face towards him; scores of dead +beings seemed to contemplate half in pity, half in scorn, their would- +be reviver. Keyork Arabian was used to their company and to their +silence. Far beyond the common human horror of dead humanity, if one +of them had all at once nodded to him and spoken to him he would have +started with delight and listened with rapture. But they were all +still dead, and they neither spoke or moved a finger. A thought that +had more hope in it than any which had passed through his brain for +many years now occupied and absorbed him. A heavy book lay open on the +table by his side, and from time to time he glanced at a phrase which +seemed to attract him. It was always the same phrase, and two words +alone sufficed to bring him back to contemplation of it. Those two +words were "Immortality" and "Soul." He began to speak aloud to +himself, being by nature fond of speech. + +"Yes. The soul is immortal. I am quite willing to grant that. But it +does not in any way follow that it is the source of life, or the seat +of intelligence. The Buddhists distinguished it even from the +individuality. And yet life holds it, and when life ends it takes its +departure. How soon? I do not know. It is not a condition of life, but +life is one of its conditions. Does it leave the body when life is +artificially prolonged in a state of unconsciousness--by hypnotism, +for instance? Is it more closely bound up with animal life, or with +intelligence? If with either, has it a definite abiding place in the +heart, or in the brain? Since its presence depends directly on life, +so far as I know, it belongs to the body rather than to the brain. I +once made a rabbit live an hour without its head. With a man that +experiment would need careful manipulation--I would like to try it. Or +is it all a question of that phantom, Vitality? Then the presence of +the soul depends upon the potential excitability of the nerves, and, +as far as we know, it must leave the body not more than twenty-four +hours after death, and it certainly does not leave the body at the +moment of dying. But if of the nerves, then what is the condition of +the soul in the hypnotic state? Unorna hypnotises our old friend there +--and our young one, too. For her, they have nerves. At her touch they +wake, they sleep, they move, they feel, they speak. But they have no +nerves for me. I can cut them with knives, burn them, turn the life- +blood of the one into the arteries of the other--they feel nothing. If +the soul is of the nerves--or of the vitality, then they have souls +for Unorna, and none for me. That is absurd. Where is that old man's +soul? He has slept for years. Has not his soul been somewhere else in +the meanwhile? If we could keep him asleep for centuries, or for +scores of centuries, like that frog found alive in a rock, would his +soul--able by the hypothesis to pass through rocks or universes--stay +by him? Could an ingenious sinner escape damnation for a few thousand +years by being hypnotised? Verily the soul is a very unaccountable +thing, and what is still more unaccountable is that I believe in it. +Suppose the case of the ingenious sinner. Suppose that he could not +escape by his clever trick. Then his soul must inevitably taste the +condition of the damned while he is asleep. But when he is waked at +last, and found to be alive, his soul must come back to him, glowing +from the eternal flames. Unpleasant thought! Keyork Arabian, you had +far better not go to sleep at present. Since all that is fantastic +nonsense, on the face of it, I am inclined to believe that the +presence of the soul is in some way a condition requisite for life, +rather than depending upon it. I wish I could buy a soul. It is quite +certain that life is not a mere mechanical or chemical process. I have +gone too far to believe that. Take man at the very moment of death-- +have everything ready, do what you will--my artificial heart is a very +perfect instrument, mechanically speaking--and how long does it take +to start the artificial circulation through the carotid artery? Not a +hundredth part so long a time as drowned people often lie before being +brought back, without a pulsation, without a breath. Yet I never +succeeded, though I have made the artificial heart work on a +narcotised rabbit, and the rabbit died instantly when I stopped the +machine, which proves that it was the machine that kept it alive. +Perhaps if one applied it to a man just before death he might live on +indefinitely, grow fat and flourish so long as the glass heart worked. +Where would his soul be then? In the glass heart, which would have +become the seat of life? Everything, sensible or absurd, which I can +put into words makes the soul seem an impossibility--and yet there is +something which I cannot put into words, but which proves the soul's +existence beyond all doubt. I wish I could buy somebody's soul and +experiment with it." + +He ceased and sat staring at his specimens, going over in his memory +the fruitless experiments of a lifetime. A loud knocking roused him +from his reverie. He hastened to open the door and was confronted by +Unorna. She was paler than usual, and he saw from her expression that +there was something wrong. + +"What is the matter?" he asked, almost roughly. + +"He is in a carriage downstairs," she answered quickly. "Something has +happened to him. I cannot wake him, you must take him in--" + +"To die on my hands? Not I!" laughed Keyork in his deepest voice. "My +collection is complete enough." + +She seized him suddenly by both arms, and brought her face near to +his. + +"If you dare to speak of death----" + +She grew intensely white, with a fear she had not before known in her +life. Keyork laughed again, and tried to shake himself free of her +grip. + +"You seem a little nervous," he observed calmly. "What do you want of +me?" + +"Your help, man, and quickly! Call your people! Have him carried +upstairs! Revive him! do something to bring him back!" + +Keyork's voice changed. + +"Is he in real danger?" he asked. "What have you done to him?" + +"Oh, I do not know what I have done!" cried Unorna desperately. "I do +not know what I fear----" + +She let him go and leaned against the doorway, covering her face with +her hands. Keyork stared at her. He had never seen her show so much +emotion before. Then he made up his mind. He drew her into his room +and left her standing and staring at him while he thrust a few objects +into his pockets and threw his fur coat over him. + +"Stay here till I come back," he said, authoritatively, as he went +out. + +"But you will bring him here?" she cried, suddenly conscious of his +going. + +The door had already closed. She tried to open it, in order to follow +him, but she could not. The lock was of an unusual kind, and either +intentionally or accidentally Keyork had shut her in. For a few +moments she tried to force the springs, shaking the heavy wood work a +very little in the great effort she made. Then, seeing that it was +useless, she walked slowly to the table and sat down in Keyork's +chair. + +She had been in the place before, and she was as free from any +unpleasant fear of the dead company as Keyork himself. To her, as to +him, they were but specimens, each having a peculiar interest, as a +thing, but all destitute of that individuality, of that grim, latent +malice, of that weird, soulless, physical power to harm, with which +timid imaginations endow dead bodies. + +She scarcely gave them a glance, and she certainly gave them no +thought. She sat before the table, supporting her head in her hands +and trying to think connectedly of what had just happened. She knew +well enough how the Wanderer had lain upon the frozen ground, his head +supported on her knee, while the watchman had gone to call a carriage. +She remembered how she had summoned all her strength and had helped to +lift him in, as few women could have done. She remembered every detail +of the place, and everything she had done, even to the fact that she +had picked up his hat and a stick he had carried and had taken them +into the vehicle with her. The short drive through the ill-lighted +streets was clear to her. She could still feel the pressure of his +shoulder as he had leaned heavily against her; she could see the pale +face by the fitful light of the lanterns as they passed, and of the +lamps that flashed in front of the carriage with each jolting of the +wheels over the rough paving-stones. She remembered exactly what she +had done, her efforts to wake him, at first regular and made with the +certainty of success, then more and more mad as she realised that +something had put him beyond the sphere of her powers for the moment, +if not for ever; his deathly pallor, his chilled hands, his unnatural +stillness--she remembered it all, as one remembers circumstances in +real life a moment after they have taken place. But there remained +also the recollection of a single moment during which her whole being +had been at the mercy of an impression so vivid that it seemed to +stand alone divested of any outward sensations by which to measure its +duration. She, who could call up visions in the minds of others, who +possessed the faculty of closing her bodily eyes in order to see +distant places and persons in the state of trance, she, who expected +no surprises in her own act, had seen something very vividly, which +she could not believe had been a reality, and which she yet could not +account for as a revelation of second sight. That dark, mysterious +presence that had come bodily, yet without a body, between her and the +man she loved was neither a real woman, nor the creation of her own +brain, nor a dream seen in hypnotic state. She had not the least idea +how long it had stood there; it seemed an hour, and it seemed but a +second. But that incorporeal thing had a life and a power of its own. +Never before had she felt that unearthly chill run through her, nor +that strange sensation in her hair. It was a thing of evil omen, and +the presage was already about to be fulfilled. The spirit of the dark +woman had arisen at the sound of the words in which he denied her; she +had risen and had come to claim her own, to rob Unorna of what seemed +most worth coveting on earth--and she could take him, surely, to the +place whence she came. How could Unorna tell that he was not already +gone, that his spirit had not passed already, even when she was +lifting his weight from the ground? + +At the despairing thought she started and looked up. She had almost +expected to see that shadow beside her again. But there was nothing. +The lifeless bodies stood motionless in their mimicry of life under +the bright light. The swarthy negro frowned, the face of the Malayan +woman wore still its calm and gentle expression. Far in the background +the rows of gleaming skulls grinned, as though at the memory of their +four hundred lives; the skeleton of the orang-outang stretched out its +long bony arms before it; the dead savages still squatted round the +remains of their meal. The stillness was oppressive. + +Unorna rose to her feet in sudden anxiety. She did not know how long +she had been alone. She listened anxiously at the door for the sound +of footsteps on the stairs, but all was silent. Surely, Keyork had not +taken him elsewhere, to his lodgings, where he would not be cared for. +That was impossible. She must have heard the sound of the wheels as +the carriage drove away. She glanced at the windows and saw that the +casements were covered with small, thick curtains which would muzzle +the sound. She went to the nearest, thrust the curtain aside, opened +the inner and the second glass and looked out. Though the street below +was dim, she could see well enough that the carriage was no longer +there. It was the bitterest night of the year and the air cut her like +a knife, but she would not draw back. She strained her sight in both +directions, searching in the gloom for the moving lights of a +carriage, but she saw nothing. At last she shut the window and went +back to the door. They must be on the stairs, or still below, perhaps, +waiting for help to carry him up. The cold might kill him in his +present state, a cold that would kill most things exposed to it. +Furiously she shook the door. It was useless. She looked about for an +instrument to help her strength. She could see nothing--no--yes--there +was the iron-wood club of the black giant. She went and took it from +his hand. The dead thing trembled all over, and rocked as though it +would fall, and wagged its great head at her, but she was not afraid. +She raised the heavy club and struck upon the door, upon the lock, +upon the panels with all her might. The terrible blows sent echoes +down the staircase, but the door did not yield, nor the lock either. +Was the door of iron and the lock of granite? she asked herself. Then +she heard a strange, sudden noise behind her. She turned and looked. +The dead negro had fallen bodily from his pedestal to the floor, with +a dull, heavy thud. She did not desist, but struck the oaken planks +again and again with all her strength. Then her arms grew numb and she +dropped the club. It was all in vain. Keyork had locked her in and had +taken the Wanderer away. + +She went back to her seat and fell into an attitude of despair. The +reaction from the great physical efforts she had made overcame her. It +seemed to her that Keyork's only reason for taking him away must be +that he was dead. Her head throbbed and her eyes began to burn. The +great passion had its will of her and stabbed her through and through +with such pain as she had never dreamed of. The horror of it all was +too deep for tears, and tears were by nature very far from her eyes at +all times. She pressed her hands to her breast and rocked herself +gently backwards and forwards. There was no reason left in her. To her +there was no reason left in anything if he were gone. And if Keyork +Arabian could not cure him, who could? She knew now what that old +prophecy had meant, when they had told her that love would come but +once, and that the chief danger of her life lay in a mistake on that +decisive day. Love had indeed come upon her like a whirlwind, he had +flashed upon her like the lightning, she had tried to grasp him and +keep him, and he was gone again--for ever. Gone through her own fault, +through her senseless folly in trying to do by art what love would +have done for himself. Blind, insensate, mad! She cursed herself with +unholy curses, and her beautiful face was strained and distorted. With +unconscious fingers she tore at her heavy hair until it fell about her +like a curtain. In the raging thirst of a great grief for tears that +would not flow she beat her bosom, she beat her face, she struck with +her white forehead the heavy table before her, she grasped her own +throat, as though she would tear the life out of herself. Then again +her head fell forward and her body swayed regularly to and fro, and +low words broke fiercely from her trembling lips now and then, bitter +words of a wild, strong language in which it is easier to curse than +to bless. As the sudden love that had in a few hours taken such +complete possession of her was boundless, so its consequences were +illimitable. In a nature strange to fear, the fear for another wrought +a fearful revolution. Her anger against herself was as terrible as her +fear for him she loved was paralysing. The instinct to act, the terror +lest it should be too late, the impossibility of acting at all so long +as she was imprisoned in the room, all three came over her at once. + +The mechanical effort of rocking her body from side to side brought no +rest; the blow she struck upon her breast in her frenzy she felt no +more than the oaken door had felt those she had dealt it with the +club. She could not find even the soothing antidote of bodily pain for +her intense moral suffering. Again the time passed without her knowing +or guessing of its passage. + +Driven to desperation she sprang at last from her seat and cried +aloud. + +"I would give my soul to know that he is safe!" + +The words had not died away when a low groan passed, as it were, round +the room. The sound was distinctly that of a human voice, but it +seemed to come from all sides at once. Unorna stood still and +listened. + +"Who is in this room?" she asked in loud clear tones. + +Not a breath stirred. She glanced from one specimen to another, as +though suspecting that among the dead some living being had taken a +disguise. But she knew them all. There was nothing new to her there. +She was not afraid. Her passion returned. + +"My soul!--yes!" she cried again, leaning heavily on the table, "I +would give it if I could know, and it would be little enough!" + +Again that awful sound filled the room, and rose now almost to a wail +and died away. + +Unorna's brow flushed angrily. In the direct line of her vision stood +the head of the Malayan woman, its soft, embalmed eyes fixed on hers. + +"If there are people hidden here," cried Unorna fiercely, "let them +show themselves! let them face me! I say it again--I would give my +immortal soul!" + +This time Unorna saw as well as heard. The groan came, and the wail +followed it and rose to a shriek that deafened her. And she saw how +the face of the Malayan woman changed; she saw it move in the bright +lamp-light, she saw the mouth open. Horrified, she looked away. Her +eyes fell upon the squatting savages--their heads were all turned +towards her, she was sure that she could see their shrunken chests +heave as they took breath to utter that terrible cry again and again; +even the fallen body of the African stirred on the floor, not five +paces from her. Would their shrieking never stop? All of them--every +one--even to the white skulls high up in the case; not one skeleton, +not one dead body that did not mouth at her and scream and moan and +scream again. + +Unorna covered her ears with her hands to shut out the hideous, +unearthly noise. She closed her eyes lest she should see those dead +things move. Then came another noise. Were they descending from their +pedestals and cases and marching upon her, a heavy-footed company of +corpses? + +Fearless to the last, she dropped her hands and opened her eyes. + +"In spite of you all," she cried defiantly, "I will give my soul to +have him safe!" + +Something was close to her. She turned and saw Keyork Arabian at her +elbow. There was an odd smile on his usually unexpressive face. + +"Then give me that soul of yours, if you please," he said. "He is +quite safe and peacefully asleep. You must have grown a little nervous +while I was away." + + + +CHAPTER X + +Unorna let herself sink into a chair. She stared almost vacantly at +Keyork, then glanced uneasily at the motionless specimens, then stared +at him again. + +"Yes," she said at last. "Perhaps I was a little nervous. Why did you +lock me in? I would have gone with you. I would have helped you." + +"An accident--quite an accident," answered Keyork, divesting himself +of his fur coat. "The lock is a peculiar one, and in my hurry I forgot +to show you the trick of it." + +"I tried to get out," said Unorna with a forced laugh. "I tried to +break the door down with a club. I am afraid I have hurt one of your +specimens." + +She looked about the room. Everything was in its usual position, +except the body of the African. She was quite sure that when she had +head that unearthly cry, the dead faces had all been turned towards +her. + +"It is no matter," replied Keyork in a tone of indifference which was +genuine. "I wish somebody would take my collection off my hands. I +should have room to walk about without elbowing a failure at every +step." + +"I wish you would bury them all," suggested Unorna, with a slight +shudder. + +Keyork looked at her keenly. + +"Do you mean to say that those dead things frightened you?" he asked +incredulously. + +"No; I do not. I am not easily frightened. But something odd happened +--the second strange thing that has happened this evening. Is there +any one concealed in this room?" + +"Not a rat--much less a human being. Rats dislike creosote and +corrosive sublimate, and as for human beings----" + +He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. + +"Then I have been dreaming," said Unorna, attempting to look relieved. +"Tell me about him. Where is he?" + +"In bed--at his hotel. He will be perfectly well to-morrow." + +"Did he wake?" she asked anxiously. + +"Yes. We talked together." + +"And he was in his right mind?" + +"Apparently. But he seems to have forgotten something." + +"Forgotten? What? That I had made him sleep?" + +"Yes. He had forgotten that too." + +"In Heaven's name, Keyork, tell me what you mean! Do not keep me--" + +"How impatient women are!" exclaimed Keyork with exasperating calm. +"What is it that you most want him to forget?" + +"You cannot mean----" + +"I can, and I do. He has forgotten Beatrice. For a witch--well, you +are a very remarkable one, Unorna. As a woman of business----" He +shook his head. + +"What do you mean, this time? What did you say?" Her questions came in +a strained tone and she seemed to have difficulty in concentrating her +attention, or in controlling her emotions, or both. + +"You paid a large price for the information," observed Keyork. + +"What price? What are you speaking of? I do not understand." + +"Your soul," he answered, with a laugh. "That was what you offered to +any one who would tell you that the Wanderer was safe. I immediately +closed with your offer. It was an excellent one for me." + +Unorna tapped the table impatiently. + +"It is odd that a man of your learning should never be serious," she +said. + +"I supposed that you were serious," he answered. "Besides, a bargain +is a bargain, and there were numerous witnesses to the transaction," +he added, looking round the room at his dead specimens. + +Unorna tried to laugh with him. + +"Do you know, I was so nervous that I fancied all those creatures were +groaning and shrieking and gibbering at me, when you came in." + +"Very likely they were," said Keyork Arabian, his small eyes +twinkling. + +"And I imagined that the Malayan woman opened her mouth to scream, and +that the Peruvian savages turned their heads; it was very strange--at +first they groaned, and then they wailed, and then they howled and +shrieked at me." + +"Under the circumstances, that is not extraordinary." + +Unorna stared at him rather angrily. He was jesting, of course, and +she had been dreaming, or had been so overwrought by excitement as to +have been made the victim of a vivid hallucination. Nevertheless there +was something disagreeable in the matter-of-fact gravity of his jest. + +"I am tired of your kind of wit," she said. + +"The kind of wit which is called wisdom is said to be fatiguing," he +retorted. + +"I wish you would give me an opportunity of being wearied in that +way." + +"Begin by opening your eyes to facts, then. It is you who are trying +to jest. It is I who am in earnest. Did you, or did you not, offer +your soul for a certain piece of information? Did you, or did you not, +hear those dead things moan and cry? Did you, or did you not, see them +move?" + +"How absurd!" cried Unorna. "You might as well ask whether, when one +is giddy, the room is really going round? Is there any practical +difference, so far as sensation goes, between a mummy and a block of +wood?" + +"That, my dear lady, is precisely what we do not know, and what we +most wish to know. Death is not the change which takes place at a +moment which is generally clearly defined, when the heart stops +beating, and the eye turns white, and the face changes colour. Death +comes some time after that, and we do not know exactly when. It varies +very much in different individuals. You can only define it as the +total and final cessation of perception and apperception, both +functions depending on the nerves. In ordinary cases Nature begins of +herself to destroy the nerves by a sure process. But how do you know +what happens when decay is not only arrested but prevented before it +has begun? How can you foretell what may happen when a skilful hand +has restored the tissues of the body to their original flexibility, or +preserved them in the state in which they were last sensitive?" + +"Nothing can ever make me believe that a mummy can suddenly hear and +understand," said Unorna. "Much less that it can move and produce a +sound. I know that the idea has possessed you for many years, but +nothing will make me believe it possible." + +"Nothing?" + +"Nothing short of seeing and hearing." + +"But you have seen and heard." + +"I was dreaming." + +"When you offered your soul?" + +"Not then, perhaps. I was only mad then." + +"And on the ground of temporary insanity you would repudiate the +bargain?" + +Unorna shrugged her shoulders impatiently and did not answer. Keyork +relinquished the fencing. + +"It is of no importance," he said, changing his tone. "Your dream--or +whatever it was--seems to have been the second of your two +experiences. You said there were two, did you not? What was the +first?" + +Unorna sat silent for some minutes, as though collecting her thoughts. +Keyork, who never could have enough light, busied himself with another +lamp. The room was now brighter than it generally was in the daytime. + +Unorna watched him. She did not want to make confidences to him, and +yet she felt irresistibly impelled to do so. He was a strange compound +of wisdom and levity, in her opinion, and his light-hearted moods were +those which she most resented. She was never sure whether he was in +reality tactless, or frankly brutal. She inclined to the latter view +of his character, because he always showed such masterly skill in +excusing himself when he had gone too far. Neither his wisdom nor his +love of jesting explained to her the powerful attraction he exercised +over her whole nature, and of which she was, in a manner, ashamed. She +could quarrel with him as often as they met, and yet she could not +help being always glad to meet him again. She could not admit that she +liked him because she dominated him; on the contrary, he was the only +person she had ever met over whom she had no influence whatever, who +did as he pleased without consulting her, and who laughed at her +mysterious power so far as he himself was concerned. Nor was her +liking founded upon any consciousness of obligation. If he had helped +her to the best of his ability in the great experiment, it was also +clear enough that he had the strongest personal interest in doing so. +He loved life with a mad passion for its own sake, and the only object +of his study was to find a means of living longer than other men. All +the aims and desires and complex reasonings of his being tended to +this simple expression--the wish to live. To what idolatrous self- +worship Keyork Arabian might be capable of descending, if he ever +succeeded in eliminating death from the equation of his immediate +future, it was impossible to say. The wisdom of ages bids us beware of +the man of one idea. He is to be feared for his ruthlessness, for his +concentration, for the singular strength he has acquired in the +centralization of his intellectual power, and because he has welded, +as it were, the rough metal of many passions and of many talents into +a single deadly weapon which he wields for a single purpose. Herein +lay, perhaps, the secret of Unorna's undefined fear of Keyork and of +her still less definable liking for him. + +She leaned one elbow on the table and shaded her eyes from the +brilliant light. + +"I do not know why I should tell you," she said at last. "You will +only laugh at me, and then I shall be angry, and we shall quarrel as +usual." + +"I may be of use," suggested the little man gravely. "Besides, I have +made up my mind never to quarrel with you again, Unorna." + +"You are wise, my dear friend. It does no good. As for your being of +use in this case, the most I can hope is that you may find me an +explanation of something I cannot understand." + +"I am good at that. I am particularly good at explanations--and, +generally, at all /post facto/ wisdom." + +"Keyork, do you believe that the souls of the dead can come back and +be visible to us?" + +Keyork Arabian was silent for a few seconds. + +"I know nothing about it," he answered. + +"But what do you think?" + +"Nothing. Either it is possible, or it is not, and until the one +proposition or the other is proved I suspend my judgment. Have you +seen a ghost?" + +"I do not know. I have seen something----" She stopped, as though the +recollections were unpleasant. + +"Then" said Keyork, "the probability is that you saw a living person. +Shall I sum up the question of ghosts for you?" + +"I wish you would, in some way that I can understand." + +"We are, then, in precisely the same position with regard to the +belief in ghosts which we occupy towards such questions as the +abolition of death. The argument in both cases is inductive and all +but conclusive. We do not know of any case, in the two hundred +generations of men, more or less, with whose history we are in some +degree acquainted, of any individual who has escaped death. We +conclude that all men must die. Similarly, we do not know certainly-- +not from real, irrefutable evidence at least--that the soul of any man +or woman dead has ever returned visibly to earth. We conclude, +therefore, that none ever will. There is a difference in the two +cases, which throws a slight balance of probability on the side of the +ghost. Many persons have asserted that they have seen ghosts, though +none have ever asserted that men do not die. For my own part, I have +had a very wide, practical, and intimate acquaintance with dead people +--sometimes in very queer places--but I have never seen anything even +faintly suggestive of a ghost. Therefore, my dear lady, I advise you +to take it for granted that you have seen a living person." + +"I never shivered with cold and felt my hair rise upon my head at the +sight of any living thing," said Unorna dreamily, and still shading +her eyes with her hand. + +"But might you not feel that if you chanced to see some one whom you +particularly disliked?" asked Keyork, with a gentle laugh. + +"Disliked?" repeated Unorna in a harsh voice. She changed her position +and looked at him. "Yes, perhaps that is possible. I had not thought +of that. And yet--I would rather it had been a ghost." + +"More interesting, certainly, and more novel," observed Keyork, slowly +polishing his smooth cranium with the palm of his hand. His head, and +the perfect hemisphere of his nose, reflected the light like ivory +balls of different sizes. + +"I was standing before him," said Unorna. "The place was lonely and it +was already night. The stars shone on the snow, and I could see +distinctly. Then she--that woman--passed softly between us. He cried +out, calling her by name, and then fell forward. After that, the woman +was gone. What was it that I saw?" + +"You are quite sure that it was not really a woman?" + +"Would a woman, and of all women that one, have come and gone without +a word?" + +"Not unless she is a very singularly reticent person," answered +Keyork, with a laugh. "But you need not go so far as the ghost theory +for an explanation. You were hypnotised, my dear friend, and he made +you see her. That is as simple as anything need be." + +"But that is impossible, because----" Unorna stopped and changed +colour. + +"Because you had hypnotised him already," suggested Keyork gravely. + +"The thing is not possible," Unorna repeated, looking away from him. + +"I believe it to be the only natural explanation. You had made him +sleep. You tried to force his mind to something contrary to its +firmest beliefs. I have seen you do it. He is a strong subject. His +mind rebelled, yielded, then made a final and desperate effort, and +then collapsed. That effort was so terrible that it momentarily forced +your will back upon itself, and impressed his vision on your sight. +There are no ghosts, my dear colleague. There are only souls and +bodies. If the soul can be defined as anything it can be defined as +Pure Being in the Mode of Individuality but quite removed from the +Mode of Matter. As for the body--well, there it is before you, in a +variety of shapes, and in various states of preservation, as incapable +of producing a ghost as a picture or a statue. You are altogether in a +very nervous condition to-day. It is really quite indifferent whether +that good lady be alive or dead." + +"Indifferent!" exclaimed Unorna fiercely. Then she was silent. + +"Indifferent to the validity of the theory. If she is dead, you did +not see her ghost, and if she is alive you did not see her body, +because, if she had been there in the flesh, she would have entered +into an explanation--to say the least. Hypnosis will explain anything +and everything, without causing you a moment's anxiety for the +future." + +"Then I did not hear shrieks and moans, nor see your specimens moving +when I was here along just now?" + +"Certainly not! Hypnosis again. Auto-hypnosis this time. You should +really be less nervous. You probably stared at the lamp without +realising the fact. You know that any shining object affects you in +that way, if you are not careful. It is a very bright lamp, too. +Instantaneous effect--bodies appear to move and you hear unearthly +yells--you offer your soul for sale and I buy it, appearing in the +nick of time? If your condition had lasted ten seconds longer you +would have taken me for his majesty and lived, in imagination, through +a dozen years or so of sulphurous purgatorial treatment under my +personal supervision, to wake up and find yourself unscorched--and +unredeemed, as ever." + +"You are a most comforting person, Keyork," said Unorna, with a faint +smile. "I only wish I could believe everything you tell me." + +"You must either believe me or renounce all claim to intelligence," +answered the little man, climbing from his chair and sitting upon the +table at her elbow. His short, sturdy legs swung at a considerable +height above the floor, and he planted his hands firmly upon the board +on either side of him. The attitude was that of an idle boy, and was +so oddly out of keeping with his age and expression that Unorna almost +laughed as she looked at him. + +"At all events," he continued, "you cannot doubt my absolute +sincerity. You come to me for an explanation. I give you the only +sensible one that exists, and the only one which can have a really +sedative effect upon your excitement. Of course, if you have any +especial object in believing in ghosts--if it affords you any great +and lasting pleasure to associate, in imagination, with spectres, +wraiths, and airily-malicious shadows, I will not cross your fancy. To +a person of solid nerves a banshee may be an entertaining companion, +and an apparition in a well-worn winding-sheet may be a pretty toy. +For all I know, it may be a delight to you to find your hair standing +on end at the unexpected appearance of a dead woman in a black cloak +between you and the person with whom you are engaged in animated +conversation. All very well, as a mere pastime, I say. But if you find +that you are reaching a point on which your judgment is clouded, you +had better shut up the magic lantern and take the rational view of the +case." + +"Perhaps you are right." + +"Will you allow me to say something very frank, Unorna?" asked Keyork +with unusual diffidence. + +"If you can manage to be frank without being brutal." + +"I will be short, at all events. It is this. I think you are becoming +superstitious." He watched her closely to see what effect the speech +would produce. She looked up quickly. + +"Am I? What is superstition?" + +"Gratuitous belief in things not proved." + +"I expected a different definition from you." + +"What did you expect me to say?" + +"That superstition is belief." + +"I am not a heathen," observed Keyork sanctimoniously. + +"Far from it," laughed Unorna. "I have heard that devils believe and +tremble." + +"And you class me with those interesting things, my dear friend?" + +"Sometimes: when I am angry with you." + +"Two or three times a day, then? Not more than that?" inquired the +sage, swinging his heels, and staring at the rows of skulls in the +background. + +"Whenever we quarrel. It is easy for you to count the occasions." + +"Easy, but endless. Seriously, Unorna, I am not the devil. I can prove +it to you conclusively on theological grounds." + +"Can you? They say that his majesty is a lawyer, and a successful one, +in good practice." + +"What caused Satan's fall? Pride. Then pride is his chief +characteristic. Am I proud, Unorna? The question is absurd, I have +nothing to be proud of--a little old man with a gray beard, of whom +nobody ever heard anything remarkable. No one ever accused me of +pride. How could I be proud of anything? Except of your acquaintance, +my dear lady," he added gallantly, laying his hand on his heart, and +leaning towards her as he sat. + +Unorna laughed at the speech, and threw back her dishevelled hair with +a graceful gesture. Keyork paused. + +"You are very beautiful," he said thoughtfully, gazing at her face and +at the red gold lights that played in the tangled tresses. + +"Worse and worse!" she exclaimed, still laughing. "Are you going to +repeat the comedy you played so well this afternoon, and make love to +me again?" + +"If you like. But I do not need to win your affections now." + +"Why not?" + +"Have I not bought your soul, with everything in it, like a furnished +house?" he asked merrily. + +"Then you are the devil after all?" + +"Or an angel. Why should the evil one have a monopoly in the soul- +market? But you remind me of my argument. You would have distracted +Demosthenes in the heat of a peroration, or Socrates in the midst of +his defence, if you had flashed that hair of yours before their old +eyes. You have almost taken the life out of my argument. I was going +to say that my peculiarity is not less exclusive than Lucifer's, +though it takes a different turn. I was going to confess with the +utmost frankness and the most sincere truth that my only crime against +Heaven is a most perfect, unswerving, devotional love for my own +particular Self. In that attachment I have never wavered yet--but I +really cannot say what may become of Keyork Arabian if he looks at you +much longer." + +"He might become a human being," suggested Unorna. + +"How can you be so cruel as to suggest such a horrible possibility?" +cried the gnome with a shudder, either real or extremely well feigned. + +"You are betraying yourself, Keyork. You must control your feelings +better, or I shall find out the truth about you." + +He glanced keenly at her, and was silent for a while. Unorna rose +slowly to her feet, and standing beside him, began to twist her hair +into a great coil upon her head. + +"What made you let it down?" asked Keyork with some curiosity, as he +watched her. + +"I hardly know," she answered, still busy with the braids. "I was +nervous, I suppose, as you say, and so it got loose and came down." + +"Nervous about our friend?" + +She did not reply, but turned from him with a shake of the head and +took up her fur mantle. + +"You are not going?" said Keyork quietly, in a tone of conviction. + +She started slightly, dropped the sable, and sat down again. + +"No," she said, "I am not going yet. I do not know what made me take +my cloak." + +"You have really no cause for nervousness now that it is all over," +remarked the sage, who had not descended from his perch on the table. +"He is very well. It is one of those cases which are interesting as +being new, or at least only partially investigated. We may as well +speak in confidence, Unorna, for we really understand each other. Do +you not think so?" + +"That depends on what you have to say." + +"Not much--nothing that ought to offend you. You must consider, my +dear," he said, assuming an admirably paternal tone, "that I might be +your father, and that I have your welfare very much at heart, as well +as your happiness. You love this man--no, do not be angry, do not +interrupt me. You could not do better for yourself, nor for him. I +knew him years ago. He is a grand man--the sort of man I would like to +be. Good. You find him suffering from a delusion, or a memory, +whichever it be. Not only is this delusion--let us call it so--ruining +his happiness and undermining his strength, but so long as it endures, +it also completely excludes the possibility of his feeling for you +what you feel for him. Your own interest coincides exactly with the +promptings of real, human charity. And yours is in reality a +charitable nature, dear Unorna, though you are sometimes a little +hasty with poor old Keyork. Good again. You, being moved by a desire +for this man's welfare, most kindly and wisely take steps to cure him +of his madness. The delusion is strong, but your will is stronger. The +delusion yields after a violent struggle during which it has even +impressed itself upon your own senses. The patient is brought home, +properly cared for, and disposed to rest. Then he wakes, apparently of +his own accord, and behold! he is completely cured. Everything has +been successful, everything is perfect, everything has followed the +usual course of such mental cures by means of hypnosis. The only thing +I do not understand is the waking. That is the only thing which makes +me uneasy for the future, until I can see it properly explained. He +had no right to wake without your suggestion, if he was still in the +hypnotic state; and if he had already come out of the hypnotic state +by a natural reaction, it is to be feared that the cure may not be +permanent." + +Unorna had listened attentively, as she always did when Keyork +delivered himself of a serious opinion upon a psychiatric case. Her +eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he finished. + +"If that is all that troubles you," she said, "you may set your mind +at rest. After he had fallen, and while the watchman was getting the +carriage, I repeated my suggestion and ordered him to wake without +pain in an hour." + +"Perfect! Splendid!" cried Keyork, clapping his hands loudly together. +"I did you an injustice, my dear Unorna. You are not so nervous as I +thought, since you forgot nothing. What a woman! Ghost-proof, and able +to think connectedly even at such a moment! But tell me, did you not +take the opportunity of suggesting something else?" His eyes twinkled +merrily, as he asked the question. + +"What do you mean?" inquired Unorna, with sudden coldness. + +"Oh, nothing so serious as you seem to think. I was only wondering +whether a suggestion of reciprocation might not have been wise." + +She faced him fiercely. + +"Hold your peace, Keyork Arabian!" she cried. + +"Why?" he asked with a bland smile, swinging his little legs and +stroking his long beard. + +"There is a limit! Must you for ever be trying to suggest, and trying +to guide me in everything I do? It is intolerable! I can hardly call +my soul my own!" + +"Hardly, considering my recent acquisition of it," returned Keyork +calmly. + +"That wretched jest is threadbare." + +"A jest! Wretched? And threadbare, too? Poor Keyork! His wit is +failing at last." + +He shook his head in mock melancholy over his supposed intellectual +dotage. Unorna turned away, this time with the determination to leave +him. + +"I am sorry if I have offended you," he said, very meekly. "Was what I +said so very unpardonable?" + +"If ignorance is unpardonable, as you always say, then your speech is +past forgiveness," said Unorna, relenting by force of habit, but +gathering her fur around her. "If you know anything of women--" + +"Which I do not," observed the gnome in a low-toned interruption. + +"Which you do not--you would know how much such love as you advise me +to manufacture by force of suggestion could be worth in a woman's +eyes. You would know that a woman will be loved for herself, for her +beauty, for her wit, for her virtues, for her faults, for her own +love, if you will, and by a man conscious of all his actions and free +of his heart; not by a mere patient reduced to the proper state of +sentiment by a trick of hypnotism, or psychiatry, or of whatever you +choose to call the effect of this power of mine which neither you, nor +I, nor any one can explain. 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." + +"So you are a fatalist, Unorna," observed her companion, still +stroking and twisting his beard. "It is strange that we should differ +upon so many fundamental questions, you and I, and yet be such good +friends. Is it not?" + +"The strangest thing of all is that I should submit to your +exasperating ways as I do." + +"It does not strike me that it is I who am quarrelling this time," +said Keyork. + +"I confess, I would almost prefer that to your imperturbable coolness. +What is this new phase? You used not to be like this. You are planning +some wickedness. I am sure of it." + +"And that is all the credit I get for keeping my temper! Did I not say +a while ago that I would never quarrel with you again?" + +"You said so, but--" + +"But you did not expect me to keep my word," said Keyork, slipping +from his seat on the table with considerable agility and suddenly +standing close before her. "And do you not yet know that when I say a +thing I do it, and that when I have got a thing I keep it?" + +"So far as the latter point is concerned, I have nothing to say. But +you need not be so terribly impressive; and unless you are going to +break your word, by which you seem to set such store, and quarrel with +me, you need not look at me so fiercely." + +Keyork suddenly let his voice drop to its deepest and most vibrating +key. + +"I only want you to remember this," he said. "You are not an ordinary +woman, as I am not an ordinary man, and the experiment we are making +together is an altogether extraordinary one. I have told you the +truth. I care for nothing but my individual self, and I seek nothing +but the prolongation of life. If you endanger the success of the great +trial again, as you did to-day, and if it fails, I will never forgive +you. You will make an enemy of me, and you will regret it while you +live, and longer than that, perhaps. So long as you keep the compact +there is nothing I will not do to help you--nothing within the bounds +of your imagination. And I can do much. Do you understand?" + +"I understand that you are afraid of losing my help." + +"That is it--of losing your help. I am not afraid of losing you--in +the end." + +Unorna smiled rather scornfully at first, as she looked down upon the +little man's strange face and gazed fearlessly into his eyes. But as +she looked, the smile faded, and the colour slowly sank from her face, +until she was very pale. And as she felt herself losing courage before +something which she could not understand, Keyork's eyes grew brighter +and brighter till they glowed like drops of molten metal. A sound as +of many voices wailing in agony rose and trembled and quavered in the +air. With a wild cry, Unorna pressed her hands to her ears and fled +towards the entrance. + +"You are very nervous to-night," observed Keyork, as he opened the +door. + +Then he went silently down the stairs by her side and helped her into +the carriage, which had been waiting since his return. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +A month had passed since the day on which Unorna had first seen the +Wanderer, and since the evening when she had sat so long in +conversation with Keyork Arabian. The snow lay heavily on all the +rolling moorland about Prague, covering everything up to the very +gates of the black city; and within, all things were as hard and dark +and frozen as ever. The sun was still the sun, no doubt, high above +the mist and the gloom which he had no power to pierce, but no man +could say that he had seen him in that month. At long intervals +indeed, a faint rose-coloured glow touched the high walls of the +Hradschin and transfigured for an instant the short spires of the +unfinished cathedral, hundreds of feet above the icebound river and +the sepulchral capital; sometimes, in the dim afternoons, a little +gold filtered through the heavy air and tinged the snow-steeples of +the Teyn Kirche, and yellowed the stately tower of the town hall; but +that was all, so far as the moving throngs of silent beings that +filled the streets could see. The very air men breathed seemed to be +stiffening with damp cold. For that is not the glorious winter of our +own dear north, where the whole earth is a jewel of gleaming crystals +hung between two heavens, between the heaven of the day, and the +heaven of the night, beautiful alike in sunshine and in starlight, +under the rays of the moon, at evening and again at dawn; where the +pines and hemlocks are as forests of plumes powdered thick with dust +of silver; where the black ice rings like a deep-toned bell beneath +the heel of the sweeping skate--the ice that you may follow a hundred +miles if you have breath and strength; where the harshest voice rings +musically among the icicles and the snow-laden boughs; where the quick +jingle of sleigh bells far off on the smooth, deep track brings to the +listener the vision of our own merry Father Christmas, with snowy +beard, and apple cheeks, and peaked fur cap, and mighty gauntlets, and +hampers and sacks full of toys and good things and true northern +jollity; where all is young and fresh and free; where eyes are bright +and cheeks are red, and hands are strong and hearts are brave; where +children laugh and tumble in the diamond dust of the dry, driven snow; +where men and women know what happiness can mean; where the old are as +the giant pines, green, silver-crowned landmarks in the human forest, +rather than as dried, twisted, sapless trees fit only to be cut down +and burned, in that dear north to which our hearts and memories still +turn for refreshment, under the Indian suns, and out of the hot +splendour of calm southern seas. The winter of the black city that +spans the frozen Moldau is the winter of the grave, dim as a perpetual +afternoon in a land where no lotus ever grew, cold with the +unspeakable frigidness of a reeking air that thickens as oil but will +not be frozen, melancholy as a stony island of death in a lifeless +sea. + +A month had gone by, and in that time the love that had so suddenly +taken root in Unorna's heart had grown to great proportions as love +will when, being strong and real, it is thwarted and repulsed at every +turn. For she was not loved. She had destroyed the idol and rooted out +the memory of it, but she could not take its place. She had spoken the +truth when she had told Keyork that she would be loved for herself, or +not at all, and that she would use neither her secret arts nor her +rare gifts to manufacture a semblance when she longed for a reality. + +Almost daily she saw him. As in a dream he came to her and sat by her +side, hour after hour, talking of many things, calm, apparently, and +satisfied in her society, but strangely apathetic and indifferent. +Never once in those many days had she seen his pale face light up with +pleasure, nor his deep eyes show a gleam of interest; never had the +tone of his voice been disturbed in its even monotony; never had the +touch of his hand, when they met and parted, felt the communication of +the thrill that ran through hers. + +It was very bitter, for Unorna was proud with the scarcely reasoning +pride of a lawless, highly gifted nature, accustomed to be obeyed and +little used to bending under any influence. She brought all the skill +she could command to her assistance; she talked to him, she told him +of herself, she sought his confidence, she consulted him on every +matter, she attempted to fascinate his imagination with tales of a +life which even he could never have seen; she even sang to him old +songs and snatches of wonderful melodies which, in her childhood, had +still survived the advancing wave of silence that has overwhelmed the +Bohemian people within the memory of living man, bringing a change +into the daily life and temperament of a whole nation which is perhaps +unparalleled in any history. He listened, he smiled, he showed a faint +pleasure and a great understanding in all these things, and he came +back day after day to talk and listen again. But that was all. She +felt that she could amuse him without charming him. + +And Unorna suffered terribly. Her cheek grew thinner and her eyes +gleamed with sudden fires. She was restless, and her beautiful hands, +from seeming to be carved in white marble, began to look as though +they were chiselled out of delicate transparent alabaster. She slept +little and thought much, and if she did not shed tears, it was because +she was too strong to weep for pain and too proud to weep from anger +and disappointment. And yet her resolution remained firm, for it was +part and parcel of her inmost self, and was guarded by pride on the +one hand and an unalterable belief in fate on the other. + +To-day they sat together, as they had so often sat, among the flowers +and the trees in the vast conservatory, she in her tall, carved chair +and he upon a lower seat before her. They had been silent for some +minutes. It was not yet noon, but it might have been early morning in +a southern island, so soft was the light, so freshly scented the air, +so peaceful the tinkle of the tiny fountain. Unorna's expression was +sad, as she gazed in silence at the man she loved. There was something +gone from his face, she thought, since she had first seen him, and it +was to bring that something back that she would give her life and her +soul if she could. + +Suddenly her lips moved and a sad melody trembled in the air. Unorna +sang, almost as though singing to herself. The Wanderer's deep eyes +met hers and he listened. + + "When in life's heaviest hour + Grief crowds upon the heart + One wondrous prayer + My memory repeats. + + "The harmony of the living words + Is full of strength to heal, + There breathes in them a holy charm + Past understanding. + + "Then, as a burden from my soul, + Doubt rolls away, + And I believe--believe in tears, + And all is light--so light!" + +She ceased, and his eyes were still upon her, calm, thoughtful, +dispassionate. The colour began to rise in her cheek. She looked down +and tapped upon the carved arm of the chair with an impatient gesture +familiar to her. + +"And what is that one prayer?" asked the Wanderer. "I knew the song +long ago, but I have never guessed what that magic prayer can be +like." + +"It must be a woman's prayer; I cannot tell you what it is." + +"And are you so sad to-day, Unorna? What makes you sing that song?" + +"Sad? No, I am not sad," she answered with an effort. "But the words +rose to my lips and so I sang." + +"They are pretty words," said her companion, almost indifferently. +"And you have a very beautiful voice," he added thoughtfully. + +"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. He gazed at the plants, and his glance +wandered from one to the other, as though he did not see them, being +lost in meditation. The voice had been calm and clear as ever, but it +was the first time he had ever said so much, and Unorna's heart stood +still, half fire and half ice. She could not speak. + +"You are very much to me," he said again, at last. "Since I have been +in this place a change has come over me. I seem to myself to be a man +without an object, without so much as a real thought. Keyork tells me +that there is something wanting, that the something is woman, and that +I ought to love. I cannot tell. I do not know what love is, and I +never knew. Perhaps it is the absence of it that makes me what I am--a +body and an intelligence without a soul. Even the intelligence I begin +to doubt. What sense has there ever been in all my wanderings? Why +have I been in every place, in every city? What went I forth to see? +Not even a reed shaken by the wind! I have spoken all languages, read +thousands of books, known men in every land--and for what? It is as +though I had once had an object in it all, though I know that there +was none. But I have realised the worthlessness of my life since I +have been here. Perhaps you have shown it to me, or helped me to see +it. I cannot tell. I ask myself again and again what it was all for, +and I ask in vain. I am lonely, indeed, in the world, but it has been +my own choice. I remember that I had friends once, when I was younger, +but I cannot tell what has become of one of them. They wearied me, +perhaps, in those days, and the weariness drove me from my own home. +For I have a home, Unorna, and I fancy that when old age gets me at +last I shall go there to die, in one of those old towers by the +northern sea. I was born there, and there my mother died and my +father, before I knew them; it is a sad place! Meanwhile, I may have +thirty years, or forty, or even more to live. Shall I go on living +this wandering, aimless life? And if not what shall I do? Love, says +Keyork Arabian--who never loved anything but himself, but to whom that +suffices, for it passes the love of woman!" + +"That is true, indeed," said Unorna in a low voice. + +"And what he says might be true also, if I were capable of loving. But +I feel that I am not. I am as incapable of that as of anything else. I +ought to despise myself, and yet I do not. I am perfectly contented, +and if I am not happy I at least do not realise what unhappiness +means. Am I not always of the same even temper?" + +"Indeed you are." 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. "Even if I had, +what right have I to make myself the judge of your life?" + +"The right of friendship," answered the Wanderer very quietly. "You +are my best friend, Unorna." + +Unorna's anger rose within her. She remembered how in that very place, +and but a month earlier, she had offered Israel Kafka her friendship, +and it was as though a heavy retribution were now meted out to her for +her cruelty on that day. She remembered his wrath and his passionate +denunciations of friendship, his scornful refusal, his savage attempt +to conquer her will, his failure and his defeat. She remembered how +she had taken her revenge, delivering him over in his sleep to Keyork +Arabian's will. She wished that, like him, she could escape from the +wound of the word in a senseless lethargy of body and mind. She knew +now what he had suffered, for she suffered it all herself. He, at +least, had been free to speak his mind, to rage and storm and +struggle. She must sit still and hide her agony, at the risk of losing +all. She bit her white lips and turned her head away, and was silent. + +"You are my best friend," the Wanderer repeated in his calm voice, and +every syllable pierced her like a glowing needle. "And does not +friendship give rights which ought to be used? If, as I think, Unorna, +you look upon me as an idler, as a worthless being, as a man without +as much as the shadow of a purpose in the world, it is but natural +that you should despise me a little, even though you may be very fond +of me. Do you not see that?" + +Unorna stared at him with an odd expression for a moment. + +"Yes--I am fond of you!" she exclaimed, almost harshly. Then she +laughed. He seemed not to notice her tone. + +"I never knew what friendship was before," he went on. "Of course, as +I said, I had friends when I was little more than a boy, boys and +young men like myself, and our friendship came to this, that we +laughed, and feasted and hunted together, and sometimes even +quarrelled, and caring little, thought even less. But in those days +there seemed to be nothing between that and love, and love I never +understood, that I can remember. But friendship like ours, Unorna, was +never dreamed of among us. Such friendship as this, when I often think +that I receive all and give nothing in return." + +Again Unorna laughed, so strangely that the sound of her own voice +startled her. + +"Why do you laugh like that?" he asked. + +"Because what you say is so unjust to yourself," she answered, +nervously and scarcely seeing him where he sat. "You seem to think it +is all on your side. And yet, I just told you that I was fond of you." + +"I think it is a fondness greater than friendship that we feel for +each other," he said, presently, thrusting the probe of a new hope +into the tortured wound. + +"Yes?" she spoke faintly, with averted face. + +"Something more--a stronger tie, a closer bond. Unorna, do you believe +in the migration of the soul throughout ages, from one body to +another?" + +"Sometimes," she succeeded in saying. + +"I do not believe in it," he continued. "But I see well enough how men +may, since I have known you. We have grown so intimate in these few +weeks, we seem to understand each other so wholly, with so little +effort, we spend such happy, peaceful hours together every day, that I +can almost fancy our two selves having been together through a whole +lifetime in some former state, living together, thinking together, +inseparable from birth, and full of an instinctive, mutual +understanding. I do not know whether that seems an exaggeration to you +or not. Has the same idea ever crossed your mind?" + +She said something, or tried to say something, but the words were +inaudible; he interpreted them as expressive of assent, and went on, +in a musing tone, as though talking quite as much to himself as to +her. + +"And that is the reason why it seems as though we must be more than +friends, though we have known each other so short a time. Perhaps it +is too much to say." + +He hesitated, and paused. Unorna breathed hard, not daring to think of +what might be coming next. He talked so calmly, in such an easy tone, +it was impossible that he could be making love. She remembered the +vibrations in his voice when, a month ago, he had told her his story. +She remembered the inflection of the passionate cry he had uttered +when he had seen the shadow of Beatrice stealing between them, she +knew the ring of his speech when he loved, for she had heard it. It +was not there now. And yet, the effort not to believe would have been +too great for her strength. + +"Nothing that you could say would be--" she stopped herself--"would +pain me," she added, desperately, in the attempt to complete the +sentence. + +He looked somewhat surprised, and then smiled. + +"No. I shall never say anything, nor do anything, which could give you +pain. What I meant was this. I feel towards you, and with you, as I +can fancy a man might feel to a dear sister. Can you understand that?" + +In spite of herself she started. He had but just said that he would +never give her pain. He did not guess what cruel wounds he was +inflicting now. + +"You are surprised," he said, with intolerable self-possession. "I +cannot wonder. I remember to have very often thought that there are +few forms of sentimentality more absurd than that which deceives a man +into the idea that he can with impunity play at being a brother to a +young and beautiful woman. I have always thought so, and I suppose +that in whatever remains of my indolent intelligence I think so still. +But intelligence is not always so reliable as instinct. I am not young +enough nor foolish enough either, to propose that we should swear +eternal brother-and-sisterhood--or perhaps I am not old enough, who +can tell? Yet I feel how perfectly safe it would be for either of us." + +The steel had been thrust home, and could go no farther. Unorna's +unquiet temper rose at his quiet declaration of his absolute security. +The colour came again to her cheek, a little hotly, and though there +was a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke, yet her eyes flashed +beneath the drooping lids. + +"Are you sure it would be safe?" she asked. + +"For you, of course there can be no danger possible," he said, in +perfect simplicity of good faith. "For me--well, I have said it. I +cannot imagine love coming near me in any shape, by degrees or +unawares. It is a strange defect in my nature, but I am glad of it +since it makes this pleasant life possible." + +"And why should you suppose that there is no danger for me?" asked +Unorna, with a quick glance and a silvery laugh. She was recovering +her self-possession. + +"For you? Why should there be? How could there be? No woman ever loved +me, then why should you? Besides--there are a thousand reasons, one +better than the other." + +"I confess I would be glad to hear a few of them, my friend. You were +good enough just now to call me young and beautiful. You are young +too, and certainly not repulsive in appearance. You are gifted, you +have led an interesting life--indeed, I cannot help laughing when I +think how many reasons there are for my falling in love with you. But +you are very reassuring, you tell me there is no danger. I am willing +to believe." + +"It is safe to do that," answered the Wanderer with a smile, "unless +you can find at least one reason far stronger than those you give. +Young and passably good-looking men are not rare, and as for men of +genius who have led interesting lives, many thousands have been +pointed out to me. Then why, by any conceivable chance, should your +choice fall on me?" + +"Perhaps because I am so fond of you already," said Unorna, looking +away lest her eyes should betray what was so far beyond fondness. +"They say that the most enduring passions are either born in a single +instant, or are the result of a treacherously increasing liking. Take +the latter case. Why is it impossible, for you or for me? We are +slipping from mere liking into friendship, and for all I know we may +some day fall headlong from friendship into love. It would be very +foolish no doubt, but it seems to me quite possible. Do you not see +it?" + +The Wanderer laughed lightly. It was years since he had laughed, until +this friendship had begun. + +"What can I say?" he asked. "If you, the woman, acknowledge yourself +vulnerable, how can I, the man, be so discourteous as to assure you +that I am proof? And yet, I feel that there is no danger for either of +us." + +"You are still sure?" + +"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. +"But to you--what would the world say, if it learned that you were in +love with Unorna, that you were married to the Witch?" + +"The world? What is the world to me, or what am I to it? What is my +world? If it is anything, it consists of a score of men and women who +chance to be spending their allotted time on earth in that corner of +the globe in which I was born, who saw me grow to manhood, and who +most inconsequently arrogate to themselves the privilege of +criticising my actions, as they criticise each other's; who say loudly +that this is right and that is wrong, and who will be gathered in due +time to their insignificant fathers with their own insignificance +thick upon them, as is meet and just. If that is the world I am not +afraid of its judgments in the very improbable case of my falling in +love with you." + +Unorna shook her head. There was a momentary relief in discussing the +consequences of a love not yet born in him. + +"That would not be all," she said. "You have a country, you have a +home, you have obligations--you have all those things which I have +not." + +"And not one of those which you have." + +She glanced at him again, for there was a truth in the words which +hurt her. Love, at least, was hers in abundance, and he had it not. + +"How foolish it is to talk like this!" she exclaimed. "After all, when +people love, they care very little what the world says. If I loved any +one"--she tried to laugh carelessly--"I am sure I should be +indifferent to everything or every one else." + +"I am sure you would be," assented the Wanderer. + +"Why?" She turned rather suddenly upon him. "Why are you sure?" + +"In the first place because you say so, and secondly because you have +the kind of nature which is above common opinion." + +"And what kind of nature may that be?" + +"Enthusiastic, passionate, brave." + +"Have I so many good qualities?" + +"I am always telling you so." + +"Does it give you pleasure to tell me what you think of me?" + +"Does it pain you to hear it?" asked the Wanderer, somewhat surprised +at the uncertainty of her temper, and involuntarily curious as to the +cause of the disturbance. + +"Sometimes it does," Unorna answered. + +"I suppose I have grown awkward and tactless in my lonely life. You +must forgive me if I do not understand my mistake. But since I have +annoyed you, I am sorry for it. Perhaps you do not like such speeches +because you think I am flattering you and turning compliments. You are +wrong if you think that. I am sincerely attached to you, and I admire +you very much. May I not say as much as that?" + +"Does it do any good to say it?" + +"If I may speak of you at all I may express myself with pleasant +truths." + +"Truths are not always pleasant. Better not to speak of me at any +time." + +"As you will," answered the Wanderer bending his head as though in +submission to her commands. But he did not continue the conversation, +and a long silence ensued. + +He wandered what was passing in her mind, and his reflections led to +no very definite result. Even if the idea of her loving him had +presented itself to his intelligence he would have scouted it, partly +on the ground of its apparent improbability, and partly, perhaps, +because he had of late grown really indolent, and would have resented +any occurrence which threatened to disturb the peaceful, objectless +course of his days. He put down her quick changes of mood to sudden +caprice, which he excused readily enough. + +"Why are you so silent?" Unorna asked, after a time. + +"I was thinking of you," he answered, with a smile. "And since you +forbade me to speak of you, I said nothing." + +"How literal you are!" she exclaimed impatiently. + +"I could see no figurative application of your words," he retorted, +beginning to be annoyed at her prolonged ill humour. + +"Perhaps there was none." + +"In that case--" + +"Oh, do not argue! I detest argument in all shapes, and most of all +when I am expected to answer it. You cannot understand me--you never +will--" She broke off suddenly and looked at him. + +She was angry with him, with herself, with everything, and in her +anger she loved him tenfold better than before. Had he not been +blinded by his own absolute coldness he must have read her heart in +the look she gave him, for his eyes met hers. But he saw nothing. The +glance had been involuntary, but Unorna was too thoroughly a woman not +to know all that it had expressed and would have conveyed to the mind +of any one not utterly incapable of love, all that it might have +betrayed even to this man who was her friend and talked of being her +brother. She realised with terrible vividness the extent of her own +passion and the appalling indifference of its objet. A wave of despair +rose and swept over her heart. Her sight grew dim and she was +conscious of sharp physical pain. She did not even attempt to speak, +for she had no thoughts which could take the shape of words. She +leaned back in her chair, and tried to draw her breath, closing her +eyes, and wishing she were alone. + +"What is the matter?" asked the Wanderer, watching her in surprise. + +She did not answer. He rose and stood beside her, and lightly touched +her hand. + +"Are you ill?" he asked again. + +She pushed him away, almost roughly. + +"No," she answered shortly. + +Then, all at once, as though repenting of her gesture, her hand sought +his again, pressed it hard for a moment, and let it fall. + +"It is nothing," she said. "It will pass. Forgive me." + +"Did anything I said----" he began. + +"No, no; how absurd!" + +"Shall I go. Yes, you would rather be alone----" he hesitated. + +"No--yes--yes, go away and come back later. It is the heat perhaps; is +it not hot here?" + +"I daresay," he answered absently. + +He took her hand and then left her, wondering exceedingly over a +matter which was of the simplest. + +It was some time before Unorna realised that he was gone. She had +suffered a severe shock, not to be explained by any word or words +which he had spoken, as much as by the revelation of her own utter +powerlessness, of her total failure to touch his heart, but most +directly of all the consequence of a sincere passion which was +assuming dangerous proportions and which threatened to sweep away even +her pride in its irresistible course. + +She grew calmer when she found herself alone, but in a manner she grew +also more desperate. A resolution began to form itself in her mind +which she would have despised and driven out of her thoughts a few +hours earlier; a resolution destined to lead to strange results. She +began to think of resorting once more to a means other than natural in +order to influence the man she loved. + +In the first moments she had felt sure of herself, and the certainty +that the Wanderer had forgotten Beatrice as completely as though she +had never existed had seemed to Unorna a complete triumph. With little +or no common vanity she had nevertheless felt sure that the man must +love her for her own sake. She knew, when she thought of it, that she +was beautiful, unlike other women, and born to charm all living +things. She compared in her mind the powers she controlled at will, +and the influence she exercised without effort over every one who came +near her. It had always seemed to her enough to wish in order to see +the realisation of her wishes. But she had herself never understood +how closely the wish was allied with the despotic power of suggestion +which she possessed. But in her love she had put a watch over her +mysterious strength and had controlled it, saying that she would be +loved for herself or not at all. She had been jealous of every glance, +lest it should produce a result not natural. She had waited to be won, +instead of trying to win. She had failed, and passion could be +restrained no longer. + +"What does it matter how, if only he is mine!" she exclaimed fiercely, +as she rose from her carved chair an hour after he had left her. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Israel Kafka found himself seated in the corner of a comfortable +carriage with Keyork Arabian at his side. He opened his eyes quite +naturally, and after looking out of the window stretched himself as +far as the limits of the space would allow. He felt very weak and very +tired. The bright colour had left his olive cheeks, his lips were pale +and his eyes heavy. + +"Travelling is very tiring," he said, glancing at Keyork's face. + +The old man rubbed his hands briskly and laughed. + +"I am as fresh as ever," he answered. "It is true that I have the +happy faculty of sleeping when I get a chance and that no +preoccupation disturbs my appetite." + +Keyork Arabian was in a very cheerful frame of mind. He was conscious +of having made a great stride towards the successful realisation of +his dream. Israel Kafka's ignorance, too, amused him, and gave him a +fresh and encouraging proof of Unorna's amazing powers. + +By a mere exercise of superior will this man, in the very prime of +youth and strength, had been deprived of a month of his life. Thirty +days were gone, as in the flash of a second, and with them was gone +also something less easily replaced, or at least more certainly +missed. In Kafka's mind the passage of time was accounted for in a way +which would have seemed supernatural twenty years ago, but which at +the present day is understood in practice if not in theory. For thirty +days he had been stationary in one place, almost motionless, an +instrument in Keyork's skilful hands, a mere reservoir of vitality +upon which the sage had ruthlessly drawn to the fullest extent of its +capacities. He had been fed and tended in his unconsciousness, he had, +unknown to himself, opened his eyes at regular intervals, and had +absorbed through his ears a series of vivid impressions destined to +disarm his suspicions, when he was at last allowed to wake and move +about the world again. With unfailing forethought Keyork had planned +the details of a whole series of artificial reminiscences, and at the +moment when Kafka came to himself in the carriage the machinery of +memory began to work as Keyork had intended that it should. + +Israel Kafka leaned back against the cushions and reviewed his life +during the past month. He remembered very well the afternoon when, +after a stormy interview with Unorna, he had been persuaded by Keyork +to accompany the latter upon a rapid southward journey. He remembered +how he had hastily packed together a few necessaries for the +expedition, while Keyork stood at his elbow advising him what to take +and what to leave, with the sound good sense of an experienced +traveller, and he could almost repeat the words of the message he had +scrawled on a sheet of paper at the last minute to explain his sudden +absence from his lodging--for the people of the house had all been +away when he was packing his belongings. Then the hurry of the +departure recalled itself to him, the crowds of people at the Franz +Josef station, the sense of rest in finding himself alone with Keyork +in a compartment of the express train; after that he had slept during +most of the journey, waking to find himself in a city of the snow- +driven Tyrol. With tolerable distinctness he remembered the sights he +had seen, and fragments of conversation--then another departure, still +southward, the crossing of the Alps, Italy, Venice--a dream of water +and sun and beautiful buildings, in which the varied conversational +powers of his companion found constant material. As a matter of fact +the conversation was what was most clearly impressed upon Kafka's +mind, as he recalled the rapid passage from one city to another, and +realised how many places he had visited in one short month. From +Venice southwards, again, Florence, Rome, Naples, Sicily, by sea to +Athens and on to Constantinople, familiar to him already from former +visits--up the Bosphorus, by the Black Sea to Varna, and then, again, +a long period of restful sleep during the endless railway journey-- +Pesth, Vienna, rapidly revisited and back at last to Prague, to the +cold and the gray snow and the black sky. It was not strange, he +thought, that his recollections of so many cities should be a little +confused. A man would need a fine memory to catalogue the myriad +sights which such a trip offers to the eye, the innumerable sounds, +familiar and unfamiliar, which strike the ear, the countless +sensations of comfort, discomfort, pleasure, annoyance and admiration, +which occupy the nerves without intermission. There was something not +wholly disagreeable in the hazy character of the retrospect, +especially to a nature such as Kafka's, full of undeveloped artistic +instincts and of a passionate love of all sensuous beauty, animate and +inanimate. The gorgeous pictures rose one after the other in his +imagination, and satisfied a longing of which he felt that he had been +vaguely aware before beginning the journey. None of these lacked +reality, any more than Keyork himself, thought it seemed strange to +the young man that he should actually have seen so much in so short a +time. + +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. It had taken place in Palermo. The heat +had seemed intense by contrast with the bitter north he had left +behind. Keyork had gone out and he had been alone in a strange hotel. +His head swam in the stifling scirocco. He had sent for a local +physician, and the old-fashioned doctor had then and there taken blood +from his arm. He had lost so much that he had fainted. The doctor had +been gone when Keyork returned, and the sage had been very angry, +abusing in most violent terms the ignorance which could still apply +such methods. Israel Kafka knew that the lancet had left a wound on +his arm and that the scar was still visible. He remembered, too, that +he had often felt tired since, and that Keyork had invariably reminded +him of the circumstances, attributing to it the weariness from which +he suffered, and indulging each time in fresh abuse of the benighted +doctor. + +Very skilfully had the whole story been put together in all its +minutest details, carefully thought out and written down in the form +of a journal before it had been impressed upon his sleeping mind with +all the tyrannic force of Unorna's strong will. And there was but +little probability that Israel Kafka would ever learn what had +actually been happening to him while he fancied that he had been +travelling swiftly from place to place. He could still wonder, indeed, +that he should have yielded so easily to Keyork's pressing invitation +to accompany the latter upon such an extraordinary flight, but he +remembered then his last interview with Unorna and it seemed almost +natural that in his despair he should have chosen to go away. Not that +his passion for the woman was dead. Intentionally, or by an oversight, +Unorna had not touched upon the question of his love for her, in the +course of her otherwise well-considered suggestions. Possibly she had +believed that the statement she had forced from his lips was enough +and that he would forget her without any further action on her part. +Possibly, too, Unorna was indifferent and was content to let him +suffer, believing that his devotion might still be turned to some +practical use. However that may be, when Israel Kafka opened his eyes +in the carriage he still loved her, though he was conscious that in +his manner of loving a change had taken place, of which he was +destined to realise the consequences before another day had passed. + +When Keyork answered his first remark, he turned and looked at the old +man. + +"I suppose you are tougher than I," he said, languidly. "You will +hardly believe it, but I have been dozing already, here, in the +carriage, since we left the station." + +"No harm in that. Sleep is a great restorative," laughed Keyork. + +"Are you so glad to be in Prague again?" asked Kafka. "It is a +melancholy place. But you laugh as though you actually liked the sight +of the black houses and the gray snow and the silent people." + +"How can a place be melancholy? The seat of melancholy is the liver. +Imagine a city with a liver--of brick and mortar, or stone and cement, +a huge mass of masonry buried in its centre, like an enormous fetish, +exercising a mysterious influence over the city's health--then you may +imagine a city as suffering from melancholy." + +"How absurd!" + +"My dear boy, I rarely say absurd things," answered Keyork +imperturbably. "Besides, as a matter of fact, there is nothing absurd. +But you suggested rather a fantastic idea to my imagination. The brick +liver is not a bad conception. Far down in the bowels of the earth, in +a black cavern hollowed beneath the lowest foundations of the oldest +church, the brick liver was built by the cunning magicians of old, to +last for ever, to purify the city's blood, to regulate the city's +life, and in a measure to control its destinies by means of its +passions. A few wise men have handed down the knowledge of the brick +liver to each other from generation to generation, but the rest of the +inhabitants are ignorant of its existence. 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. + +"It is a very practical idea," continued Keyork, amused with his own +fancies, "and it will yet be carried out. The great cities of the next +century will each have a liver of brick and mortar and iron and +machinery, a huge mechanical purifier. You smile! Ah, my dear boy, +truth and phantasm are very much the same to you! You are too young. +How can you be expected to care for the great problem of problems, for +the mighty question of prolonging life?" + +Keyork laughed again, with a meaning in his laughter which escaped his +companion altogether. + +"How can you be expected to care?" he repeated. "And yet men used to +say that it was the duty of strong youth to support the trembling +weakness of feeble old age." + +His eyes twinkled with a diabolical mirth. + +"No," said Kafka. "I do not care. Life is meant to be short. Life is +meant to be storm, broken with gleams of love's sunshine. Why prolong +it? If it is unhappy you would only draw out the unhappiness to +greater lengths, and such joy as it has is joy only because it is +quick, sudden, violent. I would concentrate a lifetime into an +instant, if I could, and then die content in having suffered +everything, enjoyed everything, dared everything in the flash of a +great lightning between two total darknesses. But to drag on through +slow sorrows, or to crawl through a century of contentment--never! +Better be mad, or asleep, and unconscious of the time." + +"You are a very desperate person!" exclaimed Keyork. "If you had the +management of this unstable world you would make it a very convulsive +and nervous place. We should all turn into flaming ephemerides, +fluttering about the crater of a perpetually active volcano. I prefer +the system of the brick liver. There is more durability in it." + +The carriage stopped before the door of Kafka's dwelling. Keyork got +out with him and stood upon the pavement while the porter took the +slender luggage into the house. He smiled as he glanced at the +leathern portmanteau which was supposed to have made such a long +journey while it had in reality lain a whole month in a corner of +Keyork's great room behind a group of specimens. He had opened it once +or twice in that time, had disturbed the contents and had thrown in a +few objects from his heterogeneous collection, as reminiscences of the +places visited in imagination by Kafka, and of the acquisition of +which the latter was only assured in his sleeping state. They would +constitute a tangible proof of the journey's reality in case the +suggestion proved less thoroughly successful than was hoped, and +Keyork prided himself upon this supreme touch. + +"And now," he said, taking Kafka's hand, "I would advise you to rest +as long as you can. I suppose that it must have been a fatiguing trip +for you, though I myself am as fresh as a May morning. There is +nothing wrong with you, but you are tired. Repose, my dear boy, +repose, and plenty of it. That infernal Sicilian doctor! I shall never +forgive him for bleeding you as he did. There is nothing so weakening. +Good-bye--I shall hardly see you again to-day, I fancy." + +"I cannot tell," answered the young man absently. "But let me thank +you," he added, with a sudden consciousness of obligation, "for your +pleasant company, and for making me go with you. I daresay it has done +me good, though I feel unaccountably tired--I feel almost old." + +His tired eyes and haggard face showed that this at least was no +illusion. 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. + +"He will not die this time," remarked Keyork Arabian to himself, as he +sent the carriage away and began to walk towards his own home. "Not +this time. But it was a sharp strain, and it would not be safe to try +it again." + +He thrust his gloved hands into the pockets of his fur coat, so that +the stick he held stood upright against his shoulder in a rather +military fashion. The fur cap sat a little to one side on his strange +head, his eyes twinkled, his long white beard waved in the cold wind, +and his whole appearance was that of a jaunty gnome-king, well +satisfied with the inspection of his treasure chamber. + +And he had cause for satisfaction, as he knew well enough when he +thought of the decided progress made in the great experiment. The cost +at which that progress had been obtained was nothing. Had Israel Kafka +perished altogether under the treatment he had received, Keyork +Arabian would have bestowed no more attention upon the catastrophe +than would have been barely necessary in order to conceal it and to +protect himself and Unorna from the consequences of the crime. In the +duel with death, the life of one man was of small consequence, and +Keyork would have sacrificed thousands to his purposes with equal +indifference to their intrinsic value and with a proportionately +greater interest in the result to be attained. There was a terrible +logic in his mental process. Life was a treasure literally inestimable +in value. Death was the destroyer of this treasure, devised by the +Supreme Power as a sure means of limiting man's activity and +intelligence. To conquer Death on his own ground was to win the great +victory over that Power, and to drive back to an indefinite distance +the boundaries of human supremacy. + +It was assuredly not for the sake of benefiting mankind at large that +he pursued his researches at all sacrifices and at all costs. The +prime object of all his consideration was himself, as he +unhesitatingly admitted on all occasions, conceiving perhaps that it +was easier to defend such a position than to disclaim it. There could +be no doubt that in the man's enormous self-estimation, the Supreme +Power occupied a place secondary to Keyork Arabian's personality, and +hostile to it. And he had taken up arms, as Lucifer, assuming his +individual right to live in spite of God, Man and Nature, convinced +that the secret could be discovered and determined to find it and to +use it, no matter at what price. In him there was neither ambition, +nor pride, nor vanity in the ordinary meaning of these words. For +passion ceases with the cessation of comparison between man and his +fellows, and Keyork Arabian acknowledged no ground for such a +comparison in his own case. He had matched himself in a struggle with +the Supreme Power, and, directly, with that Power's only active +representative on earth, with death. It was well said of him that he +had no beliefs, for he knew of no intermediate position between total +suspension of judgment, and the certainty of direct knowledge. And it +was equally true that he was no atheist, as he had sanctimoniously +declared of himself. He admitted the existence of the Power; he +claimed the right to assail it, and he grappled with the greatest, the +most terrible, the most universal and the most stupendous of Facts, +which is the Fact that all men die. Unless he conquered, he must die +also. He was past theories, as he was beyond most other human +weaknesses, and facts had for him the enormous value they acquire in +the minds of men cut off from all that is ideal. + +In Unorna he had found the instrument he had sought throughout half a +lifetime. With her he had tried the great experiment and pushed it to +the very end; and when he conducted Israel Kafka to his home, he +already knew that the experiment had succeeded. His plan was a simple +one. He would wait a few months longer for the final result, he would +select his victim, and with Unorna's help he would himself grow young +again. + +"And who can tell," he asked himself, "whether the life restored by +such means may not be more resisting and stronger against deathly +influences than before? Is it not true that the older we grow the more +slowly we grow old? Is not the gulf which divides the infant from the +man of twenty years far wider than that which lies between the +twentieth and the fortieth years, and that again more full of rapid +change than the third score? Take, too, the wisdom of my old age as +against the folly of a scarce grown boy, shall not my knowledge and +care and forethought avail to make the same material last longer on +the second trial than on the first?" + +No doubt of that, he thought, as he walked briskly along the pavement +and entered his own house. In his great room he sat down by the table +and fell into a long meditation upon the most immediate consequences +of his success in the difficult undertaking he had so skilfully +brought to a conclusion. His eyes wandered about the room from one +specimen to another, and from time to time a short, scornful laugh +made his white beard quiver. As he had said once to Unorna, the dead +things reminded him of many failures; but he had never before been +able to laugh at them and at the unsuccessful efforts they +represented. It was different to-day. Without lifting his head he +turned up his bright eyes, under the thick, finely-wrinkled lids, as +though looking upward toward that Power against which he strove. The +glance was malignant and defiant, human and yet half-devilish. Then he +looked down again, and again fell into deep thought. + +"And if it is to be so," he said at last, rising suddenly and letting +his open hand fall upon the table, "even then, I am provided. She +cannot free herself from that bargain, at all events." + +Then he wrapped his furs around him and went out again. Scarce a +hundred paces from Unorna's door he met the Wanderer. He looked up +into the cold, calm face, and put out his hand, with a greeting. + +"You look as though you were in a very peaceful frame of mind," +observed Keyork. + +"Why should I be anything but peaceful?" asked the other, "I have +nothing to disturb me." + +"True, true. You possess a very fine organisation. I envy you your +magnificent constitution, my dear friend. I would like to have some of +it, and grow young again." + +"On your principle of embalming the living, I suppose." + +"Exactly," answered the sage with a deep, rolling laugh. "By the bye, +have you been with our friend Unorna? I suppose that is a legitimate +question, though you always tell me I am tactless." + +"Perfectly legitimate, my dear Keyork. Yes, I have just left her. It +is like a breath of spring morning to go there in these days." + +"You find it refreshing?" + +"Yes. There is something about her that I could describe as soothing, +if I were aware of ever being irritable, which I am not." + +Keyork smiled and looked down, trying to dislodge a bit of ice from +the pavement with the point of his stick. + +"Soothing--yes. That is just the expression. Not exactly the quality +most young and beautiful women covet, eh? But a good quality in its +way, and at the right time. How is she to-day?" + +"She seemed to have a headache--or she was oppressed by the heat. +Nothing serious, I fancy, but I came away, as I fancied I was tiring +her." + +"Not likely," observed Keyork. "Do you know Israel Kafka?" he asked +suddenly. + +"Israel Kafka," repeated the Wanderer thoughtfully, as though +searching in his memory. + +"Then you do not," said Keyork. "You could only have seen him since +you have been here. He is one of Unorna's most interesting patients, +and mine as well. He is a little odd." + +Keyork tapped his ivory forehead significantly with one finger. + +"Mad," suggested the Wanderer. + +"Mad, if you prefer the term. He has fixed ideas. In the first place, +he imagines that he has just been travelling with me in Italy, and is +always talking of our experiences. Humour him, if you meet him. He is +in danger of being worse if contradicted." + +"Am I likely to meet him?" + +"Yes. He is often here. His other fixed idea is that he loves Unorna +to distraction. He has been dangerously ill during the last few weeks +but is better now, and he may appear at any moment. Humour him a +little if he wearies you with his stories. That is all I ask. Both +Unorna and I are interested in the case." + +"And does not Unorna care for him at all?" inquired the other +indifferently. + +"No, indeed. On the contrary, she is annoyed at his insistance, but +sees that it is a phase of insanity and hopes to cure it before long." + +"I see. What is he like? I suppose he is an Israelite." + +"From Moravia--yes. The wreck of a handsome boy," said Keyork +carelessly. "This insanity is an enemy of good looks. The nerves give +way--then the vitality--the complexion goes--men of five and twenty +years look old under it. But you will see for yourself before long. +Good-bye. I will go in and see what is the matter with Unorna." + +They parted, the Wanderer continuing on his way along the street with +the same calm, cold, peaceful expression which had elicited Keyork's +admiration, and Keyork himself going forward to Unorna's door. His +face was very grave. He entered the house by a small side door and +ascended by a winding staircase directly to the room from which, an +hour or two earlier, he had carried the still unconscious Israel +Kafka. Everything was as he had left it, and he was glad to be +certified that Unorna had not disturbed the aged sleeper in his +absence. Instead of going to her at once he busied himself in making a +few observations and in putting in order certain of his instruments +and appliances. Then at last he went and found Unorna. She was walking +up and down among the plants and he saw at a glance that something had +happened. Indeed the few words spoken by the Wanderer had suggested to +him the possibility of a crisis, and he had purposely lingered in the +inner apartment, in order to give her time to recover her self- +possession. She started slightly when he entered, and her brows +contracted, but she immediately guessed from his expression that he +was not in one of his aggressive moods. + +"I have just rectified a mistake which might have had rather serious +consequences," he said, stopping before her and speaking earnestly and +quietly. + +"A mistake?" + +"We remembered everything, except that our wandering friend and Kafka +were very likely to meet, and that Kafka would in all probability +refer to his delightful journey to the south in my company." + +"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. "How came we to be so +imprudent! One word, and he might have suspected--" + +"He could not have suspected all," answered Keyork. "No man could +suspect that." + +"Nevertheless, I suppose what we have done is not exactly-- +justifiable." + +"Hardly. It is true that criminal law has not yet adjusted itself to +meet questions of suggestion and psychic influence, but it draws the +line, most certainly, somewhere between these questions and the +extremity to which we have gone. Happily the law is at an immeasurable +distance from science, and here, as usual in such experiments, no one +could prove anything, owing to the complete unconsciousness of the +principal witnesses." + +"I do not like to think that we have been near to such trouble," said +Unorna. + +"Nor I. It was fortunate that I met the Wanderer when I did." + +"And the other? Did he wake as I ordered him to do? Is all right? Is +there no danger of his suspecting anything?" + +It seemed as though Unorna had momentarily forgotten that such a +contingency might be possible, and her anxiety returned with the +recollection. Keyork's rolling laughter reverberated among the plants +and filled the whole wide hall with echoes. + +"No danger there," he answered. "Your witchcraft is above criticism. +Nothing of that kind that you have ever undertaken has failed." + +"Except against you," said Unorna, thoughtfully. + +"Except against me, of course. How could you ever expect anything of +the kind to succeed against me, my dear lady?" + +"And why not? After all, in spite of our jesting, you are not a +supernatural being." + +"That depends entirely on the interpretation you give to the word +supernatural. But, my dear friend and colleague, let us not deceive +each other, though we are able between us to deceive other people into +believing almost anything. There is nothing in all this witchcraft of +yours but a very powerful moral influence at work--I mean apart from +the mere faculty of clairvoyance which is possessed by hundreds of +common somnambulists, and which, in you, is a mere accident. The rest, +this hypnotism, this suggestion, this direction of others' wills, is a +moral affair, a matter of direct impression produced by words. Mental +suggestion may in rare cases succeed, when the person to be influenced +is himself a natural clairvoyant. But these cases are not worth taking +into consideration. Your influence is a direct one, chiefly exercised +by means of your words and through the impression of power which you +know how to convey in them. It is marvellous, I admit. But the very +definition puts me beyond your power." + +"Why?" + +"Because there is not a human being alive, and I do not believe that a +human being ever lived, who had the sense of independent individuality +which I have. Let a man have the very smallest doubt concerning his +own independence--let that doubt be ever so transitory and produced by +any accident whatsoever--and he is at your mercy." + +"And you are sure that no accident could shake your faith in +yourself?" + +"My consciousness of myself, you mean. No. I am not sure. But, my dear +Unorna, I am very careful in guarding against accidents of all sorts, +for I have attempted to resuscitate a great many dead people and I +have never succeeded, and I know that a false step on a slippery +staircase may be quite as fatal as a teaspoonful of prussic acid--or +an unrequited passion. I avoid all these things and many others. If I +did not, and if you had any object in getting me under your influence, +you would succeed sooner or later. Perhaps the day is not far distant +when I will voluntarily sleep under your hand." + +Unorna glanced quickly at him. + +"And in that case," he added, "I am sure you could make me believe +anything you pleased." + +"What are you trying to make me understand?" she asked, suspiciously, +for he had never before spoken of such a possibility. + +"You look anxious and weary," he said in a tone of sympathy in which +Unorna could not detect the least false modulation, though she fancied +from his fixed gaze that he meant her to understand something which he +could not say. "You look tired," he continued, "though it is becoming +to your beauty to be pale--I always said so. I will not weary you. I +was only going to say that if I were under your influence--you might +easily make me believe that you were not yourself, but another woman-- +for the rest of my life." + +They stood looking at each other in silence during several seconds. +Then Unorna seemed to understand what he meant. + +"Do you really believe that is possible?" she asked earnestly. + +"I know it. I know of a case in which it succeeded very well." + +"Perhaps," she said, thoughtfully. "Let us go and look at him." + +She moved in the direction of the aged sleeper's room and they both +left the hall together. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Unorna was superstitious, as Keyork Arabian had once told her. She did +not thoroughly understand herself and she had very little real +comprehension of the method by which she produced such remarkable +results. She was gifted with a sensitive and active imagination, which +supplied her with semi-mystic formulae of thought and speech in place +of reasoned explanations, and she undoubtedly attributed much of her +own power to supernatural influences. In this respect, at least, she +was no farther advanced than the witches of older days, and if her +inmost convictions took a shape which would have seemed +incomprehensible to those predecessors of hers, this was to be +attributed in part to the innate superiority of her nature, and +partly, also, to the high degree of cultivation in which her mental +faculties had reached development. + +Keyork Arabian might spend hours in giving her learned explanations of +what she did, but he never convinced her. Possibly he was not +convinced himself, and he still hesitated, perhaps, between the two +great theories advanced to explain the phenomena of hypnotism. He had +told her that he considered her influence to be purely a moral one, +exerted by means of language and supported by her extraordinary +concentrated will. But it did not follow that he believed what he told +her, and it was not improbable that he might have his own doubts on +the subject--doubts which Unorna was not slow to suspect, and which +destroyed for her the whole force of his reasoning. She fell back upon +a sort of grossly unreasonable mysticism, combined with a blind belief +in those hidden natural forces and secret virtues of privileged +objects, which formed the nucleus of mediaeval scientific research. +The field is a fertile one for the imagination and possesses a strange +attraction for certain minds. There are men alive in our own time to +whom the transmutation of metals does not seem an impossibility, nor +the brewing of the elixir of life a matter to be scoffed at as a +matter of course. The world is full of people who, in their inmost +selves, put faith in the latent qualities of precious stones and +amulets, who believe their fortunes, their happiness, and their lives +to be directly influenced by some trifling object which they have +always upon them. We do not know enough to state with assurance that +the constant handling of any particular metal, or gem, may not produce +a real and invariable corresponding effect upon the nerves. But we do +know most positively that, when the belief in such talismans is once +firmly established, the moral influence they exert upon men through +the imagination is enormous. From this condition of mind to that in +which auguries are drawn from outward and apparently accidental +circumstances, is but a step. If Keyork Arabian inclined to the +psychic rather than to the physical school in his view of Unorna's +witchcraft and in his study of hypnotism in general, his opinion +resulted naturally from his great knowledge of mankind, and of the +unacknowledged, often unsuspected, convictions which in reality direct +mankind's activity. It was this experience, too, and the certainty to +which it had led him, that put him beyond the reach of Unorna's power +so long as he chose not to yield himself to her will. Her position was +in reality diametrically opposed to his, and although he repeated his +reasonings to her from time to time, he was quite indifferent to the +nature of her views, and never gave himself any real trouble to make +her change them. The important point was that she should not lose +anything of the gifts she possessed, and Keyork was wise enough to see +that the exercise of them depended in a great measure upon her own +conviction regarding their exceptional nature. + +Unorna herself believed in everything which strengthened and developed +that conviction, and especially in the influences of time and place. +It appeared to her a fortunate circumstance, when she at last +determined to overcome her pride, that the resolution should have +formed itself exactly a month after she had so successfully banished +the memory of Beatrice from the mind of the man she loved. She felt +sure of producing a result as effectual if, this time, she could work +the second change in the same place and under the same circumstances +as the first. And to this end everything was in her favour. She needed +not to close her eyes to fancy that thirty days had not really passed +between then and now, as she left her house in the afternoon with the +Wanderer by her side. + +He had come back and had found her once more herself, calm, collected, +conscious of her own powers. No suspicion of the real cause of the +disturbance he had witnessed crossed his mind, still less could he +guess what thing she meditated as she directed their walk towards that +lonely place by the river which had been the scene of her first great +effort. She talked lightly as they went, and he, in that strange +humour of peaceful, well-satisfied indifference which possessed him, +answered her in the same strain. It was yet barely afternoon, but +there was already a foretaste of coming evening in the chilly air. + +"I have been thinking of what you said this morning," she said, +suddenly changing the current of the conversation. "Did I thank you +for your kindness?" She smiled as she laid her hand gently upon his +arm, to cross a crowded street, and she looked up into his quiet face. + +"Thank me? For what? On the contrary--I fancied that I had annoyed +you." + +"Perhaps I did not quite understand it all at first," she answered +thoughtfully. "It is hard for a woman like me to realise what it would +be to have a brother--or a sister, or any one belonging to me. I +needed to think of the idea. Do you know that I am quite alone in the +world?" + +The Wanderer had accepted her as he found her, strangely alone, +indeed, and strangely independent of the world, a beautiful, +singularly interesting woman, doing good, so far as he knew, in her +own way, separated from ordinary existence by some unusual +circumstances, and elevated above ordinary dangers by the strength and +the pride of her own character. And yet, indolent and indifferent as +he had grown of late, he was conscious of a vague curiosity in regard +to her story. Keyork either really knew nothing, or pretended to know +nothing of her origin. + +"I see that you are alone," said the Wanderer. "Have you always been +so?" + +"Always. I have had an odd life. You could not understand it, if I +told you of it." + +"And yet I have been lonely too--and I believe I was once unhappy, +though I cannot think of any reason for it." + +"You have been lonely--yes. But yours was another loneliness more +limited, less fatal, more voluntary. It must seem strange to you--I do +not even positively know of what nation I was born." + +Her companion looked at her in surprise, and his curiosity increased. + +"I know nothing of myself," she continued. "I remember neither father +nor mother. I grew up in the forest, among people who did not love me, +but who taught me, and respected me as though I were their superior, +and who sometimes feared me. When I look back, I am amazed at their +learning and their wisdom--and ashamed of having learned so little." + +"You are unjust to yourself." + +Unorna laughed. + +"No one ever accused me of that," she said. "Will you believe it? I do +not even know where that place was. I cannot tell you even the name of +the kingdom in which it lay. I learned a name for it and for the +forest, but those names are in no map that has ever fallen into my +hands. I sometimes feel that I would go to the place if I could find +it." + +"It is very strange. And how came you here?" + +"I was told the time had come. We started at night. It was a long +journey, and I remember feeling tired as I was never tired before or +since. They brought me here, they left me in a religious house among +nuns. Then I was told that I was rich and free. My fortune was brought +with me. That, at least, I know. But those who received it and who +take care of it for me, know no more of its origin than I myself. Gold +tells no tales, and the secret has been well kept. I would give much +to know the truth--when I am in the humour." + +She sighed, and then laughed again. + +"You see why it is that I find the idea of a brother so hard to +understand," she added, and then was silent. + +"You have all the more need of understanding it, my dear friend," the +Wanderer answered, looking at her thoughtfully. + +"Yes--perhaps so. I can see what friendship is. I can almost guess +what it would be to have a brother." + +"And have you never thought of more than that?" He asked the question +in his calmest and most friendly tone, somewhat deferentially as +though fearing lest it should seem tactless and be unwelcome. + +"Yes, I have thought of love also," she answered, in a low voice. But +she said nothing more, and they walked on for some time in silence. + +They came out upon the open place by the river which she remembered so +well. Unorna glanced about her and her face fell. The place was the +same, but the solitude was disturbed. It was not Sunday as it had been +on that day a month ago. All about the huge blocks of stone, groups of +workmen were busy with great chisels and heavy hammers, hewing and +chipping and fashioning the material that it might be ready for use in +the early spring. Even the river was changed. Men were standing upon +the ice, cutting it into long symmetrical strips, to be hauled ashore. +Some of the great pieces were already separated from the main ice, and +sturdy fellows, clad in dark woollen, were poling them over the dark +water to the foot of the gently sloping road where heavy carts stood +ready to receive the load when cut up into blocks. The dark city was +taking in a great provision of its own coldness against the summer +months. + +Unorna looked about her. Everywhere there were people at work, and she +was more disappointed than she would own to herself at the invasion of +the solitude. The Wanderer looked from the stone-cutters to the ice- +men with a show of curiosity. + +"I have not seen so much life in Prague for many a day," he observed. + +"Let us go," answered Unorna, nervously. "I do not like it. I cannot +bear the sight of people to-day." + +They turned in a new direction, Unorna guiding her companion by a +gesture. They were near to the Jewish quarter, and presently were +threading their way through narrow and filthy streets thronged with +eager Hebrew faces, and filled with the hum of low-pitched voices +chattering together, not in the language of the country, but in a base +dialect of German. They were in the heart of Prague, in that dim +quarter which is one of the strongholds of the Israelite, whence he +directs great enterprises and sets in motion huge financial schemes, +in which Israel sits, as a great spider in the midst of a dark web, +dominating the whole capital with his eagle's glance and weaving the +destiny of the Bohemian people to suit his intricate speculations. For +throughout the length and breadth of Slavonic and German Austria the +Jew rules, and rules alone. + +Unorna gathered her furs more closely about her, in evident disgust at +her surroundings, but still she kept on her way. Her companion, +scarcely less familiar with the sights of Prague than she herself, +walked by her side, glancing carelessly at the passing people, at the +Hebrew signs, at the dark entrances that lead to courts within courts +and into labyrinths of dismal lanes and passages, looking at +everything with the same serene indifference, and idly wondering what +made Unorna choose to walk that way. Then he saw that she was going +towards the cemetery. They reached the door, were admitted and found +themselves alone in the vast wilderness. + +In the midst of the city lies the ancient burial ground, now long +disused but still undisturbed, many acres of uneven land, covered so +thickly with graves, and planted so closely with granite and sandstone +slabs, that the paths will scarce allow two persons to walk side by +side. The stones stand and lie in all conceivable positions, erect, +slanting at every angle, prostrate upon the earth or upon others +already fallen before them--two, three, and even four upon a grave, +where generations of men have been buried one upon the other--stones +large and small, covered with deep-cut inscriptions in the Hebrew +character, bearing the sculpture of two uplifted hands, wherever the +Kohns, the children of the tribe of Aaron, are laid to rest, or the +gracefully chiselled ewer of the Levites. Here they lie, thousands +upon thousands of dead Jews, great and small, rich and poor, wise and +ignorant, neglected individually, but guarded as a whole with all the +tenacious determination of the race to hold its own, and to preserve +the sacredness of its dead. In the dim light of the winter's afternoon +it is as though a great army of men had fallen fighting there, and had +been turned to stone as they fell. Rank upon rank they lie, with that +irregularity which comes of symmetry destroyed, like columns and files +of soldiers shot down in the act of advancing. And in winter, the gray +light falling upon the untrodden snow throws a pale reflection upwards +against each stone, as though from the myriad sepulchres a faintly +luminous vapour were rising to the outer air. Over all, the rugged +brushwood and the stunted trees intertwine their leafless branches and +twigs in a thin, ghostly network of gray, that clouds the view of the +farther distance without interrupting it, a forest of shadowy +skeletons clasping fleshless, bony hands one with another, from grave +to grave, as far as the eye can see. + +The stillness in the place is intense. Not a murmur of distant life +from the surrounding city disturbs the silence. At rare intervals a +strong breath of icy wind stirs the dead branches and makes them crack +and rattle against the gravestones and against each other as in a +dance of death. It is a wild and dreary place. In the summer, indeed, +the thick leafage lends it a transitory colour and softness, but in +the depth of winter, when there is nothing to hide the nakedness of +truth, when the snow lies thick upon the ground and the twined twigs +and twisted trunks scarce cast a tracery of shadow under the sunless +sky, the utter desolation and loneliness of the spot have a horror of +their own, not to be described, but never to be forgotten. + +Unorna walked forward in silence, choosing a path so narrow that her +companion found himself obliged to drop behind and follow in her +footsteps. In the wildest part of this wilderness of death there is a +little rising of the ground. Here both the gravestones and the stunted +trees are thickest, and the solitude is, if possible, even more +complete than elsewhere. As she reached the highest point Unorna stood +still, turned quickly towards the Wanderer and held out both her hands +towards him. + +"I have chosen this place, because it is quiet," she said, with a soft +smile. + +Hardly knowing why he did so, he laid his hands in hers and looked +kindly down to her upturned face. + +"What is it?" he asked, meeting her eyes. + +She was silent, and her fingers did not unclasp themselves. He looked +at her, and saw for the hundredth time that she was very beautiful. +There was a faint colour in her cheeks, and her full lips were just +parted as though a loving word had escaped them which she would not +willingly recall. Against the background of broken neutral tints, her +figure stood out, an incarnation of youth and vitality. If she had +often looked weary and pale of late, her strength and freshness had +returned to her now in all their abundance. The Wanderer knew that he +was watching her, and knew that he was thinking of her beauty and +realising the whole extent of it more fully than ever before, but +beyond this point his thoughts could not go. He was aware that he was +becoming fascinated by her eyes, and he felt that with every moment it +was growing harder for him to close his own, or to look away from her, +and then, an instant later, he knew that it would be impossible. Yet +he made no effort. He was passive, indifferent, will-less, and her +gaze charmed him more and more. He was already in a dream, and he +fancied that the beautiful figure shone with a soft, rosy light of its +own in the midst of the gloomy waste. Looking into her sunlike eyes, +he saw there twin images of himself, that drew him softly and surely +into themselves until he was absorbed by them and felt that he was no +longer a reality but a reflection. Then a deep unconsciousness stole +over all his senses and he slept, or passed into that state which +seems to lie between sleep and trance. + +Unorna needed not to question him this time, for she saw that he was +completely under her influence. Yet she hesitated at the supreme +moment, and then, though to all real intents she was quite alone, a +burning flush of shame rose to her face, and her heart sank within +her. She felt that she could not do it. + +She dropped his hands. They fell to his sides as though they had been +of lead. Then she turned from him and pressed her aching forehead +against a tall weather-worn stone that rose higher than her own height +from the midst of the hillock. + +Her woman's nature rebelled against the trick. It was the truest thing +in her and perhaps the best, which protested so violently against the +thing she meant to do; it was the simple longing to be loved for her +own sake, and of the man's own free will, to be loved by him with the +love she had despised in Israel Kafka. But would this be love at all, +this artificial creation of her suggestion reacting upon his mind? +Would it last? Would it be true, faithful, tender? Above all, would it +be real, even for a moment? She asked herself a thousand questions in +a second of time. + +Then the ready excuse flashed upon her--the pretext which the heart +will always find when it must have its way. Was it not possible, after +all, that he was beginning to love her even now? Might not that +outburst of friendship which had surprised her and wounded her so +deeply, be the herald of a stronger passion? She looked up quickly and +met his vacant stare. + +"Do you love me?" she asked, almost before she knew what she was going +to say. + +"No." The answer came in the far-off voice that told of his +unconsciousness, a mere toneless monosyllable breathed upon the murky +air. But it stabbed her like the thrust of a jagged knife. A long +silence followed, and Unorna leaned against the great slab of carved +sandstone. + +Even to her there was something awful in his powerless, motionless +presence. The noble face, pale and set as under a mask, the thoughtful +brow, the dominating features, were not those of a man born to be a +plaything to the will of a woman. The commanding figure towered in the +grim surroundings like a dark statue, erect, unmoving, and in no way +weak. And yet she knew that she had but to speak and the figure would +move, the lips would form words, the voice would reach her ear. He +would raise this hand or that, step forwards or backwards, at her +command, affirm what she bid him affirm, and deny whatever she chose +to hear denied. For a moment she wished that he had been as Keyork +Arabian, stronger than she; then, with the half-conscious comparison +the passion for the man himself surged up and drowned every other +thought. She almost forgot that for the time he was not to be counted +among the living. She went to him, and clasped her hands upon his +shoulder, and looked up into his scarce-seeing eyes. + +"You must love me," she said, "you must love me because I love you so. +Will you not love me, dear? I have waited so long for you!" + +The soft words vibrated in his sleeping ear but drew forth neither +acknowledgment nor response. Like a marble statue he stood still, and +she leaned upon his shoulder. + +"Do you not hear me?" she cried in a more passionate tone. "Do you not +understand me? Why is it that your love is so hard to win? Look at me! +Might not any man be proud to love me? Am I not beautiful enough for +you? And yet I know that I am fair. Or are you ashamed because people +call me a witch? Why then I will never be one again, for your sake! +What do I care for it all? Can it be anything to me--can anything have +worth that stands between me and you? Ah, love--be not so very hard!" + +The Wanderer did not move. His face was as calm as a sculptured stone. + +"Do you despise me for loving you?" she asked again, with a sudden +flush. + +"No. I do not despise you." Something in her tone had pierced through +his stupor and had found an answer. She started at the sound of his +voice. It was as though he had been awake and had known the weight of +what she had been saying, and her anger rose at the cold reply. + +"No--you do not despise me, and you never shall!" she exclaimed +passionately. "You shall love me, as I love you--I will it, with all +my will! We are created to be all, one to the other, and you shall not +break through the destiny of love. Love me, as I love you--love me +with all your heart, love me with all your mind, love me with all your +soul, love me as man never loved woman since the world began! I will +it, I command it--it shall be as I say--you dare not disobey me--you +cannot if you would." + +She paused, but this time no answer came. There was not even a +contraction of the stony features. + +"Do you hear all I say?" she asked. + +"I hear." + +"Then understand and answer me," she said. + +"I do not understand. I cannot answer." + +"You must. You shall. I will have it so. You cannot resist my will, +and I will it with all my might. You have no will--you are mine, your +body, your soul, and your thoughts, and you must love me with them all +from now until you die--until you die," she repeated fiercely. + +Again he was silent. She felt that she had no hold upon his heart or +mind, seeing that he was not even disturbed by her repeated efforts. + +"Are you a stone, that you do not know what love is?" she cried, +grasping his hand in hers and looking with desperate eyes into his +face. + +"I do not know what love is," he answered, slowly. + +"Then I will tell you what love is," she said, and she took his hand +and pressed it upon her own brow. + +The Wanderer started at the touch, as though he would have drawn back. +But she held him fast, and so far, at least, he was utterly subject to +her. His brow contracted darkly, and his face grew paler. + +"Read it there," she cried. "Enter into my soul and read what love is, +in his own great writing. Read how he steals suddenly into the sacred +place, and makes it his, and tears down the old gods and sets up his +dear image in their stead--read how he sighs, and speaks, and weeps, +and loves--and forgives not, but will be revenged at the last. Are you +indeed of stone, and have you a stone for a heart? Love can melt even +stones, being set in man as the great central fire in the earth to +burn the hardest things to streams of liquid flame! And see, again, +how very soft and gentle he can be! See how I love you--see how sweet +it is--how very lovely a thing it is to love as woman can. There--have +you felt it now? Have you seen into the depths of my soul and into the +hiding-places of my heart? Let it be so in your own, then, and let it +be so for ever. You understand now. You know what it all is--how wild, +how passionate, how gentle and how great! Take to yourself this love +of mine--is it not all yours? Take it, and plant it with strong roots +and seeds of undying life in your own sleeping breast, and let it +grow, and grow, till it is even greater than it was in me, till it +takes us both into itself, together, fast bound in its immortal bonds, +to be two in one, in life and beyond life, for ever and ever and ever +to the end of ends!" + +She ceased and she saw that his face was no longer expressionless and +cold. A strange light was upon his features, the passing radiance of a +supreme happiness seen in the vision of a dream. Again she laid her +hands upon his shoulder clasped together, as she had done at first. +She knew that her words had touched him and she was confident of the +result, confident as one who loves beyond reason. Already in +imagination she fancied him returning to consciousness, not knowing +that he had slept, but waking with a gentle word just trembling upon +his lips, the words she longed to hear. + +One moment more, she thought. It was good to see that light upon his +face, to fancy how that first word would sound, to feel that the +struggle was past and that there was nothing but happiness in the +future, full, overflowing, overwhelming, reaching from earth to heaven +and through time to eternity. One moment, only, before she let him +wake--it was such glory to be loved at last! Still the light was +there, still that exquisite smile was on his lips. And they would be +always there now, she thought. + +At last she spoke. + +"Then love, since you are mine, and I am yours, wake from the dream to +life itself--wake, not knowing that you have slept, knowing only that +you love me now and always--wake, love wake!" + +She waved her delicate hand before his eyes and still resting the +other upon his shoulder, watched the returning brightness in the dark +pupils that had been glazed and fixed a moment before. And as she +looked, her own beauty grew radiant in the splendour of a joy even +greater than she had dreamed of. As it had seemed to him when he had +lost himself in her gaze, so now she also fancied that the grim, gray +wilderness was full of a soft rosy light. The place of the dead was +become the place of life; the great solitude was peopled as the whole +world could never be for her; the crumbling gravestones were turned to +polished pillars in the temple of an immortal love, and the ghostly, +leafless trees blossomed with the undying flowers of the earthly +paradise. + +One moment only, and then all was gone. The change came, sure, swift +and cruel. As she looked, it came, gradual, in that it passed through +every degree, but sudden also, as the fall of a fair and mighty +building, which being undermined in its foundations passes in one +short minute through the change from perfect completeness to hopeless +and utter ruin. + +All the radiance, all the light, all the glory were gone in an +instant. Her own supremely loving look had not vanished, her lips +still parted sweetly, as forming the word that was to answer his, and +the calm indifferent face of the waking man was already before her. + +"What is it?" he asked, in his kind and passionless voice. "What were +you going to ask me, Unorna?" + +It was gone. The terribly earnest appeal had been in vain. Not a trace +of that short vision of love remained impressed upon his brain. + +With a smothered cry of agony Unorna leaned against the great slab of +stone behind her and covered her eyes. The darkness of night descended +upon her, and with it the fire of a burning shame. + +Then a loud and cruel laugh rang through the chilly air, such a laugh +as the devils in hell bestow upon the shame of a proud soul that knows +its own infinite bitterness. Unorna started and uncovered her eyes, +her suffering changed in a single instant to ungovernable and +destroying anger. She made a step forwards and then stopped short, +breathing hard. The Wanderer, too, had turned, more quickly than she. +Between two tall gravestones, not a dozen paces away, stood a man with +haggard face and eyes on fire, his keen, worn features contorted by a +smile in which unspeakable satisfaction struggled for expression with +a profound despair. + +The man was Israel Kafka. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +The Wanderer looked from Unorna to Kafka with profound surprise. He +had never seen the man and had no means of knowing who he was, still +less of guessing what had brought him to the lonely place, or why he +had broken into a laugh, of which the harsh, wild tones still echoed +through the wide cemetery. Totally unconscious of all that had +happened to himself during the preceding quarter of an hour, the +Wanderer was deprived of the key to the situation. He only understood +that the stranger was for some reason or other deeply incensed against +Unorna, and he realised that the intruder had, on the moment of +appearance, no control over himself. + +Israel Kafka remained where he stood, between the two tall stones, one +hand resting on each, his body inclined a little forward, his dark, +sunken eyes, bloodshot and full of a turbid, angry brightness, bent +intently upon Unorna's face. He looked as though he were about to move +suddenly forwards, but it was impossible to foresee that he might not +as suddenly retreat, as a lean and hungry tiger crouches for a moment +in uncertainty whether to fight or fly, when after tracking down his +man he finds him not alone and defenceless as he had anticipated, but +well-armed and in company. + +The Wanderer's indolence was only mental, and was moreover transitory +and artificial. When he saw Unorna advance, he quickly placed himself +between her and Israel Kafka, and looked from one to the other. + +"Who is this man?" he asked. "And what does he want of you?" + +Unorna made as though she would pass him. But he laid his hand upon +her arm with a gesture that betrayed his anxiety for her safety. At +his touch, her face changed for a moment and a faint blush dyed her +cheek. + +"You may well ask who I am," said the Moravian, speaking in a voice +half-choked with passion and anger. "She will tell you she does not +know me--she will deny my existence to my face. But she knows me very +well. I am Israel Kafka." + +The Wanderer looked at him more curiously. He remembered what he had +heard but a few hours earlier from Keyork concerning the young +fellow's madness. The situation now partially explained itself. + +"I understand," he said, looking at Unorna. "He seems to be dangerous. +What shall I do with him?" + +He asked the question as calmly as though it had referred to the +disposal of an inanimate object, instead of to the taking into custody +of a madman. + +"Do with me?" cried Kafka, advancing suddenly a step forwards from +between the slabs. "Do with me? Do you speak of me as though I were a +dog--a dumb animal--but I will----" + +He choked and coughed, and could not finish the sentence. There was a +hectic flush in his cheek and his thin, graceful frame shook violently +from head to foot. Unable to speak for the moment, he waved his hand +in a menacing gesture. 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. Her anger was terrible. She had suffered enough secret shame +already in stooping to the use of her arts in such a course. It had +cost her one of the greatest struggles of her life, and her +disappointment at the result had been proportionately bitter. In that +alone she had endured almost as much pain as she could bear. But to +find suddenly that her humiliation, her hot speech, her failure, the +look which she knew had been on her face until the moment when the +Wanderer awoke, that all this had been seen and heard by Israel Kafka +was intolerable. Even Keyork's unexpected appearance could not have so +fired her wrath. Keyork might have laughed at her afterwards, but her +failure would have been no triumph to him. Was not Keyork enlisted on +her side, ready to help her at all times, by word or deed, in +accordance with the terms of their agreement? But of all men Kafka, +whom she had so wronged, was the one man who should have been ignorant +of her defeat and miserable shame. + +"Go!" she cried, with a gesture of command. Her eyes flashed and her +extended hand trembled. + +There was such concentrated fury in a single word that the Wanderer +started in surprise, ignorant as he was of the true state of things. + +"You are uselessly unkind," he said gravely. "The poor man is mad. Let +me take him away." + +"Leave him to me," she answered imperiously. "He will obey me." + +But Israel Kafka did not turn. He rested one hand upon the slab and +faced her. As when many different forces act together at one point, +producing after the first shock a resultant little expected, so the +many passions that were at work in his face finally twisted his lips +into a smile. + +"Yes," he said, in a low tone, which did not express submission. +"Leave me to her! Leave me to the Witch and to her mercy. It will be +the end this time. 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. + +"I will silence you," answered the Wanderer coldly. "Your madness +excuses you, perhaps, but it does not justify me in allowing you to +insult a woman." + +Kafka's anger took a new direction. Even madmen are often calmed by +the quiet opposition of a strong and self-possessed man. And Kafka was +not mad. He was no coward either, but the subtlety of his race was in +him. As oil dropped by the board in a wild tempest does not calm the +waves, but momentarily prevents their angry crests from breaking, so +the Israelite's quick tact veiled the rough face of his dangerous +humour. + +"I insult no one," he said, almost deferentially. "Least of all her +whom I have worshipped long and lost at last. You accuse me unjustly +of that, and though my speech may have been somewhat rude, yet may I +be forgiven for the sake of what I have suffered. For I have suffered +much." + +Seeing that he was taking a more courteous tone, the Wanderer folded +his arms and left Unorna free to move, awaiting her commands, or the +further development of events. He saw in her face that her anger was +not subsiding, and he wondered less at it after hearing Kafka's +insulting speech. It was a pity, he thought, that any one should take +so seriously a maniac's words, but he was nevertheless resolved that +they should not be repeated. After all, it would be an easy matter, if +the man again overstepped the bounds of gentle speech, to take him +bodily away from Unorna's presence. + +"And are you going to charm our ears with a story of your sufferings?" +Unorna asked, in a tone so cruel, that the Wanderer expected a quick +outburst of anger from Kafka, in reply. But he was disappointed in +this. The smile still lingered on the Moravian's face, when he +answered, and his expressive voice, no longer choking with passion, +grew very soft and musical. + +"It is not mine to charm," he said. "It is not given to me to make +slaves of all living things with hand and eye and word. Such power +Nature does not give to all, she has given none to me. I have no spell +to win Unorna's love--and if I had, I cannot say that I would take a +love thus earned." + +He paused a moment and Unorna grew paler. She started, but then did +not move again. His words had power to wound her, but she trembled +lest the Wanderer should understand their hidden meaning, and she was +silent, biding her time and curbing her passion. + +"No," continued Kafka, "I was not thus favoured in my nativity. The +star of love was not in the ascendant, the lord of magic charms was +not trembling upon my horizon, the sun of earthly happiness was not +enthroned in my mid-heaven. How could it be? She had it all, this +Unorna here, and Nature, generous in one mad moment, lavished upon her +all there was to give. For she has all, and we have nothing, as I have +learned and you will learn before you die." + +He looked at the Wanderer as he spoke. His hollow eyes seemed calm +enough, and in his dejected attitude and subdued tone there was +nothing that gave warning of a coming storm. The Wanderer listened, +half-interested and yet half-annoyed by his persistence. Unorna +herself was silent still. + +"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. Heaven had put on all its glories-- +across its silent breast was bound the milk-white ribband, its crest +was crowned with God's crown-jewels, the great northern stars, its +mighty form was robed in the mantle of majesty set with the diamonds +of suns and worlds, great and small, far and near--not one tiny spark +of all the myriad million gems was darkened by a breath of wind-blown +mist. The earth was very still, all wrapped in peace and lulled in +love. The great trees pointed their dark spires upwards from the +temple of the forest to the firmament of the greater temple on high. +In the starlight the year's first roses breathed out the perfume +gathered from the departed sun, and every dewdrop in the short, sweet +grass caught in its little self the reflection of heaven's vast glory. +Only, in the universal stillness, the nightingale sang the song of +songs, and bound the angel of love with the chains of her linked +melody and made him captive in bonds stronger than his own." + +Israel Kafka spoke dreamily, resting against the stone beside him, +seemingly little conscious of the words that fell in oriental imagery +from his lips. In other days Unorna had heard him speak like this to +her, and she had loved the speech, though not the man, and sometimes +for its sake she had wished her heart could find its fellow in his. +And even now, the tone and the words had a momentary effect upon her. +What would have sounded as folly, overwrought, sentimental, almost +laughable, perhaps, to other women, found an echo in her own childish +memories and a sympathy in her belief in her own mysterious nature. +The Wanderer had heard men talk as Israel Kafka talked, in other +lands, where speech is prized by men and women not for its tough +strength but for its wealth of flowers. + +"And love was her first captive," said the Moravian, "and her first +slave. Yes, I will tell you the story of Unorna's life. She is angry +with me now. Well, let it be. It is my fault--or hers. What matter? +She cannot quite forget me out of mind--and I? Has Lucifer forgotten +God?" + +He sighed, and a momentary light flashed in his eyes. Something in the +blasphemous strength of the words attracted the Wanderer's attention. +Utterly indifferent himself, he saw that there was something more than +madness in the man before him. He found himself wondering what +encouragement Unorna had given the seed of passion that it should have +grown to such strength, and he traced the madness back to the love, +instead of referring the love to the madness. But he said nothing. + +"So she was born," continued Kafka, dreaming on. "She was born amid +the perfume of the roses, under the starlight, when the nightingale +was singing. And all things that lived, loved her, and submitted to +her voice and hand, and to her eyes and to her unspoken will, as +running water follows the course men give it, winding and gliding, +falling and rushing, full often of a roar of resistance that covers +the deep, quick-moving stream, flowing in spite of itself through the +channel that is dug for it to the determined end. And nothing resisted +her. Neither man nor woman nor child had any strength to oppose +against her magic. The wolf hounds licked her feet, the wolves +themselves crouched fawning in her path. For she is without fear--as +she is without mercy. Is that strange? What fear can there be for her +who has the magic charm, who holds sleep in the one hand and death in +the other, and between whose brows is set the knowledge of what shall +be hereafter? Can any one harm her? Has any one the strength to harm +her? Is there anything on earth which she covets and which shall not +be hers?" + +Though his voice was almost as soft as before, the evil smile +flickered again about his drawn lips as he looked into Unorna's face. +He wondered why she did not face him and crush him and force him to +sleep with her eyes as he knew she could do. But he himself was past +fear. He had suffered too much and cared not what chanced to him now. +But she should know that he knew all, if he told her so with his +latest breath. Despair had given him a strange control of his anger +and of his words, and jealousy had taught him the art of wounding +swiftly, surely and with a light touch. Sooner or later she would turn +upon him and annihilate him in a dream of unconsciousness; he knew +that, and he knew that such faint power of resisting her as he had +ever possessed was gone. But so long as she was willing to listen to +him, so long would he torture her with the sting of her own shame, and +when her patience ended, or her caprice changed, he would find some +bitter word to cast at her in the moment before losing his +consciousness of thought and his power to speak. This one chance of +wounding was given to him and he would use it to the utmost, with all +subtlety, with all cruelty, with all determination to torture. + +"Whatsoever she covets is hers to take. No one escapes the spell in +the end, no one resists the charm. And yet it is written in the book +of her fate that she shall one day taste the fruit of ashes, and drink +of the bitter water. It is written that whosoever slays with the sword +shall die by the sword also. She has killed with love, and by love she +shall perish. I loved her once. I know what I am saying." + +Again he paused, lingering thoughtfully upon the words. The Wanderer +glanced at Unorna as though asking her whether he should not put a +sudden end to the strange monologue. 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 then you will make an end of me. I see. I accept +the offer. I can even thank you for your patience. You are kind +to-day--I have known you harder. Well, then, I will speak out. I will +tell my story, not that any one may judge between you and me. There is +neither judge nor justice for those who love in vain. So I loved you. +That is the whole story. Do you understand me, sir? I loved this +woman, but she would not love me. That is all. And what of it, and +what then? Look at her, and look at me--the beginning and the end." + +In a manner familiar to Orientals the unhappy man laid one finger upon +his own breast, and with the other hand pointed at Unorna's fair young +face. The Wanderer's eyes obeyed the guiding gesture, and he looked +from one to the other, and again the belief crossed his thoughts that +there was less of madness about Israel Kafka than Keyork would have +had him think. Trying to read the truth from Unorna's eyes, he saw +that they avoided his, and he fancied he detected symptoms of distress +in her pallor and contracted lips. 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. There is a history in those three words which neither +the eloquent tongue nor the skilled pen can tell. See how coldly I +speak. I command my speech, I may pick and choose among ten thousand +words and phrases, and describe love at my leisure. She grants me +time; she is very merciful to-day. What would you have me say? You +know what love is. Think of such love as yours can have been, and take +twice that, and three times over, and a hundred thousand times, and +cram it, burning, flaming, melting into your bursting heart--then you +would know a tenth of what I have known. Love, indeed! Who can have +known love but me? I stand alone. Since the dull, unlovely world first +jarred and trembled and began to move, there has not been another of +my kind, nor has man suffered as I have suffered, and been crushed and +torn and thrown aside to die, without even the mercy of a death-wound. +Describe it? Tell it? Look at me! I am both love's description and the +epitaph on his gravestone. In me he lived, me he tortured, with me he +dies never to live again as he has lived this once. There is no +justice and no mercy! Think not that it is enough to love and that you +will be loved in return. Do not think that--do not dream that. Do you +not know that the fiercest drought is as a spring rain to the rocks, +which thirst not and need no refreshment?" + +Again he fixed his eyes on Unorna's face and faintly smiled. +Apparently she was displeased. + +"What is it that you would say?" she asked coldly. "What is this that +you tell us of rocks and rain, and death-wounds, and the rest? You say +you loved me once--that was a madness. You say that I never loved you +--that, at least, is truth. Is that your story? 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. And yet--I +love you still, I love you so well in spite of all that I cannot laugh +at you as I would, even though I were to see you again clinging to the +rock and imploring it to take pity on your thirst. And he who dies for +you, Unorna--of him you ask nothing, save that he will crawl away and +die alone, and not disturb your delicate life with such an unseemly +sight." + +"You talk of death!" exclaimed Unorna scornfully. "You talk of dying +for me because you are ill to-day. To-morrow, Keyork Arabian will have +cured you, and then, for aught I know, you will talk of killing me +instead. This is child's talk, boy's talk. If we are to listen to you, +you must be more eloquent. You must give us such a tale of woe as +shall draw tears from our eyes and sobs from our breasts--then we will +applaud you and let you go. That shall be your reward." + +The Wanderer glanced at her in surprise. There was a bitterness in her +tone of which he had not believed her soft voice capable. + +"Why do you hate him so if he is mad?" he asked. + +"The reason is not far to seek," said Kafka. "This woman here--God +made her crooked-hearted! Love her, and she will hate you as only she +has learned how to hate. Show her that cold face of yours, and she +will love you so that she will make a carpet of her pride for you to +walk on--ay, or spit on either, if you deign to be so kind. She has a +wonderful kind of heart, for it freezes when you burn it, and melts +when you freeze it." + +"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 turned quickly as he stood, and looked +at Unorna. + +"Do not listen to his ravings," she said. The words seemed weak and +poorly chosen, and there was a strange look in her face as though she +were either afraid or desperate, or both. + +"She loves you," said Israel Kafka calmly. "And you do not know it. +She has power over you, as she has over me, but the power to make you +love her she has not. She will destroy you, and your state will be no +better than mine to-day. We shall have moved on a step, for I shall be +dead and you will be the madman, and she will have found another to +love and to torture. The world is full of them. Her altar will never +lack sacrifices." + +The Wanderer's face was grave. + +"You may be mad or not," he said. "I cannot tell. But you say +monstrous things, and you shall not repeat them." + +"Did she not say that I might speak?" asked Kafka with a bitter laugh. + +"I will keep my word," said Unorna. "You seek your own destruction. +Find it in your own way. It will not be the less sure. Speak--say what +you will. You shall not be interrupted." + +The Wanderer drew back, not understanding what was passing, nor why +Unorna was so long-suffering. + +"Say all you have to say," she repeated, coming forward so that she +stood directly in front of Israel Kafka. "And you," she added, +speaking to the Wanderer, "leave him to me. He is quite right--I can +protect myself if I need any protection." + +"You remember how we parted, Unorna?" said Kafka. "It is a month +to-day. I did not expect a greeting of you when I came back, or, if I +did expect it, I was foolish and unthinking. I should have known you +better. I should have known that there is one half of your word which +you never break--the cruel half, and one thing which you cannot +forgive, and which is my love for you. And yet that is the very thing +which I cannot forget. I have come back to tell you so. You may as +well know it." + +Unorna's expression grew cold, as she saw that he abandoned the strain +of reproach and spoke once more of his love for her. + +"Yes, I see what you mean," he said, very quietly. "You mean to show +me by your face that you give me no hope. I should have known that by +other things I have seen here. God knows, I have seen enough! But I +meant to find you alone. I went to your home, I saw you go out, I +followed you, I entered here--I heard all--and I understood, for I +know your power, as this man cannot know it. Do you wonder that I +followed you? Do you despise me? Do you think I still care, because +you do? Love is stronger than the woman loved and for her we do deeds +of baseness, unblushingly, which she would forbid our doing, and for +which she despises us when she hates us, and loves us the more dearly +when she loves us at all. You hate me--then despise me, too, if you +will. It is too late to care. I followed you like a spy, I saw what I +expected to see, I have suffered what I knew I should suffer. You know +that I have been away during this whole month, and that I have +travelled thousands of leagues in the hope of forgetting you." + +"And yet I fancied I had seen you within the month," Unorna said, with +a cruel smile. + +"They say that ghosts haunt the places they have loved," answered +Kafka unmoved. "If that be true I may have troubled your dreams and +you may have seen me. I have come back broken in body and in heart. I +think I have come back to die here. The life is going out of me, but +before it is quite gone I can say two things. I can tell you that I +know you at last, and that, in spite of the horror of knowing what you +are, I love you still." + +"Am I so very horrible?" she asked scornfully. + +"You know what you are, better than I can tell you, but not better +than I know. I know even the secret meaning of your moods and +caprices. I know why you are willing to listen to me, this last time, +so patiently, with only now and then a sneer and a cutting laugh." + +"Why?" + +"In order to make me suffer the more. You will never forgive me now, +for you know that I know, and that alone is a sin past all +forgiveness, and over and above that I am guilty of the crime of +loving when you have no love for me." + +"And as a last resource you come to me and recapitulate your misdeeds. +The plan is certainly original, though it lacks wit." + +"There is least wit where there is most love, Unorna. I take no +account of the height of my folly when I see the depth of my love, +which has swallowed up myself and all my life. In the last hour I have +known its depth and breadth and strength, for I have seen what it can +bear. And why should I complain of it? Have I not many times said that +I would die for you willingly--and is it not dying for you to die of +love for you? To prove my faith it were too easy a death. When I look +into your face I know that there is in me the heart that made true +Christian martyrs----" + +Unorna laughed. + +"Would you be a martyr?" she asked. + +"Nor for your Faith--but for the faith I once had in you, and for the +love that no martyrdom could kill. Ay--to prove that love I would die +a hundred deaths--and to gain yours I would die the death eternal." + +"And you would have deserved it. Have you not deserved enough already, +enough of martyrdom, for tracking me to-day, following me stealthily, +like a thief and a spy, to find out my ends and my doings?" + +"I love you, Unorna." + +"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? Yes, and mad, too! And my madness is all you have left me-- +take it--it is yours! You cannot kill my love. Deny my words, deny +your deeds! Let all be false in you--it is but one pain more, and my +heart is not broken yet. It will bear another. Tell me that what I saw +had no reality--that you did not make him sleep--here, on this spot, +before my eyes--that you did not pour your love into his sleeping +ears, that you did not command, implore, entreat--and fail! What is it +all to me, whether you speak truth or not? Tell me it is not true that +I would die a thousand martyrdoms for your sake, as you are, and if +you were a thousand times worse than you are! Your wrong, your right, +your truth, your falsehood, you yourself are swallowed up in the love +I bear you! I love you always, and I will say it, and say it again-- +ah, your eyes! I love them, too! Take me into them, Unorna--whether in +hate or love--but in love--yes--love--Unorna--golden Unorna!" + +With the cry on his lips--the name he had given her in other days--he +made one mad step forwards, throwing out his arms as though to clasp +her to him. But it was too late. Even while he had been speaking her +mysterious influence had overpowered him, as he had known that it +would, when she so pleased. + +She caught his two hands in the air, and pressed him back and held him +against the tall slab. The whole pitilessness of her nature gleamed +like a cold light in her white face. + +"There was a martyr of your race once," she said in cruel tones. "His +name was Simon Abeles. You talk of martyrdom! You shall know what it +means--though it be too good for you, who spy upon the woman whom you +say you love." + +The hectic flush of passion sank from Israel Kafka's cheek. Rigid, +with outstretched arms and bent head, he stood against the ancient +gravestone. Above him, as though raised to heaven in silent +supplication, were the sculptured hands that marked the last resting- +place of a Kohn. + +"You shall know now," said Unorna. "You shall suffer indeed." + + + +CHAPTER XV[*] + +[*] The deeds here described were done in Prague on the twenty-first + day of February in the year 1694. Lazarus and his accomplice Levi + Kurtzhandel, or Brevimanus, or "the short-handed," were betrayed + by their own people. Lazarus hanged himself in prison, and Levi + suffered death by the wheel--repentant, it is said, and himself + baptized. A full account of the trial, written in Latin, was + printed, and a copy of it may be seen in the State Museum in + Prague. The body of Simon Abeles was exhumed and rests in the Teyn + Kirche, in the chapel on the left of the high altar. The slight + extension of certain scenes not fully described in the Latin + volume will be pardoned in a work of fiction. + +Unorna's voice sank from the tone of anger to a lower pitch. She spoke +quietly and very distinctly as though to impress every word upon the +ear of the man who was in her power. The Wanderer listened, too, +scarcely comprehending at first, but slowly yielding to the influence +she exerted until the vision rose before him also with all its moving +scenes, in all its truth and in all its horror. As in a dream the +deeds that had been passed before him, the desolate burial-ground was +peopled with forms and faces of other days, the gravestones rose from +the earth and piled themselves into gloomy houses and remote courts +and dim streets and venerable churches, the dry and twisted trees +shrank down, and broadened and swung their branches as arms, and drew +up their roots out of the ground as feet under them and moved hither +and thither. And the knots and bosses and gnarls upon them became +faces, dark, eagle-like and keen, and the creaking and crackling of +the boughs and twigs under the piercing blast that swept by, became +articulate and like the voices of old men talking angrily together. +There were sudden changes from day to night and from night to day. 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. He no longer stood with outstretched +arms, his back against a crumbling slab, his filmy eyes fixed on +Unorna's face. He grew younger; his features were those of a boy of +scarcely thirteen years, pale, earnest and brightened by a soft light +which followed him hither and thither, and he was not alone. He moved +with others through the old familiar streets of the city, clothed in a +fashion of other times, speaking in accents comprehensible but unlike +the speech of to-day, acting in a dim and far-off life that had once +been. + +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. It was to him +an illusion of which he understood the key and penetrated the secret, +but it was marvellous in its way, and he was held enthralled from the +first moment when it began to unfold itself. He understood further +that Israel Kafka was in a state different from this, that he was +suffering all the reality of another life, which to the Wanderer was +but a dream. For the moment all his faculties had a double perception +of things and sounds, distinguishing clearly between the fact and the +mirage that distorted and obscured it. For the moment he was aware +that his reason was awake though his eyes and his ears might be +sleeping. Then the unequal contest between the senses and the +intellect ceased, and while still retaining the dim consciousness that +the source of all he saw and heard lay in Unorna's brain, he allowed +himself to be led quickly from one scene to another, absorbed and +taken out of himself by the horror of the deeds done before him. + +At first, indeed, the vision, though vivid, seemed objectless and of +uncertain meaning. The dark depths of the Jews' quarter of the city +were opened, and it was towards evening. Throngs of gowned men, +crooked, bearded, filthy, vulture-eyed, crowded upon each other in a +narrow public place, talking in quick, shrill accents, gesticulating, +with hands and arms and heads and bodies, laughing, chuckling, +chattering, hook-nosed and loose-lipped, grasping fat purses in lean +fingers, shaking greasy curls that straggled out under caps of greasy +fur, glancing to right and left with quick, gleaming looks that +pierced the gloom like fitful flashes of lightning, plucking at each +other by the sleeve and pointing long fingers and crooked nails, two, +three and four at a time, as markers, in their ready reckoning, a +writhing mass of humanity, intoxicated by the smell of gold, mad for +its possession, half hysteric with the fear of losing it, timid, yet +dangerous, poisoned to the core by the sweet sting of money, terrible +in intelligence, vile in heart, contemptible in body, irresistible in +the unity of their greed--the Jews of Prague, two hundred years ago. + +In one corner of the dusky place there was a little light. A boy stood +there, beside a veiled woman, and the light that seemed to cling about +him was not the reflection of gold. He was very young. His pale face +had in it all the lost beauty of the Jewish race, the lips were +clearly cut, even, pure in outline and firm, the forehead broad with +thought, the features noble, aquiline--not vulture-like. Such a face +might holy Stephen, Deacon and Protomartyr, have turned upon the young +men who laid their garments at the fee of the unconverted Saul. + +He stood there, looking on at the scene in the market-place, not +wondering, for nothing of it was new to him, not scorning, for he felt +no hate, not wrathful, for he dreamed of peace. He would have had it +otherwise--that was all. He would have had the stream flow back upon +its source and take a new channel for itself, he would have seen the +strength of his people wielded in cleaner deeds for nobler aims. The +gold he hated, the race for it he despised, the poison of it he +loathed, but he had neither loathing nor contempt nor hatred for the +men themselves. He looked upon them and he loved to think that the +carrion vulture might once again be purified and lifted on strong +wings and become, as in old days, the eagle of the mountains. + +For many minutes he gazed in silence. Then he sighed and turned away. +He held certain books in his hand, for he had come from the school of +the synagogue where, throughout the short winter days, the rabbis +taught him and his companions the mysteries of the sacred tongue. The +woman by his side was a servant in his father's house, and it was her +duty to attend him through the streets, until the day when, being +judged a man, he should be suddenly freed from the bondage of childish +things. + +"Let us go," he said in a low voice. "The air is full of gold and +heavy. I cannot breathe it." + +"Whither?" asked the woman. + +"Thou knowest," he answered. And suddenly the faint radiance that was +always about him grew brighter, and spread out arms behind him, to the +right and left, in the figure of a cross. + +They walked together, side by side, quickly and often glancing behind +them as though to see whether they were followed. And yet it seemed as +though it was not they who moved, but the city about them which +changed. The throng of busy Jews grew shadowy and disappeared, their +shrill voices were lost in the distance. There were other people in +the street, of other features and in different garbs, of prouder +bearing and hot, restless manner, broad-shouldered, erect, manly, with +spur on heel and sword at side. The outline of the old synagogue +melted into the murky air and changed its shape, and stood out again +in other and ever-changing forms. Now they were passing before the +walls of a noble palace, now beneath long, low galleries of arches, +now again across the open space of the Great Ring in the midst of the +city--then all at once they were standing before the richly carved +doorway of the Teyn Kirche, the very doorway out of which the Wanderer +had followed the fleeting shadow of Beatrice's figure but a month ago. +And then they paused, and looked again to the right and left, and +searched the dark corners with piercing glances. + +"Thy life is in thine hand," said the woman, speaking close to the +boy's ear. "It is yet time. Turn with me and let us go back." + +The mysterious radiance lit up the youth's beautiful face in the dark +street and showed the fearless yet gentle smile that was on his lips. + +"What is there to fear?" he asked. + +"Death," answered the woman in a trembling tone. "They will kill thee, +and it shall be upon my head." + +"And what is Death?" he asked again, and the smile was still upon his +face as he led the way up the steps. + +The woman bowed her head and drew her veil more closely about her and +followed him. Then they were within the church, darker, more ghostly, +less rich in those days than now. The boy stood beside the hewn stone +basin wherein was the blessed water, and he touched the frozen surface +with his fingers, and held them out to his companion. + +"Is it thus?" he asked. And the heavenly smile grew more radiant as he +made the sign of the Cross. + +Again the woman inclined her head. + +"Be it not upon me!" she exclaimed earnestly. "Though I would it might +be for ever so with thee." + +"It is for ever," the boy answered. + +He went forward and prostrated himself before the high altar, and the +soft light hovered above him. The woman knelt at a little distance +from him, with clasped hands and upturned eyes. The church was very +dark and silent. + +An old man in a monk's robe came forward out of the shadow of the +choir and stood behind the marble rails and looked down at the boy's +prostrate figure, wonderingly. Then the low gateway was opened and he +descended the three steps and bent down to the young head. + +"What wouldest thou?" he asked. + +Simon Abeles rose until he knelt, and looked up into the old man's +face. + +"I am a Jew. I would be a Christian. I would be baptized." + +"Fearest thou not thy people?" the monk asked. + +"I fear not death," answered the boy simply. + +"Come with me." + +Trembling, the woman followed them both, and all were lost in the +gloom of the church. They were not to be seen, and all was still for a +space. Suddenly a clear voice broke the silence. + +"/Ego baptizo te in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti./" + +Then the woman and the boy were standing again without the entrance in +the chilly air, and the ancient monk was upon the threshold under the +carved arch; his thin hands, white in the darkness, were lifted high, +and he blessed them, and they went their way. + +In the moving vision the radiance was brighter still and illuminated +the streets as they moved on. Then a cloud descended over all, and +certain days and weeks passed, and again the boy was walking swiftly +toward the church. But the woman was not with him, and he believed +that he was alone, though the messengers of evil were upon him. Two +dark figures moved in the shadow, silent, noiseless in their walk, +muffled in long garments. He went on, no longer deigning to look back, +beyond fear as he had ever been, and beyond even the expectation of a +danger. He went into the church, and the two men made gestures, and +spoke in low tones, and hid themselves in the shade of the buttresses +outside. + +The vision grew darker and a terrible stillness was over everything, +for the church was not opened to the sight this time. There was a +horror of long waiting with the certainty of what was to come. The +narrow street was empty to the eye, and yet there was the knowledge of +evil presence, of two strong men waiting in the dark to take their +victim to the place of expiation. And the horror grew in the silence +and the emptiness, until it was unbearable. + +The door opened and the boy was with the monk under the black arch. +The old man embraced him and blessed him and stood still for a moment +watching him as he went down. Then he, also, turned and went back, and +the door was closed. + +Swiftly the two men glided from their hiding-place and sped along the +uneven pavement. The boy paused and faced them, for he felt that he +was taken. They grasped him by the arms on each side, Lazarus his +father, and Levi, surnamed the Short-handed, the strongest and the +cruellest and the most relentless of the younger rabbis. Their grip +was rough, and the older man held a coarse woollen cloth in his hand +with which to smother the boy's cries if he should call out for help. +But he was very calm and did not resist them. + +"What would you?" he asked. + +"And what doest thou in a Christian church?" asked Lazarus in low +fierce tones. + +"What Christians do, since I am one of them," answered the youth, +unmoved. + +Lazarus said nothing, but he struck the boy on the mouth with his hard +hand so that the blood ran down. + +"Not here!" exclaimed Levi, anxiously looking about. + +And they hurried him away through dark and narrow lanes. He opposed no +resistance to Levi's rough strength, not only suffering himself to be +dragged along but doing his best to keep pace with the man's long +strides, nor did he murmur at the blows and thrusts dealt him from +time to time by his father from the other side. During some minutes +they were still traversing the Christian part of the city. A single +loud cry for help would have brought a rescue, a few words to the +rescuers would have roused a mob of fierce men and the two Jews would +have paid with their lives for the deeds they had not yet committed. +But Simon Abeles uttered no cry and offered no resistance. He had said +that he feared not death, and he had spoken the truth, not knowing +what manner of death was to be his. Onward they sped, and in the +vision the way they traversed seemed to sweep past them, so that they +remained always in sight though always hurrying on. The Christian +quarter was passed; before them hung the chain of one of those gates +which gave access to the city of the Jews. With a jeer and an oath the +bearded sentry watched them pass--the martyr and his torturers. One +word to him, even then, and the butt of his heavy halberd would have +broken Levi's arm and laid the boy's father in the dust. The word was +not spoken. On through the filthy ways, on and on, through narrow +courts and tortuous passages to a dark low doorway. Then, again, the +vision showed but an empty street and there was silence for a space, +and a horror of long waiting in the falling night. + +Lights moved within the house, and then one window after another was +bolted and barred from within. Still the silence endured until the ear +was grown used to it and could hear sounds very far off, from deep +down below the house itself, but the walls did not open and the scene +did not change. A dull noise, bad to hear, resounded as from beneath a +vault, and then another and another--the sound of cruel blows upon a +human body. Then a pause. + +"Wilt thou renounce it?" asked the voice of Lazarus. + +"/Kyrie eleison, Christie eleison!/" came the answer, brave and clear. + +"Lay on, Levi, and let thy arm be strong!" + +And again the sound of blows, regular, merciless, came up from the +bowels of the earth. + +"Dost thou repent? Dost thou renounce? Dost thou deny?" + +"I repent of my sins--I renounce your ways--I believe in the Lord--" + +The sacred name was not heard. A smothered groan as of one losing +consciousness in extreme torture was all that came up from below. + +"Lay on, Levi, lay on!" + +"Nay," answered the strong rabbi, "the boy will die. Let us leave him +here for this night. Perchance cold and hunger will be more potent +than stripes, when he shall come to himself." + +"As though sayest," answered the father in angry reluctance. + +Again all was silent. Soon the rays of light ceased to shine through +the crevices of the outer shutters, and sleep descended upon the +quarter of the Jews. Still the scene in the vision changed not. After +a long stillness a clear young voice was heard speaking. + +"Lord, if it be Thy will that I die, grant that I may bear all in Thy +name, grant that I, unworthy, may endure in this body the punishments +due to me in spirit for my sins. And if it be Thy will that I live, +let my life be used also for Thy glory." + +The voice ceased and the cloud of passing time descended upon the +vision and was lifted again and again. And each time the same voice +was heard and the sound of torturing blows, but the voice of the boy +was weaker every night, though it was not less brave. + +"I believe," it said, always. "Do what you will, you have power over +the body, but I have the Faith over which you have no power." + +So the days and the nights passed, and though the prayer came up in +feeble tones, it was born of a mighty spirit and it rang in the ears +of the tormentors as the voice of an angel which they had no power to +silence, appealing from them to the tribunal of the Throne of God Most +High. + +Day by day, also, the rabbis and the elders began to congregate +together at evening before the house of Lazarus and to talk with him +and with each other, debating how they might break the endurance of +his son and bring him again into the synagogue as one of themselves. +Chief among them in their councils was Levi, the Short-handed, +devising new tortures for the frail body to bear and boasting how he +would conquer the stubborn boy by the might of his hands to hurt. Some +of the rabbis shook their heads. + +"He is possessed of a devil," they said. "He will die and repent not." + +But others nodded approvingly and wagged their filthy heads and said +that when the fool had been chastised the evil spirit would depart +from him. + +Once more the cloud of passing time descended and was lifted. Then the +walls of the house were opened and in a low arched chamber the rabbis +sat about a black table. It was night and a single smoking lamp was +lighted, a mere wick projecting out of a three-cornered vessel of +copper which was full of oil and was hung from the vault with +blackened wires. Seven rabbis sat at the board, and at the head sat +Lazarus. Their crooked hands and claw-like nails moved uneasily and +there was a lurid fire in their vulture's eyes. They bent forward, +speaking to each other in low tones, and from beneath their greasy +caps their anointed side curls dangled and swung as they moved their +heads. But Levi the Short-handed was not among them. Their muffled +talk was interrupted from time to time by the sound of sharp, loud +blows, as of a hammer striking upon nails, and as though a carpenter +were at work not far from the room in which they sat. + +"He has not repented," said Lazarus, from his place. "Neither many +stripes, nor cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, have moved him to +righteousness. It is written that he shall be cut off from his +people." + +"He shall be cut off," answered the rabbis with one voice. + +"It is right and just that he should die," continued the father. +"Shall we give him over to the Christians that he may dwell among them +and become one of them, and be shown before the world to our shame?" + +"We will not let him go," said the dark man, and an evil smile +flickered from one face to another as a firefly flutters from tree to +tree in the night--as though the spirit of evil had touched each one +in turn. + +"We will not let him go," said each again. + +Lazarus also smiled as though in assent, and bowed his head a little +before he spoke. + +"I am obedient to your judgment. It is yours to command and mine to +obey. If you say that he must die, let him die. He is my son. Take +him. Did not our father Abraham lay Isaac upon the altar and offer him +as a burnt sacrifice before the Lord?" + +"Let him die," said the rabbis. + +"Then let him die," answered Lazarus. "I am your servant. It is mine +to obey." + +"His blood be on our heads," they said. And again, the evil smile went +round. + +"It is then expedient that we determine of what manner his death shall +be," continued the father, inclining his body to signify his +submission. + +"It is not lawful to shed his blood," said the rabbis. "And we cannot +stone him, lest we be brought to judgment of the Christians. Determine +thou the manner of his death." + +"My masters, if you will it, let him be brought once more before us. +Let us all hear with our ears his denial, and if he repent at the +last, it is well, let him live. But if he harden his heart against our +entreaties, let him die. Levi hath brought certain pieces of wood +hither to my house, and is even now at work. If the youth is still +stubborn in his unbelief, let him die even as the Unbeliever died--by +the righteous judgment of the Romans." + +"Let it be so. Let him be crucified!" said the rabbis with one voice. + +Then Lazarus rose and went out, and, in the vision, the rabbis +remained seated, motionless in their places awaiting his return. The +noise of Levi's hammer echoed through the low vaulted chamber, and at +each blow the smoking lamp quivered a little, casting strange shadows +upon the evil faces beneath its light. At last footsteps, slow and +uncertain, were heard without, the low door opened, and Lazarus +entered, holding up the body of his son before him. + +"I have brought him before you for the last time," he said. "Question +him and hear his condemnation out of his own mouth. He repents not, +though I have done my utmost to bring him back to the paths of +righteousness. Question him, my masters, and let us see what he will +say." + +White and exhausted with long hunger and thirst, his body broken by +torture, scarcely any longer sensible to bodily pain, Simon Abeles +would have fallen to the ground had his father not held him under the +arms. His head hung forward and the pale and noble face was inclined +towards the breast, but the deep, dark eyes were open and gazed calmly +upon those who sat in judgment at the table. A rough piece of linen +cloth was wrapped about the boy's shoulders and body, but his thin +arms were bare. + +"Hearest thou, Simon, son of Lazarus?" asked the rabbis. "Knowest thou +in whose presence thou standest?" + +"I hear you and I know you all." There was no fear in the voice though +it trembled from weakness. + +"Renounce then thy errors, and having suffered the chastisement of thy +folly, return to the ways of thy father and of thy father's house and +of all thy people." + +"I renounce my sins, and whatsoever is yet left for me to suffer, I +will, by God's help, so bear it as to be not unworthy of Christ's +mercy." + +The rabbis gazed at the brave young face, and smiled and wagged their +beards, talking one with another in low tones. + +"It is as we feared," they said. "He is unrepentant and he is worthy +of death. It is not expedient that the young adder should live. There +is poison under his tongue, and he speaks things not lawful for an +Israelite to hear. Let him die, that we may see him no more, and that +our children be not corrupted by his false teachings." + +"Hearest thou? Thou shalt die." It was Lazarus who spoke, while +holding up the boy before the table and hissing the words into his +ear. + +"I hear. I am ready. Lead me forth." + +"There is yet time to repent. If thou wilt but deny what thou hast +said these many days, and return to us, thou shalt be forgiven and thy +days shall be long among us, and thy children's days after thee, and +the Lord shall perchance have mercy and increase thy goods among thy +fellows." + +"Let him alone," said the rabbis. "He is unrepentant." + +"Lead me forth," said Simon Abeles. + +"Lead him forth," repeated the rabbis. "Perchance, when he sees the +manner of his death before his eyes, he will repent at the last." + +The boy's fearless eyes looked from one to the other. + +"Whatsoever it be," he said, "I have but one life. Take it as you +will. I die in the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ, and into His hands +I commend my spirit--which you cannot take." + +"Lead him forth! Let him be crucified!" cried the rabbis together. "We +will hear him no longer." + +Then Lazarus led his son away from them, and left them talking +together and shaking their heads and wagging their filthy beards. And +in the vision the scene changed. The chamber with its flickering lamp +and its black table and all the men who were in it grew dim and faded +away, and in its place there was a dim inner court between high +houses, upon which only the windows of the house of Lazarus opened. +There, upon the ground, stood a lantern of horn, and the soft yellow +light of it fell upon two pieces of wood, nailed one upon the other to +form a small cross--small, indeed, but yet tall enough and broad +enough and strong enough to bear the slight burden of the boy's frail +body. And beside it stood Lazarus and Levi, the Short-handed, the +strong rabbi, holding Simon Abeles between them. On the ground lay +pieces of cord, ready, wherewith to bind him to the cross, for they +held it unlawful to shed his blood. + +It was soon done. The two men took up the cross and set it, with the +body hanging thereon, against the wall of the narrow court, over +against the house of Lazarus. + +"Thou mayest still repent--during this night," said the father, +holding up the horn lantern and looking into his son's tortured face. + +"Ay--there is yet time," said Levi, brutally. "He will not die so +soon." + +"Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit," said the weak voice once +more. + +Then Lazarus raised his hand and struck him once more on the mouth, as +he had done on that first night when he had seized him near the +church. But Levi, the Short-handed, as though in wrath at seeing all +his torments fail, dealt him one heavy blow just where the ear joins +the neck, and it was over at last. A radiant smile of peace flickered +over the pale face, the eyelids quivered and closed, the head fell +forward upon the breast and the martyrdom of Simon Abeles was +consummated. + +Into the dark court came the rabbis one by one from the inner chamber, +and each as he came took up the horn lantern and held it to the dead +face and smiled and spoke a few low words in the Hebrew tongue and +then went out into the street, until only Lazarus and Levi were left +alone with the dead body. Then they debated what they should do, and +for a time they went into the house and refreshed themselves with food +and wine, and comforted each other, well knowing that they had done an +evil deed. And they came back when it was late and wrapped the body in +the coarse cloth and carried it out stealthily and buried it in the +Jewish cemetery, and departed again to their own houses. + +"And there he lay," said Unorna, "the boy of your race who was +faithful to death. Have you suffered? Have you for one short hour +known the meaning of such great words as you dared to speak to me? Do +you know now what it means to be a martyr, to suffer for standing on +the very spot where he lay, you have felt in some small degree a part +of what he must have felt. You live. Be warned. If again you anger me, +your life shall not be spared you." + +The visions had all vanished. Again the wilderness of gravestones and +lean, crooked trees appeared, wild and desolate as before. The +Wanderer roused himself and saw Unorna standing before Israel Kafka's +prostrate body. As though suddenly released from a spell he sprang +forward and knelt down, trying to revive the unconscious man by +rubbing his hands and chafing his temples. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +The Wanderer glanced at Unorna's face and saw the expression of +relentless hatred which had settled upon her features. He neither +understood it nor attempted to account for it. So far as he knew, +Israel Kafka was mad, a man to be pitied, to be cared for, to be +controlled perhaps, but assuredly not to be maltreated. Though the +memories of the last half hour were confused and distorted, the +Wanderer began to be aware that the young Hebrew had been made to +suffer almost beyond the bounds of human endurance. So far as it was +possible to judge, Israel Kafka's fault consisted in loving a woman +who did not return his love, and his worst misdeed had been his sudden +intrusion upon an interview in which the Wanderer could recall nothing +which might not have been repeated to the whole world with impunity. + +During the last month he had lived a life of bodily and mental +indolence, in which all his keenest perceptions and strongest +instincts had been lulled into a semi-dormant state. Unknown to +himself, the mainspring of all thought and action had been taken out +of his existence together with the very memory of it. For years he had +lived and moved and wandered over the earth in obedience to one +dominant idea. By a magic of which he knew nothing that idea had been +annihilated, temporarily, if not for ever, and the immediate +consequence had been the cessation of all interest and of all desire +for individual action. The suspension of all anxiety, restlessness and +mental suffering had benefited the physical man though it had reduced +the intelligence to a state bordering upon total apathy. + +But organisations, mental or physical, of great natural strength, are +never reduced to weakness by a period of inactivity. It is those minds +and bodies which have been artificially developed by a long course of +training to a degree of power they were never intended to possess, +which lose that force almost immediately in idleness. The really very +strong man has no need of constant gymnastic exercise; he will be +stronger than other men whatever he does. The strong character needs +not be constantly struggling against terrible odds in the most +difficult situations in order to be sure of its own solidity, nor must +the deep intellect be ever plodding through the mazes of intricate +theories and problems that it may feel itself superior to minds of +less compass. There is much natural inborn strength of body and mind +in the world, and on the whole those who possess either accomplish +more than those in whom either is the result of long and well- +regulated training. + +The belief in a great cruelty and a greater injustice roused the man +who throughout so many days had lived in calm indifference to every +aspect of the humanity around him. Seeing that Israel Kafka could not +be immediately restored to consciousness, he rose to his feet again +and stood between the prostrate victim and Unorna. + +"You are killing this man instead of saving him," he said. "His crime, +you say, is that he loves you. Is that a reason for using all your +powers to destroy him in body and mind?" + +"Perhaps," answered Unorna calmly, though there was still a dangerous +light in her eyes. + +"No. It is no reason," answered the Wanderer with a decision to which +Unorna was not accustomed. "Keyork tells me that the man is mad. He +may be. But he loves you and deserves mercy of you." + +"Mercy!" exclaimed Unorna with a cruel laugh. "You heard what he said +--you were for silencing him yourself. You could not have done it. I +have--and most effectually." + +"Whatever your art really may be, you use it badly and cruelly. A +moment ago I was blinded myself. If I had understood clearly while you +were speaking that you were making this poor fellow suffer in himself +the hideous agony you described I would have stopped you. You blinded +me, as you dominated him. But I am not blind now. You shall not +torment him any longer. + +"And how would you have stopped me? How can you hinder me now?" asked +Unorna. + +The Wanderer gazed at her in silence for some moments. There was an +expression in his face which she had never seen there. Towering above +her he looked down. The massive brows were drawn together, the eyes +were cold and impenetrable, every feature expressed strength. + +"By force, if need be," he answered very quietly. + +The woman before him was not of those who fear or yield. She met his +glance boldly. Scarcely half an hour earlier she had been able to +steal away his senses and make him subject to her. She was ready to +renew the contest, though she realised that a change had taken place +in him. + +"You talk of force to a woman!" she exclaimed, contemptuously. "You +are indeed brave!" + +"You are not a woman. You are the incarnation of cruelty. I have seen +it." + +His eyes were cold and his voice was stern. Unorna felt a very sharp +pain and shivered as though she were cold. Whatever else was bad and +cruel and untrue in her wild nature, her love for him was true and +passionate and enduring. And she loved him the more for the strength +he was beginning to show, and for his determined opposition. The words +he had spoken had hurt her as he little guessed they could, not +knowing that he alone of men had power to wound her. + +"You do not know," she answered. "How should you?" Her glance fell and +her voice trembled. + +"I know enough," he said. He turned coldly from her and knelt again +beside Israel Kafka. + +He raised the pale head and supported it upon his knee, and gazed +anxiously into the face, raising the lids with his finger as though to +convince himself that the man was not dead. Indeed there seemed to be +but little life left in him as he lay there with outstretched arms and +twisted fingers, scarcely breathing. In such a place, without so much +as the commonest restorative to aid him, the Wanderer saw that he had +but little chance of success. + +Unorna stood aside, not looking at the two men. It was nothing to her +whether Kafka lived or died. She was suffering herself, more than she +had ever suffered in her life. He had said that she was not a woman-- +she whose whole woman's nature worshiped him. He had said that she was +the incarnation of cruelty--and it was true, though it was her love +for him that made her cruel to the other. Could he know what she had +felt, when she had understood that Israel Kafka had heard her +passionate words and seen her eager face, and had laughed her to +scorn? Could any woman at such a time be less than cruel? Was not her +hate for the man who loved her as great as her love for the man who +loved her not? Even if she possessed instruments of torture for the +soul more terrible than those invented in darker ages to rack the +human body, was she not justified in using them all? Was not Israel +Kafka guilty of the greatest of all crimes, of loving when he was not +loved, and of witnessing her shame and discomfiture? She could not +bear to look at him, lest she should lose herself and try to thrust +the Wanderer aside and kill the man with her hands. + +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. Then she ran forward to overtake him, but he, hearing her +approach, quickened his stride, seeming but little hampered in his +pace by the burden he bore. But Unorna, too, was fleet of foot and +strong. + +"Stop!" she cried, laying her hand upon his arm. "Stop! Hear me! Do +not leave me so!" + +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. + +"Stop!" she cried again. "I will save him--I will obey you--I will be +kind to him--he will die in your arms if you do not let me help you-- +oh! for the love of Heaven, wait one moment! Only one moment!" + +She so thrust herself in the Wanderer's path, hanging upon him and +trying to tear Kafka from his arms, that he was forced to stand still +and face her. + +"Let me pass!" he exclaimed, making another effort to advance. But she +clung to him and he could not move. + +"No,--I will not let you go," she murmured. "You can do nothing +without me, you will only kill him, as I would have done a moment +ago--" + +"And as you will do now," he said sternly, "if I let you have your +way." + +"By all that is Holy in Heaven, I will save him--he shall not even +remember--" + +"Do not swear. I shall not believe you." + +"You will believe when you see--you will forgive me--you will +understand." + +Without answering he exerted his strength and clasping the insensible +man more firmly in his arms he made one or two steps forward. Unorna's +foot slipped on the frozen ground and she would have fallen to the +earth, but she clung to him with desperate energy. Seeing that she was +in danger of some bodily hurt if he used greater force, the Wanderer +stopped again, uncertain how to act; Unorna stood before him, panting +a little from the struggle, her face as white as death. + +"Unless you kill me," she said, "you shall not take him away so. Hold +him in your arms, if you will, but let me speak to him." + +"And how shall I know that you will not hurt him, you who hate him as +you do?" + +"Am I not at your mercy?" asked Unorna. "If I deceive you, can you not +do what you will with me, even if I try to resist you, which I will +not? Hold me, if you choose, lest I should escape you, and if Israel +Kafka does not recover his strength and his consciousness, then take +me with you and deliver me up to justice as a witch--as a murderess, +if you will." + +The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what she +said was true. She was in his power. + +"Restore him if you can," he said. + +Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka's forehead and bending down whispered +into his ear words which were inaudible even to the man who held him. +The mysterious change from sleep to consciousness was almost +instantaneous. He opened his eyes and looked first at Unorna and then +at the Wanderer. There was neither pain nor passion in his face, but +only wonder. A moment more and his limbs regained their strength, he +stood upright and passed his hand over his eyes as though trying to +remember what had happened. + +"How came I here?" he asked in surprise. "What has happened to me?" + +"You fainted," said Unorna quietly. "You remember that you were very +tired after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will take +you home." + +"Yes--yes--I must have fainted. Forgive me--it comes over me +sometimes." + +He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the present +moment, when he glanced curiously from the one to the other of his two +companions, as they all three began to walk towards the gate. Unorna +avoided his eyes, and seemed to be looking at the irregular slabs they +passed on their way. + +The Wanderer had intended to free himself from her as soon as Kafka +regained his senses, but he had not been prepared for such a sudden +change. He saw, now, that he could not exchange a word with her +without exciting the man's suspicion, and he was by no means sure that +the first emotion might not produce a sudden and dangerous effect. He +did not even know how great the change might be, which Unorna's words +had brought about. That Kafka had forgotten at once his own conduct +and the fearful vision which Unorna had imposed upon him was clear, +but it did not follow that he had ceased to love her. Indeed, to one +only partially acquainted with the laws which govern hypnotics, such a +transition seemed very far removed from possibility. He who in one +moment had himself been made to forget utterly the dominant passion +and love of his life, was so completely ignorant of the fact that he +could not believe such a thing possible in any case whatsoever. + +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. He +supposed, too, that Unorna realized this as well as he did, and he +tried to be prepared for all events by revolving all the possibilities +in his mind. + +But Unorna was absorbed by very different thoughts. From time to time +she stole a glance at his face, and she saw that it was stern and cold +as ever. She had kept her word, but he did not relent. A terrible +anxiety overwhelmed her. It was possible, even probable, that he would +henceforth avoid her. She had gone too far. She had not reckoned upon +such a nature as his, capable of being roused to implacable anger by +mere sympathy for the suffering of another. Then, understanding it at +last, she had thought it would be enough that those sufferings should +be forgotten by him upon whom they had been inflicted. She could not +comprehend the horror he felt for herself and for her hideous cruelty. +She had entered the cemetery in the consciousness of her strong will +and of her mysterious powers certain of victory, sure that having once +sacrificed her pride and stooped so low as to command what should have +come of itself, she should see his face change and hear the ring of +passion in that passionless voice. 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. + +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. + +Unorna started slightly and turned as though about to make a sharp +answer. But she checked herself, for the Wanderer was looking at her. +She spoke to him instead of answering Kafka. + +"It is the best arrangement--do you not think so?" she asked. + +"Quite the best." + +"I shall be gratified if you will bring me word of him," she said, +glancing at Kafka. + +The Wanderer was silent as though he had not heard. + +"Have you been in pain? Do you feel as though you had been suffering?" +she asked of the younger man, in a tone of sympathy and solicitude. + +"No. Why do you ask?" + +Unorna smiled and looked at the Wanderer, with intention. He did not +heed her. At that moment two carriages appeared and drew up at the end +of the narrow alley which leads from the street to the entrance of the +cemetery. All three walked forward together. Kafka went forward and +opened the door of one of the conveyances for Unorna to get in. The +Wanderer, still anxious for the man's safety, would have taken his +place, but Kafka turned upon him almost defiantly. + +"Permit me," he said. "I was before you here." + +The Wanderer stood civilly aside and lifted his hat. Unorna held out +her hand, and he took it coldly, not being able to do otherwise. + +"You will let me know, will you not?" she said. "I am anxious about +him." + +He raised his eyebrows a little and dropped her hand. + +"You shall be informed," he said. + +Kafka helped her to get into the carriage. She drew him by the hand so +that his head was inside the door and the other man could not hear her +words. + +"I am anxious about you," she said very kindly. "Make him come himself +to me and tell me how you are." + +"Surely--if you have asked him--" + +"He hates me," whispered Unorna quickly. "Unless you make him come he +will send no message." + +"Then let me come myself--I am perfectly well--" + +"Hush--no!" she answered hurriedly. "Do as I say--it will be best for +you--and for me. Good-bye." + +"Your word is my law," said Kafka, drawing back. His eyes were bright +and his thin cheek was flushed. It was long since she had spoken so +kindly to him. A ray of hope entered his life. + +The Wanderer saw the look and interpreted it rightly. He understood +that in that brief moment Unorna had found time to do some mischief. +Her carriage drove on, and left the two men free to enter the one +intended for them. Kafka gave the driver the address of his lodgings. +Then he sank back into the corner, exhausted and conscious of his +extreme weakness. A short silence followed. + +"You are in need of rest," said the Wanderer, watching him curiously. + +"Indeed, I am very tired, if not actually ill." + +"You have suffered enough to tire the strongest." + +"In what way?" asked Kafka. "I have forgotten what happened. I know +that I followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house, and I +saw you afterwards together. I had not spoken to her since I came back +from my long journey this morning. Tell me what occurred. Did she make +me sleep? I feel as I have felt before when I have fancied that she +has hypnotised me." + +The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. The question was asked as +naturally as though it referred to an everyday occurrence of little or +no weight. + +"Yes," he answered. "She made you sleep." + +"Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have +forgotten it." + +The Wanderer hesitated a moment. + +"I cannot answer your question," he said, at length. + +"Ah--she told me that you hated her," said Kafka, turning his dark +eyes to his companion. "But, yet," he added, "that is hardly a reason +why you should not tell me what happened." + +"I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I have +no right to say to a stranger--which I could not easily say to a +friend." + +"You need not spare me--" + +"It might save you." + +"Then say it--though I do not know from what danger I am to be saved. +But I can guess, perhaps. You would advise me to give up the attempt +to win her." + +"Precisely. I need say no more." + +"On the contrary," said Kafka with sudden energy, "when a man gives +such advice as that to a stranger he is bound to give also his +reasons." + +The Wanderer looked at him calmly as he answered. + +"One man need hardly give a reason for saving another man's life. +Yours is in danger." + +"I see that you hate her, as she said you did." + +"You and she are both mistaken in that. I am not in love with her and +I have ceased to be her friend. As for my interest in you, it does not +even pretend to be friendly--it is that which any man may feel for a +fellow-being, and what any man would feel who had seen what I have +seen this afternoon." + +The calm bearing and speech of the experienced man of the world +carried weight with it in the eyes of the young Moravian, whose hot +blood knew little of restraint and less of caution; with the keen +instinct of his race in the reading of character he suddenly +understood that his companion was at once generous and disinterested. +A burst of confidence followed close upon the conviction. + +"If I am to lose her love, I would rather lose my life also, and by +her hand," he said hotly. "You are warning me against her. I feel that +you are honest and I see that you are in earnest. I thank you. If I am +in danger, do not try to save me. I saw her face a few moments ago, +and she spoke to me. I cannot believe that she is plotting my +destruction." + +The Wanderer was silent. He wondered whether it was his duty to do or +say more. Unorna was a changeable woman. She might love the man +to-morrow. But Israel Kafka was too young to let the conversation +drop. Boy-like he expected confidence for confidence, and was +surprised at his companion's taciturnity. + +"What did she say to me when I was asleep?" he asked, after a short +pause. + +"Did you ever hear the story of Simon Abeles?" the Wanderer inquired +by way of answer. + +Kafka frowned and looked round sharply. + +"Simon Abeles? He was a renegade Hebrew boy. His father killed him. He +is buried in the Teyn Kirche. What of him? What has he to do with +Unorna, or with me? I am myself a Jew. The time has gone by when we +Jews hid our heads. I am proud of what I am, and I will never be a +Christian. What can Simon Abeles have to do with me?" + +"Little enough, now that you are awake." + +"And when I was asleep, what then? She made me see him, perhaps?" + +"She made you live his life. She made you suffer all that he +suffered--" + +"What?" cried Israel Kafka in a loud and angry tone. + +"What I say," returned the other quietly. + +"And you did not interfere? You did not stop her? No, of course, I +forgot that you are a Christian." + +The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. It had not struck him that +Israel Kafka might be a man of the deepest religious convictions, a +Hebrew of the Hebrews, and that what he would resent most would be the +fact that in his sleep Unorna had made him play the part and suffer +the martyrdom of a convert to Christianity. This was exactly what took +place. He would have suffered anything at Unorna's hands, and without +complaint, even to bodily death, but his wrath rose furiously at the +thought that she had been playing with what he held most sacred, that +she had forced from his lips the denial of the faith of his people and +the confession of the Christian belief, perhaps the very words of the +hated Creed. The modern Hebrew of Western Europe might be indifferent +in such a case, as though he had spoken in the delirium of a fever, +but the Jew of the less civilised East is a different being, and in +some ways a stronger. Israel Kafka represented the best type of his +race, and his blood boiled at the insult that had been put upon him. +The Wanderer saw, and understood, and at once began to respect him, as +men who believe firmly in opposite creeds have been known to respect +each other even in a life and death struggle. + +"I would have stopped her if I could," he said. + +"Were you sleeping, too?" asked Kafka hotly. + +"I cannot tell. I was powerless though I was conscious. I saw only +Simon Abeles in it all, though I seemed to be aware that you and he +were one person. I did interfere--so soon as I was free to move. I +think I saved your life. I was carrying you away in my arms when she +waked you." + +"I thank you--I suppose it is as you tell me. You could not move--but +you saw it all, you say. You saw me play the part of the apostate, you +heard me confess the Christian's faith?" + +"Yes--I saw you die in agony, confessing it still." + +Israel Kafka ground his teeth and turned his face away. The Wanderer +was silent. A few moments later the carriage stopped at the door of +Kafka's lodging. The latter turned to his companion, who was startled +by the change in the young face. The mouth was now closely set, the +features seemed bolder, the eyes harder and more manly, a look of +greater dignity and strength was in the whole. + +"You do not love her?" he asked. "Do you give me your word that you do +not love her?" + +"If you need so much to assure you of it, I give you my word. I do not +love her." + +"Will you come with me for a few moments? I live here." + +The Wanderer made a gesture of assent. In a few moments they found +themselves in a large room furnished almost in Eastern fashion, with +few objects, but those of great value. Israel Kafka was alone in the +world and was rich. There were two or three divans, a few low, +octagonal, inlaid tables, a dozen or more splendid weapons hung upon +the wall, and the polished wooden floor was partly covered with +extremely rich carpets. + +"Do you know what she said to me, when I helped her into the +carriage?" asked Kafka. + +"No, I did not attempt to hear." + +"She did not mean that you should hear her. She made me promise to +send you to her with news of myself. She said that you hated her and +would not go to her unless I begged you to do so. Is that true?" + +"I have told you that I do not hate her. I hate her cruelty. I will +certainly not go to her of my own choice." + +"She said that I had fainted. That was a lie. She invented it as an +excuse to attract you, on the ground of her interest in my condition." + +"Evidently." + +"She hates me with an extreme hatred. Her real interest lay in showing +you how terrible that hatred could be. It is not possible to conceive +of anything more diabolically bad than what she did to me. She made me +her sport--yours, too, perhaps, or she would at least have wished it. +On that holy ground where my people lie in peace she made me deny my +faith, she made me, in your eyes and her own, personate a renegade of +my race, she made me confess in the Christian creed, she made me seem +to die for a belief I abhor. Can you conceive of anything more +devilish? A moment later she smiles upon me and presses my hand, and +is anxious to know of my good health. And but for you, I should never +have known what she had done to me. I owe you gratitude, though it be +for the worst pain I have ever suffered. But do you think I will +forgive her?" + +"You would be very forgiving if you could," said the Wanderer, his own +anger rising again at the remembrance of what he had seen. + +"And do you think that I can love still?" + +"No." + +Israel Kafka walked the length of the room and then came back and +stood before the Wanderer and looked into his eyes. His face was very +calm and resolute, the flush had vanished from his thin cheeks, and +the features were set in an expression of irrevocable determination. +Then he spoke, slowly and distinctly. + +"You are mistaken. I love her with all my heart. I will therefore kill +her." + +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. But his next words explained even that. + +"She made me promise to send you to her if you would go," he said. +"Will you go to her now?" + +"What shall I tell her? I warn you that since--" + +"You need not warn me. I know what you would say. But I will be no +common murderer. I will not kill her as she would have killed me. Warn +her, not me. Go to her and say, 'Israel Kafka has promised before God +that he will take your blood in expiation, and there is no escape from +the man who is himself ready to die.' Tell her to fly for her life, +and that quickly." + +"And what will you gain by doing this murder?" asked the Wanderer, +calmly. He was revolving schemes for Unorna's safety, and half amazed +to find himself forced in common humanity to take her part. + +"I shall free myself of my shame in loving her, at the price of her +blood and mine. Will you go?" + +"And what is to prevent me from delivering you over to safe keeping +before you do this deed?" + +"You have no witness," answered Kafka with a smile. "You are a +stranger in the city and in this country, and I am rich. I shall +easily prove that you love Unorna, and that you wish to get rid of me +out of jealousy." + +"That is true," said the Wanderer, thoughtfully. "I will go." + +"Go quickly, then," said Israel Kafka, "for I shall follow soon." + +As the Wanderer left the room he saw the Moravian turn toward the +place where the keen, splendid Eastern weapons hung upon the wall. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +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. The Wanderer had no time and but little +inclination to blame himself for the part he had played in disclosing +to the principal actor the nature of the scene which had taken place +in the cemetery, and the immediate consequences of that disclosure, +though wholly unexpected, did not seem utterly illogical. Israel +Kafka's nature was eastern, violently passionate and, at the same +time, long-suffering in certain directions as only the fatalist can +be. He could have loved for a lifetime faithfully, without requital; +he would have suffered in patience Unorna's anger, scorn, pity or +caprice; he had long before now resigned his free will into the +keeping of a passion which was degrading as it enslaved all his +thoughts and actions, but which had something noble in it, inasmuch as +it fitted him for the most heroic self-sacrifice. + +Unorna's act had brought the several seemingly contradictory elements +of his character to bear upon one point. He had realised in the same +moment that it was impossible for her to love him; that her changing +treatment of him was not the result of caprice but of a fixed plan of +her own, in the execution of which she would spare him neither +falsehood nor insult; that to love such a woman was the lowest +degradation; that he could nevertheless not destroy that love; and, +finally, that the only escape from his shame lay in her destruction, +and that this must in all probability involve his own death also. At +the same time he felt that there was something solemn in the expiation +he was about to exact, something that accorded well with the fierce +traditions of ancient Israel, and the deed should not be done +stealthily or in the dark. Unorna must know that she was to die by his +hand, and why. He had no object in concealment, for his own life was +already ended by the certainty that his love was hopeless, and on the +other hand, fatalist as he was, he believed that Unorna could not +escape him and that no warning could save her. + +The Wanderer understood most of these things as he hastened towards +her house through the darkening streets. Not a carriage was to be +seen, and he was obliged to traverse the distance on foot, as often +happens at supreme moments, when everything might be gained by the +saving of a few minutes in conveying a warning. + +He saw himself in a very strange position. Half an hour had not +elapsed since he had watched Unorna driving away from the cemetery and +had inwardly determined that he would never, if possible, set eyes on +her again. Scarcely two hours earlier, he had been speaking to her of +the sincere friendship which he felt was growing up for her in his +heart. Since then he had learned, almost beyond the possibility of a +doubt, that she loved him, and he had learned, too, to despise her, he +had left her meaning that the parting should be final, and now he was +hurrying to her house to give her the warning which alone could save +her from destruction. And yet, he found it impossible to detect any +inconsistency in his own conduct. As he had been conscious of doing +his utmost to save Israel Kafka from her, so now he knew that he was +doing all he could to save Unorna from the Moravian, and he recognised +the fact that no man with the commonest feelings of humanity could +have done less in either case. But he was conscious, also, of a change +in himself which he did not attempt to analyse. His indolent, self- +satisfied apathy was gone, the strong interests of human life and +death stirred him, mind and body together acquired their activity and +he was at all points once more a man. He was ignorant, indeed, of what +had been taken from him. The memory of Beatrice was gone, and he +fancied himself one who had never loved woman. He looked back with +horror and amazement upon the emptiness of his past life, wondering +how such an existence as he had led, or fancied he had led, could have +been possible. + +But there was scant time for reflection upon the problem of his own +mission in the world as he hastened towards Unorna's house. His +present mission was clear enough and simple enough, though by no means +easy of accomplishment. 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. A stranger in the land +would have small hope of success against a man whose antecedents were +known, whose fortune was reputed great, and who had at his back the +whole gigantic strength of the Jewish interest in Prague, if he chose +to invoke the assistance of his people. The matter would end in a few +days in the Wanderer being driven from the country, while Israel Kafka +would be left behind to work his will as might seem best in his own +eyes. + +There was Keyork Arabian. So far as it was possible to believe in the +sincerity of any of the strange persons among whom the Wanderer found +himself, it seemed certain that the sage was attached to Unorna by +some bond of mutual interests which he would be loth to break. Keyork +had many acquaintances and seemed to posses everywhere a certain +amount of respect, whether because he was perhaps a member of some +widespread, mysterious society of which the Wanderer knew nothing, or +whether this importance of his was due to his personal superiority of +mind and wide experience of travel, no one could say. But it seemed +certain that if Unorna could be placed for the time being in a safe +refuge, it would be best to apply to Keyork to insure her further +protection. Meanwhile that refuge must be found and Unorna must be +conveyed to it without delay. + +The Wanderer was admitted without question. He found Unorna in her +accustomed place. She had thrown aside her furs and was sitting in an +attitude of deep thought. Her dress was black, and in the soft light +of the shaded lamps she was like a dark, marble statue set in the +midst of thick shrubbery in a garden. Her elbow rested on her knee, +her chin upon her beautiful, heavy hand; only in her hair there was +bright colour. + +She knew the Wanderer's footstep, but she neither moved her body nor +turned her head. She felt that she grew paler than before, and she +could hear her heart beating strongly. + +"I come from Israel Kafka," said the Wanderer, standing still before +her. + +She knew from his tone how hard his face must be, and she would not +look up. + +"What of him?" she asked in a voice without expression. "Is he well?" + +"He bids me say to you that he has promised before Heaven to take your +life, and that there is no escape from a man who is ready to lay down +his own." + +Unorna turned her head slowly towards him, and a very soft look stole +over her strange face. + +"And you have brought me his message--this warning--to save me?" she +said. + +"As I tried to save him from you an hour ago. But there is little +time. The man is desperate, whether mad or sane, I cannot tell. Make +haste. Determine where to go for safety, and I will take you there." + +But Unorna did not move. She only looked at him, with an expression he +could no longer misunderstand. He was cold and impassive. + +"I fancy it will not be safe to hesitate long," he said. "He is in +earnest." + +"I do not fear Israel Kafka, and I fear death less," answered Unorna +deliberately. "Why does he mean to kill me?" + +"I think that in his place most every human men would feel as he does, +though religion, or prudence, or fear, or all three together, might +prevent them from doing what they would wish to do." + +"You too? And which of the three would prevent you from murdering me?" + +"None, perhaps--though pity might." + +"I want no pity, least of all from you. What I have done, I have done +for you, and for you only." + +The Wanderer's face showed only a cold disgust. He said nothing. + +"You do not seem surprised," said Unorna. "You know that I love you?" + +"I know it." + +A silence followed, during which Unorna returned to her former +attitude, turning her eyes away and resting her chin upon her hand. +The Wanderer began to grow impatient. + +"I must repeat that, in my opinion, you have not much time to spare," +he said. "If you are not in a place of safety in half an hour, I +cannot answer for the consequences." + +"No time? There is all eternity. What is eternity, or time, or life to +me? I will wait for him here. Why did you tell him what I did, if you +wished me to live?" + +"Why--since there are to be questions--why did you exercise your +cruelty upon an innocent man who loves you?" + +"Why? There are reasons enough!" Unorna's voice trembled slightly. +"You do not know what happened. How should you? You were asleep. You +may as well know, since I may be beyond telling you an hour from now. +You may as well know how I love you, and to what depths I have gone +down to win your love." + +"I would rather not receive your confidence," the Wanderer answered +haughtily. "I came here to save your life, not to hear your +confessions." + +"And when you have heard, you will no longer wish to save me. If you +choose to leave me here, I will wait for Israel Kafka alone. He may +kill me if he pleases. I do not care. But if you stay you shall hear +what I have to say." + +She glanced at his face. He folded his arms and stood still. Whatever +she had done, he would not leave her alone at the mercy of the +desperate man whom he expected every moment to enter the room. If she +would not save herself, he might nevertheless disarm Kafka and prevent +the deed. As his long sleeping energy revived in him the thought of a +struggle was not disagreeable. + +"I loved you from the moment when I first saw you," said Unorna, +trying to speak calmly. "But you loved another woman. Do you remember +her? Her name was Beatrice, and she was very dark, as I am fair. You +had lost her and you had sought her for years. You entered my house, +thinking that she had gone in before you. Do you remember that +morning? It was a month ago to-day. You told me the story." + +"You have dreamed it," said the Wanderer in cold surprise. "I never +loved any woman yet." + +Unorna laughed bitterly. + +"How perfect it all was at first!" she exclaimed. "How smooth it +seemed! How easy! You slept before me, out there by the river that +very afternoon. And in your sleep I bade you forget. And you forgot +wholly, your love, the woman, her very name, even as Israel Kafka +forgot to-day what he had suffered in the person of the martyr. You +told him the story, and he believes you, because he knows me, and +knows what I can do. You can believe me or not; as you will. I did +it." + +"You are dreaming," the Wanderer repeated, wondering whether she were +not out of her mind. + +"I did it. I said to myself that if I could destroy your old love, +root it out from your heart and from your memory and make you as one +who had never loved at all, then you would love me as you had once +loved her, with your whole free soul. I said that I was beautiful--it +is true, is it not? And young I am, and I loved as no woman ever +loved. And I said that it was enough, and that soon you would love me, +too. A month has passed away since then. You are of ice--of stone--I +do not know of what you are. This morning you hurt me. I thought it +was the last hurt and that I should die then--instead of to-night. Do +you remember? You thought I was ill, and you went away. When you were +gone I fought with myself. My dreams--yes, I had dreamed of all that +can make earth Heaven, and you had waked me. You said that you would +be a brother to me--you talked of friendship. The sting of it! It is +no wonder that I grew faint with pain. Had you struck me in the face, +I would have kissed your hand. But your friendship! Rather be dead +than, loving, be held a friend! And I had dreamed of being dear to you +for my own sake, of being dearest, and first, and alone beloved, since +that other was gone and I had burned her memory. That pride I had +still, until that moment. I fancied that it was in my power, if I +would stoop so low, to make you sleep again as you had slept before, +and to make you at my bidding feel all I felt. I fought with myself. I +would not go down to that depth. And then I said that even that were +better than your friendship, even a false semblance of love inspired +by my will, preserved by my suggestion. And so I fell. You came back +to me and I led you to that lonely place, and made you sleep, and then +I told you what was in my heart and poured out the fire of my soul +into your ears. A look came into your face--I shall not forget it. My +folly was upon me, and I thought it was for me. I know the truth now. +Sleeping, the old memory revived in you of her whom waking you will +never remember again. But the look was there, and I bade you awake. My +soul rose in my eyes. I hung upon your lips. The loving word I longed +for seemed already to tremble in the air. Then came the truth. You +awoke, and your face was stone, calm, smiling, indifferent, unloving. +And all this Israel Kafka had seen, hiding like a thief almost beside +us. He saw it all, he heard it all, my words of love, my agony of +waiting, my utter humiliation, my burning shame. Was I cruel to him? +He had made me suffer, and he suffered in his turn. All this you did +not know. You know it now. There is nothing more to tell. Will you +wait here until he comes? Will you look on, and be glad to see me die? +Will you remember in the years to come with satisfaction that you saw +the witch killed for her many misdeeds, and for the chief of them all +--for loving you?" + +The Wanderer had listened to her words, but the tale they told was +beyond the power of his belief. He stood still in his place, with +folded arms, debating what he should do to save her. One thing alone +was clear. She loved him to distraction. Possibly, he thought, her +story was but an invention to excuse her cruelty and to win his +commiseration. It failed to do either at first, but yet he would not +leave her to her fate. + +"You shall not die if I can help it," he said simply. + +"And if you save me, do you think that I will leave you?" she asked +with sudden agitation, turning and half rising from her seat. "Think +what you will be doing, if you save me. Think well. You say that +Israel Kafka is desperate. I am worse than desperate, worse than mad +with my love." + +She sank back again and hid her face for a moment. He, on his part, +began to see the terrible reality and strength of her passion, and +silently wondered what the end would be. He, too, was human, and pity +for her began at last to touch his heart. + +"You shall not die, if I can save you," he said again. + +She sprang to her feet very suddenly and stood before him. + +"You pity me!" she cried. "What lie is that which says that there is a +kinship between pity and love? Think well--beware--be warned. I have +told you much, but you do not know me yet. If you save me, you save me +but to love you more than I do already. Look at me. For me there is +neither God, nor hell, nor pride, nor shame. There is nothing that I +will not do, nothing I shall be ashamed or afraid of doing. If you +save me, you save me that I may follow you as long as I live. I will +never leave you. You shall never escape my presence, your whole life +shall be full of me--you do not love me, and I can threaten you with +nothing more intolerable than myself. Your eyes will weary of the +sight of me and your ears at the sound of my voice. Do you think I +have no hope? A moment ago I had none. 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. How can you think that I have no hope! I have +hope--and certainty, for I shall be near you always to the end-- +always, always, always! I will cling to you--as I do now--and say, I +love you, I love you--yes, and you will cast me off, but I will not go +--I will clasp your feet, and say again, I love you, and you may spurn +me--man, god, wanderer, devil,--whatever you are--beloved always! +Tread upon me, trample on me, crush me--you cannot save yourself, you +cannot kill my love!" + +She had tried to take his hand and he had withdrawn his, she had +fallen upon her knees, and as he tried to free himself had fallen +almost to her length upon the marble floor, clinging to his very feet, +so that he could make no step without doing her some hurt. He looked +down, amazed and silent, and as he looked she cast one glance upward +to his stern face, the bright tears streaming like falling gems from +her unlike eyes, her face pale and quivering, her rich hair all +loosened and falling about her. + +And then, neither body, nor heart, nor soul, could bear the enormous +strain that was laid upon them. A low cry broke from her lips, a +stormy sob, another and another, like quick short waves breaking over +the bar when the tide is low and the wind is rising suddenly. + +The Wanderer was in sore straits, for the minutes were passing quickly +and he remembered the last look on Kafka's face, and how he had left +the Moravian standing before the weapons on the wall. And nothing had +been done yet, not so much as an order given not to admit him if he +came to the house. At any moment he might be upon them. And the storm +showed no signs of being spent. Her wild, convulsive sobbing was +painful to hear. If he tried to move, she dragged herself frantically +at his feet so that he feared lest he should tread upon her hands. He +pitied her now most truly, though he guessed rightly that to show his +pity would be but to add fuel to the blazing flame. + +Then, in the interval of a second, as she drew breath to weep afresh, +he fancied that he heard sounds below as of the great door being +opened and closed again. With a quick, strong movement, stooping low +he put his arms about her and raised her from the floor. At his touch, +her sobbing ceased for a moment, as though she had wanted only that to +soothe her. In spite of him she let her head rest upon his shoulder, +letting him still feel that if he did not support her weight with his +arm she would fall again. In the midst of the most passionate and real +outburst of despairing love there was no artifice which she would not +use to be nearer to him, to extort even the semblance of a caress. + +"I heard some one come in below," he said, hurriedly. "It must be he. +Decide quickly what to do. Either stay or fly--you have not ten +seconds for your choice." + +She turned her imploring eyes to his. + +"Let me stay here and end it all--" + +"That you shall not!" he exclaimed, dragging her towards the end of +the hall opposite to the usual entrance, and where he knew that there +must be a door behind the screen of plants. His hold tightened upon +her yielding waist. Her head fell back and her full lips parted in an +ecstasy of delight as she felt herself hurried along in his arms, +scarcely touching the floor with her feet. + +"Ah--now--now! Let it come now!" she sighed. + +"It must be now--or never," he said almost roughly. "If you will leave +this house with me now, very well. But leave this room you shall. If I +am to meet that man and stop him, I will meet him alone." + +"Leave you alone? Ah no--not that----" + +They had reached the exit now. At the same instant both heard some one +enter at the other end and rapid footsteps on the marble pavement. + +"Which is it to be?" asked the Wanderer, pale and calm. He had pushed +her through before him and seemed ready to go back alone. + +With violent strength she drew him to her, closed the door and slipped +the strong steel bolt across below the lock. There was a dim light in +the passage. + +"Together, then," she said. "I shall at least be with you--a little +longer." + +"Is there another way out of the house?" asked the Wanderer anxiously. + +"More than one. Come with me." + +As they disappeared in the corridor, they heard behind them the noise +of the door-lock as some one tried to force it open. Then a heavy +sound as though a man's shoulder struck against the solid panel. +Unorna led the way through a narrow, winding passage, illuminated here +and there by small lamps with shades of soft colours, blown in +Bohemian glass. + +Pushing aside a curtain they came out into a small room. The Wanderer +uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise as he recognised the +vestibule and saw before him the door of the great conservatory, open +as Israel Kafka had left it. That the latter was still trying to +pursue them through the opposite exit was clear enough, for the blows +he was striking on the panel echoed loudly out into the hall. Swiftly +and silently Unorna closed the entrance and locked it securely. + +"He is safe for a little while," she said. "Keyork will find him there +when he comes, an hour hence, and Keyork will perhaps bring him to his +senses." + +She had regained control of herself, to all appearances, and she spoke +with perfect calm and self-possession. The Wanderer looked at her in +surprise and with some suspicion. Her hair was all falling about her +shoulders, but saving this sign, there was no trace of the recent +storm, nor the least indication of passion. If she had been acting a +part throughout before an audience, she would have seemed less +indifferent when the curtain fell. The Wanderer, having little cause +to trust her, found it hard to believe that she had not been +counterfeiting. It seemed impossible that she should be the same woman +who but a moment earlier had been dragging herself at his feet, in +wild tears and wilder protestations of her love. + +"If you are sufficiently rested," he said with a touch of sarcasm +which he could not restrain, "I would suggest that we do not wait any +longer here." + +She turned and faced him, and he saw now how very white she was. + +"So you think that even now I have been deceiving you? That is what +you think. I see it in your face." + +Before he could prevent her she had opened the door wide again and was +advancing calmly into the conservatory. + +"Israel Kafka!" she cried in loud clear tones. "I am here--I am +waiting--come!" + +The Wanderer ran forward. He caught sight in the distance of a pair of +fiery eyes and of something long and thin and sharp-gleaming under the +soft lamps. He knew then that all was deadly earnest. Swift as thought +he caught Unorna and bore her from the hall, locking the door again +and setting his broad shoulders against it, as he put her down. The +daring act she had done appealed to him, in spite of himself. + +"I beg your pardon," he said almost deferentially. "I misjudged you." + +"It is that," she answered. "Either I will be with you or I will die, +by his hand, by yours, by my own--it will matter little when it is +done. You need not lean against the door. It is very strong. Your furs +are hanging there, and here are mine. Let us be going." + +Quietly, as though nothing unusual had happened, they descended the +stairs together. The porter came forward with all due ceremony, to +open the shut door. Unorna told him that if Keyork Arabian came while +she was out, he was to be shown directly into the conservatory. A +moment later she and her companion were standing together in the small +irregular square before the Clementinum. + +"Where will you go?" asked the Wanderer. + +"With you," she answered, laying her hand upon his arm and looking +into his face as though waiting to see what direction he would choose. +"Unless you send me back to him," she added, glancing quickly at the +house and making as though she would withdraw her hand once more. "If +it is to be that, I will go alone." + +There seemed to be no way out of the terrible dilemma, and the +Wanderer stood still in deep thought. He knew that if he could but +free himself from her for half an hour, he could get help from the +right quarter and take Israel Kafka red-handed and armed as he was. +For the man was caught as in a trap and must stay there until he was +released, and there would be little doubt from his manner, when taken, +that he was either mad or consciously attempting some crime. There was +no longer any necessity, he thought, for Unorna to take refuge +anywhere for more than an hour. In that time Israel Kafka would be in +safe custody, and she could re-enter her house with nothing to fear. +But he counted without Unorna's unyielding obstinacy. She threatened +if he left her for a moment to go back to Israel Kafka. A few minutes +earlier she had carried out her threat and the consequence had been +almost fatal. + +"If you are in your right mind," he said at last, beginning to walk +towards the corner, "you will see that what you wish to do is utterly +against reason. I will not allow you to run the risk of meeting Israel +Kafka to-night, but I cannot take you with me. No--I will hold you, if +you try to escape me, and I will bring you to a place of safety by +force, if need be." + +"And you will leave me there, and I shall never see you again. I will +not go, and you will find it hard to take me anywhere in the crowded +city by force. You are not Israel Kafka, with the whole Jews' quarter +at your command in which to hide me." + +The Wanderer was perplexed. He saw, however, that if he would yield +the point and give his word to return to her, she might be induced to +follow his advice. + +"If I promise to come back to you, will you do what I ask?" he +inquired. + +"Will you promise truly?" + +"I have never broken a promise yet." + +"Did you promise that other woman that you would never love again, I +wonder? If so, you are faithful indeed. But you have forgotten that. +Will you come back to me if I let you take me where I shall be safe +to-night?" + +"I will come back whenever you send for me." + +"If you fail, my blood is on your head." + +"Yes--on my head be it." + +"Very well. I will go to that house where I first stayed when I came +here. Take me there quickly--no--not quickly either--let it be very +long! I shall not see you until to-morrow." + +A carriage was passing at a foot pace. The Wanderer stopped it, and +helped Unorna to get in. The place was very near, and neither spoke, +though he could feel her hand upon his arm. He made no attempt to +shake her off. At the gate they both got out, and he rang a bell that +echoed through vaulted passages far away in the interior. + +"To-morrow," said Unorna, touching his hand. + +He could see even in the dark the look of love she turned upon him. + +"Good-night," he said, and in the next moment she had disappeared +within. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Having made the necessary explanations to account for her sudden +appearance, Unorna found herself installed in two rooms of modest +dimensions, and very simply though comfortably furnished. It was quite +a common thing for ladies to seek retreat and quiet in the convent +during two or three weeks of the year, and there was plenty of +available space at the disposal of those who wished to do so. Such +visits were indeed most commonly made during the lenten season, and on +the day when Unorna sought refuge among the nuns it chanced that there +was but one other stranger within the walls. She was glad to find that +this was the case. Her peculiar position would have made it hard for +her to bear with equanimity the quiet observation of a number of +woman, most of whom would probably have been to some extent acquainted +with the story of her life, and some of whom would certainly have +wished out of curiosity to enter into nearer acquaintance with her +while within the convent, while not intending to prolong their +intercourse with her any further. It could not be expected, indeed, +that in a city like Prague such a woman as Unorna could escape notice, +and the fact that little or nothing was known of her true history had +left a very wide field for the imaginations of those who chose to +invent one for her. The common story, and the one which on the whole +was nearest to the truth, told that she was the daughter of a noble of +eastern Bohemia who had died soon after her birth, the last of his +family, having converted his ancestral possessions into money for +Unorna's benefit, in order to destroy all trace of her relationship to +him. The secret must, of course, have been confided to some one, but +it had been kept faithfully, and Unorna herself was no wiser than +those who mused themselves with fruitless speculations regarding her +origin. If from the first, from the moment when, as a young girl, she +left the convent to enter into possession of her fortune she had +chosen to assert some right to a footing in the most exclusive +aristocracy in the world, it is not impossible that the protection of +the Abbess might have helped her to obtain it. The secret of her birth +would, however, have rendered a marriage with a man of that class all +but impossible, and would have entirely excluded her from the only +other position considered dignified for a well-born woman of fortune, +unmarried and wholly without living relations or connections--that of +a lady-canoness on the Crown foundation. Moreover, her wild bringing- +up, and the singular natural gifts she possessed, and which she could +not resist the impulse to exercise, had in a few months placed her in +a position from which no escape was possible so long as she continued +to live in Prague; and against those few--chiefly men--who for her +beauty's sake, or out of curiosity, would gladly have made her +acquaintance, she raised an impassable barrier of pride and reserve. +Nor was her reputation altogether an evil one. She lived in a strange +fashion, it is true, but the very fact of her extreme seclusion had +kept her name free from stain. If people spoke of her as the Witch, it +was more from habit and half in jest than in earnest. In strong +contradiction to the cruelty which she could exercise ruthlessly when +roused to anger, was her well-known kindness to the poor, and her +charities to institutions founded for their benefit were in reality +considerable, and were said to be boundless. These explanations seem +necessary in order to account for the readiness with which she turned +to the convent when she was in danger, and for the facilities which +were then at once offered her for a stay long or short, as she should +please to make it. Some of the more suspicious nuns looked grave when +they heard that she was under their roof; others, again, had been +attached to her during the time she had formerly spent among them; and +there were not lacking those who, disapproving of her presence, held +their peace, in the anticipation that the rich and eccentric lady +would on departing present a gift of value to their order. + +The rooms which were kept at the disposal of ladies desiring to make a +religious retreat for a short time were situated on the first floor of +one wing of the convent overlooking a garden which was not within the +cloistered precincts, but which was cultivated for the convenience of +the nuns, who themselves never entered it. The windows on this side +were not latticed, and the ladies who occupied the apartments were at +liberty to look out upon the small square of land, their view of the +street beyond being cut off however by a wall in which there was one +iron gate for the convenience of the gardeners, who were thus not +obliged to pass through the main entrance of the convent in order to +reach their work. Within the rooms all opened out upon a broad vaulted +corridor, lighted in the day-time by a huge arched window looking upon +an inner court, and at night by a single lamp suspended in the middle +of the passage by a strong iron chain. The pavement of this passage +was of broad stones, once smooth and even but now worn and made +irregular by long use. The rooms for the guests were carpeted with +sober colours and warmed by high stoves built up of glazed white +tiles. The furniture, as has been said, was simple, but afforded all +that was strictly necessary for ordinary comfort, each apartment +consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room, small in lateral dimensions +but relatively very high. The walls were thick and not easily +penetrated by any sounds from without, and, as in many religious +houses, the entrances from the corridor were all closed by double +doors, the outer one of strong oak with a lock and a solid bolt, the +inner one of lighter material, but thickly padded to exclude sound as +well as currents of cold air. Each sitting-room contained a table, a +sofa, three or four chairs, a small book-shelf, and a praying-stool +provided with a hard and well-worn cushion for the knees. Over this a +brown wooden crucifix was hung upon the gray wall. + +In the majority of convents it is not usual, nor even permissible, for +ladies in retreat to descend to the nuns' refectory. When there are +many guests they are usually served by lay sisters in a hall set apart +for the purpose; when there are few, their simple meals are brought to +them in their rooms. Moreover they of course put on no religious robe, +though they dress themselves in black. In the church, or chapel, as +the case may be, they do not take places within the latticed choir +with the sisters, but either sit in the body of the building, or +occupy a side chapel reserved for their use, or else perform their +devotions kneeling at high windows above the choir, which communicate +within with rooms accessible from the convent. It is usual for them to +attend Mass, Vespers, the Benediction and Complines, but when there +are midnight services they are not expected to be present. + +Unorna was familiar with convent life and was aware that the +Benediction was over, and that the hour for the evening meal was +approaching. A fire had been lighted in her sitting-room, but the air +was still very cold and she sat wrapped in her furs as when she had +arrived, leaning back in a corner of the sofa, her head inclined +forward, and one white hand resting on the green baize cloth which +covered the table. + +She was very tired, and the absolute stillness was refreshing and +restoring after the long-drawn-out emotions of the stormy day. Never, +in her short and passionate life, had so many events been crowded into +the space of a few hours. Since the morning she had felt almost +everything that her wild, high-strung nature was capable of feeling-- +love, triumph, failure, humiliation--anger, hate, despair, and danger +of sudden death. She was amazed when, looking back, she remembered +that at noon on that day her life and all its interests had been +stationary at the point familiar to her during a whole month, the +point that still lay within the boundaries of hope's kingdom, the +point at which the man she loved had wounded her by speaking of +brotherly affection and sisterly regard. She could almost believe, +when she thought of it all, that some one had done to her as she had +done to others, that she had been cast into a state of sleep, and had +been forced against her will to live through the storms of years in +the lethargy of an hour. And yet, despite all, her memory was +distinct, her faculties were awake, her intellect had lost none of its +clearness, even in the last and worst hour of all. She could recall +each look on the Wanderer's face, each tone of his cold speech, each +intonation of her own passionate outpourings. Her strong memory had +retained all, and there was not the slightest break in the continuity +of her recollections. But there was little comfort to be derived from +the certainty that she had not been dreaming, and that everything had +really taken place precisely as she remembered it. She would have +given all she possessed, which was much, to return to the hour of noon +on that same day. + +In so far as a very unruly nature can understand itself, Unorna +understood the springs of the actions, she regretted and confessed +that in all likelihood she would do again as she had done at each +successive stage. Indeed, since the last great outbreak of her heart, +she realised more than ever the great proportions which her love had +of late assumed; and she saw that she was indeed ready, as she had +said, to dare everything and risk everything for the sake of obtaining +the very least show of passion in return. It was quite clear to her, +since she had failed so totally, that she should have had patience, +that she ought to have accepted gratefully the man's offer of +brotherly devotion, and trusted in time to bring about a further and +less platonic development. But she was equally sure that she could +never have found the patience, and that if she had restrained herself +to-day she would have given way to-morrow. She possessed all the blind +indifference to consequences which is a chief characteristic of the +Slav nature when dominated by passion. She had shone it in her rash +readiness to face Israel Kafka at the moment of leaving her own home. +If she could not have what she longed for, she cared as little what +became of her as she cared for Kafka's own fate. She had but one +object, one passion, one desire, and to all else her indifference was +supreme. Life and death, in this world or the next, were less weighty +than feathers in a scale that measures hundreds of tons. The very idea +of balance was for the moment beyond her imagination. For a while +indeed the pride of a woman at once young, beautiful, and accustomed +to authority, had kept her firm in the determination to be loved for +herself, as she believed that she deserved to be loved; and just so +long as that remained, she had held her head high, confidently +expecting that the mask of indifference would soon be shivered, that +the eyes she adored would soften with warm light, that the hand she +worshipped would tremble suddenly, as though waking to life within her +own. But that pride was gone, and from its disappearance there had +been but one step to the most utter degradation of soul to which a +woman can descend, and from that again but one step more to a +resolution almost stupid in its hardened obstinacy. But as though to +show how completely she was dominated by the man whom she could not +win even her last determination had yielded under the slightest +pressure from his will. She had left her house beside him with the mad +resolve never again to be parted from him, cost what it might, +reputation, fortune, life itself. And yet ten minutes had not elapsed +before she found herself alone, trusting to a mere word of his for the +hope of ever seeing him again. She seemed to have no individuality +left. He had spoken and she had obeyed. He had commanded and she had +done his bidding. She was even more ashamed of this than of having +wept, and sobbed, and dragged herself at his feet. In the first moment +she had submitted, deluding herself with the idea she had expressed, +that he was consigning her to a prison and that her freedom was +dependent on his will. The foolish delusion vanished. She saw that she +was free, when she chose, to descend the steps she had just mounted, +to go out through the gate she had lately entered, and to go +whithersoever she would, at the mere risk of meeting Israel Kafka. And +that risk she heartily despised, being thoroughly brave by nature, and +utterly indifferent to death by force of circumstance. + +She comforted herself with the thought that the Wanderer would come to +her, once at least, when she was pleased to send for him. She had that +loyal belief inseparable from true love until violently overthrown by +irrefutable evidence, and which sometimes has such power as to return +even then, overthrowing the evidence of the senses themselves. Are +there not men who trust women, and women who trust men, in spite of +the vilest betrayals? Love is indeed often the inspirer of subjective +visions, creating in the beloved object the qualities it admires and +the virtues it adores, powerless to accept what it is not willing to +see, dwelling in a fortress guarded by intangible, and therefore +indestructible, fiction and proof against the artillery of facts. +Unorna's confidence was, however, not misplaced. The man whose promise +she had received had told the truth when he had said that he had never +broken any promise whatsoever. + +In this, at least, there was therefore comfort. On the morrow she +would see him again. The moment of complete despair had passed when +she had received that assurance from his lips, and as she thought of +it, sitting in the absolute stillness of her room, the proportions of +the storm grew less, and possible dimensions of a future hope greater +--just as the seafarer when his ship lies in a flat calm of the oily +harbour thinks half incredulously of the danger past, despises himself +for the anxiety he felt, and vows that on the morrow he will face the +waves again, though the winds blow ever so fiercely. In Unorna the +master passion was as strong as ever. In a dim vision the wreck of her +pride floated still in the stormy distance, but she turned her eyes +away, for it was no longer a part of her. The spectre of her +humiliation rose up and tried to taunt her with her shame--she almost +smiled at the thought that she could still remember it. He lived, she +lived, and he should yet be hers. As her physical weariness began to +disappear in the absolute quiet and rest, her determination revived. +Her power was not all gone yet. On the morrow she would see him again. +She might still fix her eyes on his, and in an unguarded moment cast +him into a deep sleep. She remembered that look on his face in the old +cemetery. She had guessed rightly; it had been for the faint memory of +Beatrice. But she would bring it back again, and it should be for her, +for he should never wake again. Had she not done as much with the +ancient scholar who for long years had lain in her home in that +mysterious state, who obeyed when she commanded him to rise, and walk, +to eat, to speak? Why not the Wanderer, then? To outward eyes he would +be alive and awake, calm, natural, happy. And yet he would be +sleeping. In that condition, at least, she could command his actions, +his thoughts, and his words. How long could it be made to last? She +did not know. Nature might rebel in the end and throw off the yoke of +the heavily-imposed will. An interval might follow, full again of +storm and passion and despair; but it would pass, and he would again +fall under her influence. She had read, and Keyork Arabian had told +her, of the marvels done every day by physicians of common power in +the great hospitals and universities of the Empire, and elsewhere +throughout Europe. None of them appeared to be men of extraordinary +natural gifts. Their powers were but weakness compared with hers. Even +with miserable, hysteric women they often had to try again and again +before they could produce the hypnotic sleep for the first time. When +they had got as far as that, indeed, they could bring their learning, +their science, and their experience to bear--and they could make +foolish experiments, familiar to Unorna from her childhood as the +sights and sounds of her daily life. Few, if any of them, had even the +power necessary to hypnotise an ordinarily strong man in health. She, +on the contrary, had never failed in that, and at the first trial, +except with Keyork Arabian, a man of whom she said in her heart, half +in jest and half superstitiously, that he was not a man at all, but a +devil or a monster over whom earthly influences had no control. + +All her energy returned. The colour came back to her face, her eyes +sparkled, her strong white hands contracted and opened, and closed +again, as though she would grasp something. The room, too, had become +warmer and she had forgotten to lay aside her furs. She longed for +more air and, rising, walked across the room. It occurred to her that +the great corridor would be deserted and as quiet as her own +apartment, and she went out and began to pace the stone flags, her +head high, looking straight before her. + +She wished that she had him there now, and she was angry at the +thought that she had not seen earlier how easily it could all be done. +However strong he might be, having twice been under her influence +before he could not escape it again. In those moments when they had +stood together before the great dark buildings of the Clementinum, it +might all have been accomplished; and now, she must wait until the +morning. But her mind was determined. It mattered not how, it mattered +not in what state, he should be hers. No one would know what she had +done. It was nothing to her that he would be wholly unconscious of his +past life--had she not already made him forget the most important part +of it? He would still be himself, and yet he would love her, and speak +lovingly to her, and act as she would have him act. Everything could +be done, and she would risk nothing, for she would marry him and make +him her lawful husband, and they would spend their lives together, in +peace, in the house wherein she had so abased herself before him, +foolishly believing that, as a mere woman, she could win him. + +She paced the corridor, passing and repassing beneath the light of the +single lamp that hung in the middle, walking quickly, with a sensation +of pleasure in the movement and in the cold draught that fanned her +cheek. + +Then she heard footsteps distinct from the echo of her own and she +stood still. Two women were coming towards her through the gloom. She +waited near her own door, supposing that they would pass her. As they +came near, she saw that the one was a nun, habited in the plain gray +robe and black and white head-dress of the order. The other was a lady +dressed, like herself, in black. The light burned so badly that as the +two stopped and stood for a moment conversing together, Unorna could +not clearly distinguish their faces. Then the lady entered one of the +rooms, the third or the fourth from Unorna's, and the nun remained +standing outside, apparently hesitating whether to turn to the right +or to the left, or asking herself in which direction her occupations +called her. Unorna made a movement, and at the sound of her foot the +nun came towards her. + +"Sister Paul!" Unorna exclaimed, recognising her as her face came +under the glare of the lamp, and holding out her hands. + +"Unorna!" cried the nun, with an intonation of surprise and pleasure. +"I did not know that you were here. What brings you back to us?" + +"A caprice, Sister Paul--nothing but a caprice. I shall perhaps be +gone to-morrow." + +"I am sorry," answered the sister. "One night is but a short retreat +from the world." She shook her head rather sadly. + +"Much may happen in a night," replied Unorna with a smile. "You used +to tell me that the soul knew nothing of time. Have you changed your +mind? Come into my room and let us talk. I have not forgotten your +hours. You can have nothing to do for the moment, unless it is supper- +time." + +"We have just finished," said Sister Paul, entering readily enough. +"The other lady who is staying here insisted upon supping in the +guests' refectory--out of curiosity perhaps, poor thing--and I met her +on the stairs as she was coming up." + +"Are she and I the only ones here?" Unorna asked carelessly. + +"Yes. There is no one else, and she only came this morning. You see it +is still the carnival season in the world. It is in Lent that the +great ladies come to us, and then we have often not a room free." + +The nun smiled sadly, shaking her head again, in a way that seemed +habitual with her. + +"After all," she added, as Unorna said nothing, "it is better that +they should come then, rather than not at all, though I often think it +would be better still if they spent carnival in the convent and Lent +in the world." + +"The world you speak of would be a gloomy place if you had the +ordering of it, Sister Paul!" observed Unorna with a little laugh. + +"Ah, well! I daresay it would seem so to you. I know little enough of +the world as you understand it, save for what our guests tell me--and, +indeed, I am glad that I do not know more." + +"You know almost as much as I do." + +The sister looked long and earnestly into Unorna's face as though +searching for something. She was a thin, pale woman over forty years +of age. Not a wrinkle marked her waxen skin, and her hair was entirely +concealed under the smooth head-dress, but her age was in her eyes. + +"What is your life, Unorna?" she asked suddenly. "We hear strange +tales of it sometimes, though we know also that you do great works of +charity. But we hear strange tales and strange words." + +"Do you?" Unorna suppressed a smile of scorn. "What do people say of +me? I never asked." + +"Strange things, strange things," repeated the nun with a shake of the +head. + +"What are they? Tell me one of them, as an instance." + +"I should fear to offend you--indeed I am sure I should, though we +were good friends once." + +"And are still. The more reason why you should tell me what is said. +Of course I am alone in the world, and people will always tell vile +tales of women who have no one to protect them." + +"No, no," Sister Paul hastened to assure her. "As a woman, no word has +reached us that touches your fair name. On the contrary, I have heard +worldly women say much more that is good of you in that respect than +they will say of each other. But there are other things, Unorna--other +things which fill me with fear for you. They call you by a name that +makes me shudder when I hear it." + +"A name?" repeated Unorna in surprise and with considerable curiosity. + +"A name--a word--what you will--no, I cannot tell you, and besides, it +must be untrue." + +Unorna was silent for a moment and then understood. She laughed aloud +with perfect unconcern. + +"I know!" she cried. "How foolish of me! They call me the Witch--of +course." + +Sister Paul's face grew very grave, and she immediately crossed +herself devoutly, looking askance at Unorna as she did so. But Unorna +only laughed again. + +"Perhaps it is very foolish," said the nun, "but I cannot bear to hear +such a thing said of you." + +"It is not said in earnest. Do you know why they call me the Witch? It +is very simple. It is because I can make people sleep--people who are +suffering or mad or in great sorrow, and then they rest. That is all +my magic." + +"You can put people to sleep? Anybody?" Sister Paul opened her faded +eyes very wide. "But that is not natural," she added in a perplexed +tone. "And what is not natural cannot be right." + +"And is all right that is natural?" asked Unorna thoughtfully. + +"It is not natural," repeated the other. "How do you do it? Do you use +strange words and herbs and incantations?" + +Unorna laughed again, but the nun seemed shocked by her levity and she +forced herself to be grave. + +"No, indeed!" she answered. "I look into their eyes and tell them to +sleep--and they do. Poor Sister Paul! You are behind the age in the +dear old convent here. The thing is done in half of the great +hospitals of Europe every day, and men and women are cured in that way +of diseases that paralyse them in body as well as in mind. Men study +to learn how it is done; it is as common to-day, as a means of +healing, as the medicines you know by name and taste. It is called +hypnotism." + +Again the sister crossed herself. + +"I have heard the word, I think," she said, as though she thought +there might be something diabolical in it. "And do you heal the sick +in this way by means of this--thing?" + +"Sometimes," Unorna answered. "There is an old man, for instance, whom +I have kept alive for many years by making him sleep--a great deal." +Unorna smiled a little. + +"But you have no words with it? Nothing?" + +"Nothing. It is my will. That is all." + +"But if it is of good, and not of the Evil One, there should be a +prayer with it. Could you not say a prayer with it, Unorna?" + +"I daresay I could," replied the other, trying not to laugh. "But that +would be doing two things at once; my will would be weakened." + +"It cannot be of good," said the nun. "It is not natural, and it is +not true that the prayer can distract the will from the performance of +a good deed." She shook her head more energetically than usual. "And +it is not good either that you should be called a witch, you who have +lived here amongst us." + +"It is not my fault!" exclaimed Unorna, somewhat annoyed by her +persistence. "And besides, Sister Paul, even if the devil is in it, it +would be right all the same." + +The nun held up her hands in holy horror, and her jaw dropped. + +"My child! My child! How can you say such things to me!" + +"It is very true," Unorna answered, quietly smiling at her amazement. +"If people who are ill are made well, is it not a real good, even if +the Evil One does it? Is it not good to make him do good, if one can, +even against his will?" + +"No, no!" cried Sister Paul, in great distress. "Do not talk like that +--let us not talk of it at all! Whatever it is, it is bad, and I do +not understand it, and I am sure that none of us here could, no matter +how well you explained it. But if you will do it, Unorna, my dear +child, then say a prayer each time, against temptation and the devil's +works." + +With that the good nun crossed herself a third time, and +unconsciously, from force of habit, began to tell her beads with one +hand, mechanically smoothing her broad, starched collar with the +other. Unorna was silent for a few minutes, plucking at the sable +lining of the cloak which lay beside her upon the sofa where she had +dropped it. + +"Let us talk of other things," she said at last. "Talk of the other +lady who is here. Who is she? What brings her into retreat at this +time of year?" + +"Poor thing--yes, she is very unhappy," answered Sister Paul. "It is a +sad story, so far as I have heard it. Her father is just dead, and she +is alone in the world. The Abbess received a letter yesterday from the +Cardinal Archbishop, requesting that we would receive her, and this +morning she came. His eminence knew her father, it appears. She is +only to be here for a short time, I believe, until her relations come +to take her home to her own country. Her father was taken ill in a +country place near the city, which he had hired for the shooting +season, and the poor girl was left all alone out there. The Cardinal +thought she would be safer and perhaps less unhappy with us while she +is waiting." + +"Of course," said Unorna, with a faint interest. "How old is she, poor +child?" + +"She is not a child, she must be five and twenty years old, though +perhaps her sorrow makes her look older than she is." + +"And what is her name?" + +"Beatrice. I cannot remember the name of the family." + +Unorna started. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +"What is it?" asked the nun, noticing Unorna's sudden movement. + +"Nothing; the name of Beatrice is familiar to me, that is all. It +suggested something." + +Though Sister Paul was as unworldly as five and twenty years of +cloistered life can make a woman who is naturally simple in mind and +devout in thought, she possessed that faculty of quick observation +which is learned as readily, and exercised perhaps as constantly, in +the midst of a small community, where each member is in some measure +dependent upon all the rest for the daily pittance of ideas, as in +wider spheres of life. + +"You may have seen this lady, or you may have heard of her," she said. + +"I would like to see her," Unorna answered thoughtfully. + +She was thinking of all the possibilities in the case. She remembered +the clearness and precision of the Wanderer's first impression, when +he first told her how he had seen Beatrice in the Teyn Kirche, and she +reflected that the name was a very uncommon one. The Beatrice of his +story too had a father and no other relation, and was supposed to be +travelling with him. By the uncertain light in the corridor Unorna had +not been able to distinguish the lady's features, but the impression +she had received had been that she was dark, as Beatrice was. There +was no reason in the nature of things why this should not be the woman +whom the Wanderer loved. It was natural enough that, being left alone +in a strange city at such a moment, she should have sought refuge in a +convent, and this being admitted it followed that she would naturally +have been advised to retire to the one in which Unorna found herself, +it being the one in which ladies were most frequently received as +guests. Unorna could hardly trust herself to speak. She was conscious +that Sister Paul was watching her, and she turned her face from the +lamp. + +"There can be no difficulty about your seeing her, or talking with +her, if you wish it," said the nun. "She told me that she would be at +Compline at nine o'clock. If you will be there yourself you can see +her come in, and watch her when she goes out. Do you think you have +ever seen her?" + +"No," answered Unorna in an odd tone. "I am sure that I have not." + +Sister Paul concluded from Unorna's manner that she must have reason +to believe that the guest was identical with some one of whom she had +heard very often. Her manner was abstracted and she seemed ill at +ease. But that might be the result of fatigue. + +"Are you not hungry?" asked the nun. "You have had nothing since you +came, I am sure." + +"No--yes--it is true," answered Unorna. "I had forgotten. It would be +very kind of you to send me something." + +Sister Paul rose with alacrity, to Unorna's great relief. + +"I will see to it," she said, holding out her hand. "We shall meet in +the morning. Good-night." + +"Good-night, dear Sister Paul. Will you say a prayer for me?" She +added the question suddenly, by an impulse of which she was hardly +conscious. + +"Indeed I will--with all my heart, my dear child," answered the nun +looking earnestly into her face. "You are not happy in your life," she +added, with a slow, sad movement of her head. + +"No--I am not happy. But I will be." + +"I fear not," said Sister Paul, almost under her breath, as she went +out softly. + +Unorna was left alone. She could not sit still in her extreme anxiety. +It was agonising to think that the woman she longed to see was so near +her, but that she could not, upon any reasonable pretext, go and knock +at her door and see her and speak to her. She felt also a terrible +doubt as to whether she would recognise her, at first sight, as the +same woman whose shadow had passed between herself and the Wanderer on +that eventful day a month ago. The shadow had been veiled, but she had +a prescient consciousness of the features beneath the veil. +Nevertheless, she might be mistaken. It would be necessary to seek her +acquaintance by some excuse and endeavour to draw from her some +portion of her story, enough to confirm Unorna's suspicions, or to +prove conclusively that they were unfounded. To do this, Unorna +herself needed all her strength and coolness, and she was glad when a +lay sister entered the room bringing her evening meal. + +There were moments when Unorna, in favourable circumstances, was able +to sink into the so-called state of second sight, by an act of +volition, and she wished now that she could close her eyes and see the +face of the woman who was only separated from her by two or three +walls. But that was not possible in this case. To be successful she +would have needed some sort of guiding thread, or she must have +already known the person she wished to see. She could not command that +inexplicable condition as she could dispose of her other powers, at +all times and in almost all moods. She felt that if she were at +present capable of falling into the trance state at all, her mind +would wander uncontrolled in some other direction. There was nothing +to be done but to have patience. + +The lay sister went out. Unorna ate mechanically what had been set +before her and waited. She felt that a crisis perhaps more terrible +than that through which she had lately passed was at hand, if the +stranger should prove to be indeed the Beatrice whom the Wanderer +loved. Her brain was in a whirl when she thought of being brought face +to face with the woman who had been before her, and every cruel and +ruthless instinct of her nature rose and took shape in plans for her +rival's destruction. + +She opened her door, careless of the draught of frozen air that rushed +in from the corridor. She wished to hear the lady's footstep when she +left her room to go to the church, and she sat down and remained +motionless, fearing lest her own footfall should prevent the sound +from reaching her. The heavy-toned bells began to ring, far off in the +night. + +At last it came, the opening of a door, the slight noise made by a +light tread upon the pavement. She rose quietly and went out, +following in the same direction. She could see nothing but a dark +shadow moving before her towards the opposite end of the passage, +farther and farther from the hanging lamp. Unorna could hear her own +heart beating as she followed, first to the right, then to the left. +There was another light at this point. The lady had noticed that some +one was coming behind her and turned her head to look back. The +delicate, dark profile stood out clearly. Unorna held her breath, +walking swiftly forward. But in a moment the lady went on, and entered +the chapel-like room from which a great balconied window looked down +into the church above the choir. 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. + +Unorna sank upon her knees, compressing her lips to restrain the +incoherent exclamation that almost broke from them in spite of her, +clasping her hands desperately, so that the faint blue veins stood out +upon the marble surface. + +Below, hundreds of candles blazed upon the altar in the choir and sent +their full yellow radiance up to the faces of the two women, as they +knelt there almost side by side, both young, both beautiful, but +utterly unlike. In a single glance Unorna had understood that it was +true. An arm's length separated her from the rival whose very +existence made her own happiness an utter impossibility. With +unchanging, unwilling gaze she examined every detail of that beauty +which the Wanderer had so loved, that even when forgotten there was no +sight in his eyes for other women. + +It was indeed such a face as a man would find it hard to forget. +Unorna, seeing the reflection of it in the Wanderer's mind, had +fancied it otherwise, though she could not but recognise the reality +from the impression she had received. She had imagined it more +ethereal, more faint, more sexless, more angelic, as she had seen it +in her thoughts. Divine it was, but womanly beyond Unorna's own. Dark, +delicately aquiline, tall and noble, the purity it expressed was of +earth and not of heaven. It was not transparent, for there was life in +every feature; it was sad indeed almost beyond human sadness, but it +was sad with the mortal sorrows of this world, not with the +unfathomable melancholy of the suffering saint. The lips were human, +womanly, pure and tender, but not formed for speech of prayer alone. +The drooping lids, not drawn, but darkened with faint, uneven shadows +by the flow of many tears, were slowly lifted now and again, +disclosing a vision of black eyes not meant for endless weeping, nor +made so deep and warm only to strain their sight towards heaven above, +forgetting earth below. Unorna knew that those same eyes could gleam, +and flash, and blaze, with love and hate and anger, that under the +rich, pale skin, the blood could rise and ebb with the changing tide +of the heart, that the warm lips could part with passion and, moving, +form words of love. She saw pride in the wide sensitive nostrils, +strength in the even brow, and queenly dignity in the perfect poise of +the head upon the slender throat. And the clasped hands were womanly, +too, neither full and white and heavy like those of a marble statue, +as Unorna's were, nor thin and over-sensitive like those of holy women +in old pictures, but real and living, delicate in outline, but not +without nervous strength, hands that might linger in another's, not +wholly passive, but all responsive to the thrill of a loving touch. + +It was very hard to bear. A better woman than Unorna might have felt +something evil and cruel and hating in her heart, at the sight of so +much beauty in one who held her place, in the queen of the kingdom +where she longed to reign. Unorna's cheek grew very pale, and her +unlike eyes were fierce and dangerous. It was well for her that she +could not speak to Beatrice then, for she wore no mask, and the dark +beauty would have seen the danger of death in the face of the fair, +and would have turned and defended herself in time. + +But the sweet singing of the nuns came softly up from below, echoing +to the groined roof, rising and falling, high and low; and the full +radiance of the many waxen tapers shone steadily from the great altar, +gilding and warming statue and cornice and ancient moulding, and +casting deep shadows into all the places that it could not reach. And +still the two women knelt in their high balcony, the one rapt in +fervent prayer, the other wondering that the presence of such hatred +as hers should have no power to kill, and all the time making a +supreme effort to compose her own features into the expression of +friendly sympathy and interest which she knew she would need so soon +as the singing ceased and it was time to leave the church again. + +The psalms were finished. There was a pause, and then the words of the +ancient hymn floated up to Unorna's ears, familiar in years gone by. +Almost unconsciously she herself, by force of old habit, joined in the +first verse. Then, suddenly, she stopped, not realising, indeed, the +horrible gulf that lay between the words that passed her lips, and the +thoughts that were at work in her heart, but silenced by the near +sound of a voice less rich and full, but far more exquisite and tender +than her own. Beatrice was singing, too, with joined hands, and parted +lips, and upturned face. + +"Let dreams be far, and phantasms of the night--bind Thou our Foe," +sang Beatrice in long, sweet notes. + +Unorna heard no more. The light dazzled her, and the blood beat in her +heart. It seemed as though no prayer that was ever prayed could be +offered up more directly against herself, and the voice that sang it, +though not loud, had the rare power of carrying every syllable +distinctly in its magic tones, even to a great distance. As she knelt, +it was as if Beatrice had been even nearer, and had breathed the words +into her very ear. Afraid to look round, lest her face should betray +her emotion, Unorna glanced down at the kneeling nuns. She started. +Sister Paul, alone of them all, was looking up, her faded eyes fixed +on Unorna's with a look that implored and yet despaired, her clasped +hands a little raised from the low desk before her, most evidently +offering up the words with the whole fervent intention of her pure +soul, as an intercession for Unorna's sins. + +For one moment the strong, cruel heart almost wavered, not through +fear, but under the nameless impression that sometimes takes hold of +men and women. The divine voice beside her seemed to dominate the +hundred voices below; the nun's despairing look chilled for one +instant all her love and all her hatred, so that she longed to be +alone, away from it all, and for ever. But the hymn ended, the voice +was silent, and Sister Paul's glance turned again towards the altar. +The moment was passed and Unorna was again what she had been before. + +Then followed the canticle, the voice of the prioress in the versicles +after that, and the voices of the nuns, no longer singing, as they +made the responses; the Creed, a few more versicles and responses, the +short, final prayers, and all was over. From the church below came up +the soft sound that many women make when they move silently together. +The nuns were passing out in their appointed order. + +Beatrice remained kneeling a few moments longer, crossed herself and +then rose. At the same moment Unorna was on her feet. The necessity +for immediate action at all costs restored the calm to her face and +the tactful skill to her actions. She reached the door first, and +then, half turning her head, stood aside, as though to give Beatrice +precedence in passing. Beatrice glanced at her face for the first +time, and then by a courteous movement of the head signified that +Unorna should go out first. Unorna appeared to hesitate, Beatrice to +protest. Both women smiled a little, and Unorna, with a gesture of +submission, passed through the doorway. She had managed it so well +that it was almost impossible to avoid speaking as they threaded the +long corridors together. Unorna allowed a moment to pass, as though to +let her companion understand the slight awkwardness of the situation, +and then addressed her in a tone of quiet and natural civility. + +"We seem to be the only ladies in retreat," she said. + +"Yes," Beatrice answered. Even in that one syllable something of the +quality of her thrilling voice vibrated for an instant. They walked a +few steps farther in silence. + +"I am not exactly in retreat," she said presently, either because she +felt that it would be almost rude to say nothing, or because she +wished her position to be clearly understood. "I am waiting here for +some one who is to come for me." + +"It is a very quiet place to rest in," said Unorna. "I am fond of it." + +"You often come here, perhaps." + +"Not now," answered Unorna. "But I was here for a long time when I was +very young." + +By a common instinct, as they fell into conversation, they began to +walk more slowly, side by side. + +"Indeed," said Beatrice, with a slight increase of interest. "Then you +were brought up here by the nuns?" + +"Not exactly. It was a sort of refuge for me when I was almost a +child. I was left here alone, until I was thought old enough to take +care of myself." + +There was a little bitterness in her tone, intentional, but masterly +in its truth to nature. + +"Left by your parents?" Beatrice asked. The question seemed almost +inevitable. + +"I had none. I never knew a father or a mother." Unorna's voice grew +sad with each syllable. + +They had entered the great corridor in which their apartments were +situated, and were approaching Beatrice's door. They walked more and +more slowly, in silence during the last few moments, after Unorna had +spoken. Unorna sighed. The passing breath traveling on the air of the +lonely place seemed both to invite and to offer sympathy. + +"My father died last week," Beatrice said in a very low tone, that was +not quite steady. "I am quite alone--here and in the world." + +She laid her hand upon the latch and her deep black eyes rested upon +Unorna's, as though almost, but not quite, conveying an invitation, +hungry for human comfort, yet too proud to ask it. + +"I am very lonely, too," said Unorna. "May I sit with you for a +while?" + +She had but just time to make the bold stroke that was necessary. In +another moment she knew that Beatrice would have disappeared within. +Her heart beat violently until the answer came. She had been +successful. + +"Will you, indeed?" Beatrice exclaimed. "I am poor company, but I +shall be very glad if you will come in." + +She opened her door, and Unorna entered. The apartment was almost +exactly like her own in size and shape and furniture, but it already +had the air of being inhabited. There were books upon the table, and a +square jewel-case, and an old silver frame containing a large +photograph of a stern, dark man in middle age--Beatrice's father, as +Unorna at once understood. Cloaks and furs lay in some confusion upon +the chairs, a large box stood with the lid raised, against the wall, +displaying a quantity of lace, among which lay silks and ribbons of +soft colours. + +"I only came this morning," Beatrice said, as though to apologise for +the disorder. + +Unorna sank down in a corner of the sofa, shading her eyes from the +bright lamp with her hand. She could not help looking at Beatrice, but +she felt that she must not let her scrutiny be too apparent, nor her +conversation too eager. Beatrice was proud and strong, and could +doubtless be very cold and forbidding when she chose. + +"And do you expect to be here long?" Unorna asked, as Beatrice +established herself at the other end of the sofa. + +"I cannot tell," was the answer. "I may be here but a few days, or I +may have to stay a month. + +"I lived here for years," said Unorna thoughtfully. "I suppose it +would be impossible now--I should die of apathy and inanition." She +laughed in a subdued way, as though respecting Beatrice's mourning. +"But I was young then," she added, suddenly withdrawing her hand from +her eyes, so that the full light of the lamp fell upon her. + +She chose to show that she, too, was beautiful, and she knew that +Beatrice had as yet hardly seen her face as they passed through the +gloomy corridors. It was an instinct of vanity, and yet, for her +purpose, it was the right one. The effect was sudden and unexpected, +and Beatrice looked at her almost fixedly, in undisguised admiration. + +"Young then!" she exclaimed. "You are young now!" + +"Less young than I was then," Unorna answered with a little sigh, +followed instantly by a smile. + +"I am five and twenty," said Beatrice, woman enough to try and force a +confession from her new acquaintance. + +"Are you? I would not have thought it--we are nearly of an age--quite, +perhaps, for I am not yet twenty-six. But then, it is not the years--" +She stopped suddenly. + +Beatrice wondered whether Unorna were married or not. Considering the +age she admitted and her extreme beauty it seemed probable that she +must be. It occurred to her that the acquaintance had been made +without any presentation, and that neither knew the other's name. + +"Since I am a little the younger," she said, "I should tell you who I +am." + +Unorna made a slight movement. She was on the point of saying that she +knew already--and too well. + +"I am Beatrice Varanger." + +"I am Unorna." She could not help a sort of cold defiance that sounded +in her tone as she pronounced the only name she could call hers. + +"Unorna?" Beatrice repeated, courteously enough, but with an air of +surprise. + +"Yes--that is all. It seems strange to you? They called me so because +I was born in February, in the month we call Unor. Indeed it is +strange, and so is my story--though it would have little interest for +you." + +"Forgive me, you are wrong, It would interest me immensely--if you +would tell me a little of it; but I am such a stranger to you----" + +"I do not feel as though you are that," Unorna answered with a very +gentle smile. + +"You are very kind to say so," said Beatrice quietly. + +Unorna was perfectly well aware that it must seem strange, to say the +least of it, that she should tell Beatrice the wild story of her life, +when they had as yet exchanged barely a hundred words. But she cared +little what Beatrice thought, provided that she could interest her. +She had a distinct intention in making the time slip by unnoticed, +until it should be late. + +She related her history, so far as it was known to herself, simply and +graphically, substantially as it has been already set forth, but with +an abundance of anecdote and comment which enhanced the interest and +at the same time extended its limits, interspersing her monologues +with remarks which called for an answer and which served as tests of +her companion's attention. She hinted but lightly at her possession of +unusual power over animals, and spoke not at all of the influence she +could exert upon people. Beatrice listened eagerly. She could have +told, on her part, that for years her own life had been dull and +empty, and that it was long since she had talked with any one who had +so roused her interest. + +At last Unorna was silent. She had reached the period of her life +which had begun a month before that time, and at that point her story +ended. + +"Then you are not married?" Beatrice's tone expressed an interrogation +and a certain surprise. + +"No," said Unorna, "I am not married. And you, if I may ask?" + +Beatrice started visibly. It had not occurred to her that the question +might seem a natural one for Unorna to ask, although she had said that +she was alone in the world. Unorna might have supposed her to have +lost her husband. But Unorna could see that it was not surprise alone +that had startled her. The question, as she knew it must, had roused a +deep and painful train of thought. + +"No," said Beatrice, in an altered voice. "I am not married. I shall +never marry." + +A short silence followed, during which she turned her face away. + +"I have pained you," said Unorna with profound sympathy and regret. +"Forgive me! How could I be so tactless!" + +"How could you know?" Beatrice asked simply, not attempting to deny +the suggestion. + +But Unorna was suffering too. She had allowed herself to imagine that +in the long years which had passed Beatrice might perhaps have +forgotten. It had even crossed her mind that she might indeed be +married. But in the few words, and in the tremor that accompanied +them, as well as in the increased pallor of Beatrice's face, she +detected a love not less deep and constant and unforgotten than the +Wanderer's own. + +"Forgive me," Unorna repeated. "I might have guessed. I have loved +too." + +She knew that here, at least, she could not feign and she could not +control her voice, but with supreme judgment of the effect she allowed +herself to be carried beyond all reserve. In the one short sentence +her whole passion expressed itself, genuine, deep, strong, ruthless. +She let the words come as they would, and Beatrice was startled by the +passionate cry that burst from the heart, so wholly unrestrained. + +For a long time neither spoke again, and neither looked at the other. +To all appearances Beatrice was the first to regain her self- +possession. And then, all at once the words came to her lips which +could be restrained no longer. For years she had kept silence, for +there had been no one to whom she could speak. For years she had +sought him, as best she could, as he had sought her, fruitlessly and +at last hopelessly. And she had known that her father was seeking him +also, everywhere, that he might drag her to the ends of the earth at +the mere suspicion of the Wanderer's presence in the same country. It +had amounted to a madness with him of the kind not seldom seen. +Beatrice might marry whom she pleased, but not the one man she loved. +Day by day and year by year their two strong wills had been silently +opposed, and neither the one nor the other had ever been unconscious +of the struggle, nor had either yielded a hair's-breadth. But Beatrice +had been at her father's mercy, for he could take her whither he +would, and in that she could not resist him. Never in that time had +she lost faith in the devotion of the man she sought, and at last it +was only in the belief that he was dead that she could discover an +explanation of his failure to find her. Still she would not change, +and still, through the years, she loved more and more truly, and +passionately, and unchangingly. + +The feeling that she was in the presence of a passion as great, as +unhappy, and as masterful as her own, unloosed her tongue. Such things +happen in this strange world. Men and women of deep and strong +feedings, outwardly cold, reserved, taciturn and proud, have been +known, once in their lives, to pour out the secrets of their hearts to +a stranger or a mere acquaintance, as they could never have done to a +friend. + +Beatrice seemed scarcely conscious of what she was saying, or of +Unorna's presence. The words, long kept back and sternly restrained, +fell with a strange strength from her lips, and there was not one of +them from first to last that did not sheathe itself like a sharp knife +in Unorna's heart. The enormous jealousy of Beatrice which had been +growing within her beside her love during the last month was reaching +the climax of its overwhelming magnitude. She hardly knew when +Beatrice ceased speaking, for the words were still all ringing in her +ears, and clashing madly in her own breast, and prompting her fierce +nature to do some violent deed. But Beatrice looked for no sympathy +and did not see Unorna's face. She had forgotten Unorna herself at the +last, as she sat staring at the opposite wall. + +Then she rose quickly, and taking something from the jewel-box, thrust +it into Unorna's hands. + +"I cannot tell why I have told you--but I have. You shall see him too. +What does it matter? We have both loved, we are both unhappy--we shall +never meet again." + +"What is it?" Unorna tried to ask, holding the closed case in her +hands. She knew what was within it well enough, and her self-command +was forsaking her. It was almost more than she could bear. It was as +though Beatrice were wreaking vengeance on her, instead of her +destroying her rival as she had meant to do, sooner or later. + +Beatrice took the thing from her, opened it, gazed at it a moment, and +put it again into Unorna's hands. "It was like him," she said, +watching her companion as though to see what effect the portrait would +produce. Then she shrank back. + +Unorna was looking at her. Her face was livid and unnaturally drawn, +and the extraordinary contrast in the colour of her two eyes was +horribly apparent. The one seemed to freeze, the other to be on fire. +The strongest and worst passions that can play upon the human soul +were all expressed with awful force in the distorted mask, and not a +trace of the magnificent beauty so lately there was visible. Beatrice +shrank back in horror. + +"You know him!" she cried, half guessing at the truth. + +"I know him--and I love him," said Unorna slowly and fiercely, her +eyes fixed on her enemy, and gradually leaning towards her so as to +bring her face nearer and nearer to Beatrice. + +The dark woman tried to rise, and could not. There was worse than +anger, or hatred, or the intent to kill, in those dreadful eyes. There +was a fascination from which no living thing could escape. She tried +to scream, to shut out the vision, to raise her hand as a screen +before it. Nearer and nearer it came, and she could feel the warm +breath of it upon her cheek. Then her brain reeled, her limbs relaxed, +and her head fell back against the wall. + +"I know him, and I love him," were the last words Beatrice heard. + + + +CHAPTER XX[*] + +[*] The deeds here recounted are not imaginary. Not very long ago the + sacrilege which Unorna attempted was actually committed at night + in a Catholic church in London, under circumstances that clearly + proved the intention of some person or persons to defile the + consecrated wafers. A case of hypnotic suggestion to the committal + of a crime in a convent occurred in Hungary not many years since, + with a different object, namely, a daring robbery, but precisely + as here described. A complete account of the case will be found, + with authority and evidence, in a pamphlet entitled /Eine + experimentale Studie auf dem Gebiete des Hypnotismus/, by Dr. R. + von Krafft-Ebing, Professor of Psychiatry and for nervous + diseases, in the University of Gratz. Second Edition, Stuttgart, + Ferdinand Enke, 1889. It is not possible, in a work of fiction, to + quote learned authorities at every chapter, but it may be said + here, and once for all, that all the most important situations + have been taken from cases which have come under medical + observation within the last few years. + +Unorna was hardly conscious of what she had done. She had not had the +intention of making Beatrice sleep, for she had no distinct intention +whatever at that moment. Her words and her look had been but the +natural results of overstrained passion, and she repeated what she had +said again and again, and gazed long and fiercely into Beatrice's face +before she realised that she had unintentionally thrown her rival and +enemy into the intermediate state. It is rarely that the first stage +of hypnotism produces the same consequences in two different +individuals. In Beatrice it took the form of total unconsciousness, as +though she had merely fainted away. + +Unorna gradually regained her self-possession. After all, Beatrice had +told her nothing which she did not either wholly know or partly guess, +and her anger was not the result of the revelation but of the way in +which the story had been told. Word after word, phrase after phrase +had cut her and stabbed her to the quick, and when Beatrice had thrust +the miniature into her hands her wrath had risen in spite of herself. +But now that she had returned to a state in which she could think +connectedly, and now that she saw Beatrice asleep before her, she did +not regret what she had unwittingly done. From the first moment when, +in the balcony over the church, she had realised that she was in the +presence of the woman she hated, she had determined to destroy her. To +accomplish this she would in any case have used her especial weapons, +and though she had intended to steal by degrees upon her enemy, +lulling her to sleep by a more gentle fascination, at an hour when the +whole convent should be quiet, yet since the first step had been made +unexpectedly and without her will, she did not regret it. + +She leaned back and looked at Beatrice during several minutes, smiling +to herself from time to time, scornfully and cruelly. Then she rose +and locked the outer door and closed the inner one carefully. She knew +from long ago that no sound could then find its way to the corridor +without. She came back and sat down again, and again looked at the +sleeping face, and she admitted for the hundredth time that evening, +that Beatrice was very beautiful. + +"If he could see us now!" she exclaimed aloud. + +The thought suggested something to her. She would like to see herself +beside this other woman and compare the beauty he loved with the +beauty that could not touch him. It was very easy. She found a small +mirror, and set it up upon the back of the sofa, on a level with +Beatrice's head. Then she changed the position of the lamp and looked +at herself, and touched her hair, and smoothed her brow, and loosened +the black lace about her white throat. And she looked from herself to +Beatrice, and back to herself again, many times. + +"It is strange that black should suit us both so well--she so dark and +I so fair!" she said. "She will look well when she is dead." + +She gazed again for many seconds at the sleeping woman. + +"But he will not see her, then," she added, rising to her feet and +laying the mirror on the table. + +She began to walk up and down the room as was her habit when in deep +thought, turning over in her mind the deed to be done and the surest +and best way of doing it. It never occurred to her that Beatrice could +be allowed to live beyond that night. If the woman had been but an +unconscious obstacle in her path Unorna would have spared her life, +but as matters stood, she had no inclination to be merciful. + +There was nothing to prevent the possibility of a meeting between +Beatrice and the Wanderer, if Beatrice remained alive. They were in +the same city together, and their paths might cross at any moment. The +Wanderer had forgotten, but it was not sure that the artificial +forgetfulness would be proof against an actual sight of the woman once +so dearly loved. The same consideration was true of Beatrice. She, +too, might be made to forget, though it was always an experiment of +uncertain issue and of more than uncertain result, even when +successful, so far as duration was concerned. Unorna reasoned coldly +with herself, recalling all that Keyork Arabian had told her and all +that she had read. She tried to admit that Beatrice might be disposed +of in some other way, but the difficulties seemed to be +insurmountable. To effect such a disappearance Unorna must find some +safe place in which the wretched woman might drag out her existence +undiscovered. But Beatrice was not like the old beggar who in his +hundredth year had leaned against Unorna's door, unnoticed and uncared +for, and had been taken in and had never been seen again. The case was +different. The aged scholar, too, had been cared for as he could not +have been cared for elsewhere, and, in the event of an inquiry being +made, he could be produced at any moment, and would even afford a +brilliant example of Unorna's charitable doings. But Beatrice was a +stranger and a person of some importance in the world. The Cardinal +Archbishop himself had directed the nuns to receive her, and they were +responsible for her safety. To spirit her away in the night would be a +dangerous thing. Wherever she was to be taken, Unorna would have to +lead her there alone. Unorna would herself be missed. Sister Paul +already suspected that the name of Witch was more than a mere +appellation. There would be a search made, and suspicion might easily +fall upon Unorna, who would have been obliged, of course, to conceal +her enemy in her own house for lack of any other convenient place. + +There was no escape from the deed. Beatrice must die. Unorna could +produce death in a form which could leave no trace, and it would be +attributed to a weakness of the heart. Does any one account otherwise +for those sudden deaths which are no longer unfrequent in the world? A +man, a woman, is to all appearances in perfect health. He or she was +last seen by a friend, who describes the conversation accurately, and +expresses astonishment at the catastrophe which followed so closely +upon the visit. He, or she, is found alone by a servant, or a third +person, in a profound lethargy from which neither restoratives nor +violent shocks upon the nerves can produce any awakening. In one hour, +or a few hours, it is over. There is an examination, and the +authorities pronounce an ambiguous verdict--death from a syncope of +the heart. Such things happen, they say, with a shake of the head. +And, indeed, they know that such things really do happen, and they +suspect that they do not happen naturally; but there is no evidence, +not even so much as may be detected in a clever case of vegetable +poisoning. The heart has stopped beating, and death has followed. +There are wise men by the score to-day who do not ask "What made it +stop?" but "Who made it stop?" But they have no evidence to bring, and +the new jurisprudence, which in some countries covers the cases of +thefts and frauds committed under hypnotic suggestion, cannot as yet +lay down the law for cases where a man has been told to die, and dies +--from "weakness of the heart." And yet it is known, and well known, +that by hypnotic suggestion the pulse can be made to fall to the +lowest number of beatings consistent with life, and that the +temperature of the body can be commanded beforehand to stand at a +certain degree and fraction of a degree at a certain hour, high or +low, as may be desired. Let those who do not believe read the accounts +of what is done from day to day in the great European seats of +learning, accounts of which every one bears the name of some man +speaking with authority and responsible to the world of science for +every word he speaks, and doubly so for every word he writes. A few +believe in the antiquated doctrine of electric animal currents, the +vast majority are firm in the belief that the influence is a moral one +--all admit that whatever force, or influence, lies at the root of +hypnotism, the effects it can produce are practically unlimited, +terrible in their comprehensiveness, and almost entirely unprovided +for in the scheme of modern criminal law. + +Unorna was sure of herself, and of her strength to perform what she +contemplated. There lay the dark beauty in the corner of the sofa, +where she had sat and talked so long, and told her last story, the +story of her life which was now to end. A few determined words spoken +in her ear, a pressure of the hand upon the brow and the heart, and +she would never wake again. She would lie there still, until they +found her, hour after hour, the pulse growing weaker and weaker, the +delicate hands colder, the face more set. At the last, there would be +a convulsive shiver of the queenly form, and that would be the end. +The physicians and the authorities would come and would speak of a +weakness of the heart, and there would be masses sung for her soul, +and she would rest in peace. + +Her soul? In peace? Unorna stood still. Was that to be all her +vengeance upon the woman who stood between her and happiness? Was +there to be nothing but that, nothing but the painless passing of the +pure young spirit from earth to heaven? Was no one to suffer for all +Unorna's pain? It was not enough. There must be more than that. And +yet, what more? That was the question. What imaginable wealth of agony +would be a just retribution for her existence? Unorna could lead her, +as she had led Israel Kafka, through the life and death of a martyr, +through a life of wretchedness and a death of shame, but then, the +moment must come at last, since this was to be death indeed, and her +spotless soul would be beyond Unorna's reach forever. No, that was not +enough. Since she could not be allowed to live to be tormented, +vengeance must follow her beyond the end of life. + +Unorna stood still and an awful light of evil came into her face. A +thought of which the enormity would have terrified a common being had +entered her mind and taken possession of it. Beatrice was in her +power. Beatrice should die in mortal sin, and her soul would be lost +for ever. + +For a long time she did not move, but stood looking down at the calm +and lovely face of her sleeping enemy, devising a crime to be imposed +upon her for her eternal destruction. Unorna was very superstitious, +or the hideous scheme could never have presented itself to her. To her +mind the deed was everything, whatever it was to be, and the intention +or the unconsciousness in doing it could have nothing to do with the +consequences to the soul of the doer. She made no theological +distinctions. Beatrice should commit some terrible crime and should +die in committing it. Then she would be lost, and devils would do in +hell the worst torment which Unorna could not do on earth. A crime--a +robbery, a murder--it must be done in the convent. Unorna hesitated, +bending her brows and poring in imagination over the dark catalogue of +all imaginable evil. + +A momentary and vague terror cast its shadow on her thoughts. By some +accident of connection between two ideas, her mind went back a month, +and reviewed as in a flash of light all that she had thought and done +since that day. She had greatly changed since then. She could think +calmly now of deeds which even she would not have dared then. She +thought of the evening when she had cried aloud that she would give +her soul to know the Wanderer safe, of the quick answer that had +followed, and of Keyork Arabian's face. Was he a devil, indeed, as she +sometimes fancied, and had there been a reality and a binding meaning +in that contract? + +Keyork Arabian! He, indeed, possessed the key to all evil. What would +he have done with Beatrice? Would he make her rob the church--murder +the abbess in her sleep? Bad, but not bad enough. + +Unorna started. A deed suggested itself so hellish, so horrible in its +enormity, so far beyond all conceivable human sin, that for one moment +her brain reeled. She shuddered again and again, and groped for +support and leaned against the wall in a bodily weakness of terror. +For one moment she, who feared nothing, was shaken by fear from head +to foot, her face turned white, her knees shook, her sight failed her, +her teeth chattered, her lips moved hysterically. + +But she was strong still. The thing she had sought had come to her +suddenly. She set her teeth, and thought of it again and again, till +she could face the horror of it without quaking. Is there any limit to +the hardening of the human heart? + +The distant bells rang out the call to midnight prayer. Unorna stopped +and listened. She had not known how quickly time was passing. But it +was better so. She was glad it was so late, and she said so to +herself, but the evil smile that was sometimes in her face was not +there now. She had thought a thought that left a mark on her forehead. +Was there any reality in that jesting contract with Keyork Arabian? + +She must wait before she did the deed. The nuns would go down into the +lighted church, and kneel and pray before the altar. It would last +some time, the midnight lessons, the psalms, the prayers--and she must +be sure that all was quiet, for the deed could not be done in the room +where Beatrice was sleeping. + +She was conscious of the time now, and every minute seemed an hour, +and every second was full of that one deed, done over and over again +before her eyes, until every awful detail of the awful whole was +stamped indelibly upon her brain. She had sat down now, and leaning +forwards, was watching the innocent woman and wondering how she would +look when she was doing it. But she was calm now, as she felt that she +had never been in her life. Her breath came evenly, her heart beat +naturally, she thought connectedly of what she was about to do. But +the time seemed endless. + +The distant clocks chimed the half hour, three-quarters, past +midnight. Still she waited. At the stroke of one she rose from her +seat, and standing beside Beatrice laid her hand upon the dark brow. + +A few questions, a few answers followed. She must assure herself that +her victim was in the right state to execute minutely all her +commands. Then she opened the door upon the corridor and listened. Not +a sound broke the intense stillness, and all was dark. The hanging +lamp had been extinguished and the nuns had all returned from the +midnight service to their cells. No one would be stirring now until +four o'clock, and half an hour was all that Unorna needed. + +She took Beatrice's hand. The dark woman rose with half-closed eyes +and set features. Unorna led her out into the dark passage. + +"It is light here," Unorna said. "You can see your way. But I am +blind. Take my hand--so--and now lead me to the church by the nun's +staircase. Make no noise." + +"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. The staircase is on the right of the door, and leads into +the choir. Go!" + +Without hesitation Beatrice led her out into the impenetrable gloom, +with swift, noiseless footsteps in the direction commanded, never +wavering nor hesitating whether to turn to the right or the left, but +walking as confidently as though in broad daylight. Unorna counted the +turnings and knew that there was no mistake. Beatrice was leading her +unerringly towards the staircase. They reached it, and began to +descend the winding steps. Unorna, holding her leader by one hand, +steadied herself with the other against the smooth, curved wall, +fearing at every moment lest she should stumble and fall in the total +darkness. But Beatrice never faltered. To her the way was as bright as +though the noonday sun had shone before her. + +The stairs ended abruptly against a door. Beatrice stood still. She +had received no further commands and the impulse ceased. + +"Draw back the bolt and take me into the church," said Unorna, who +could see nothing, but who knew that the nuns fastened the door behind +them when they returned into the convent. Beatrice obeyed without +hesitation and led her forward. + +They came out between the high carved seats of the choir, behind the +high altar. The church was not quite as dark as the staircase and +passages had been, and Unorna stood still for a moment. In some of the +chapels hanging lamps of silver were lighted, and their tiny flames +spread a faint radiance upwards and sideways, though not downwards, +sufficient to break the total obscurity to eyes accustomed for some +minutes to no light at all. The church stood, too, on a little +eminence in the city, where the air without was less murky and +impenetrable with the night mists, and though there was no moon the +high upper windows of the nave were distinctly visible in the gloomy +height like great lancet-shaped patches of gray upon a black ground. + +In the dimness, all objects took vast and mysterious proportions. A +huge giant reared his height against one of the pillars, crowned with +a high, pointed crown, stretching out one great shadowy hand into the +gloom--the tall pulpit was there, as Unorna knew, and the hand was the +wooden crucifix standing out in its extended socket. The black +confessionals, too, took shape, like monster nuns, kneeling in their +heavy hoods and veils, with heads inclined, behind the fluted +pilasters, just within the circle of the feeble chapel lights. Within +the choir, the deep shadows seemed to fill the carved stalls with the +black ghosts of long dead sisters, returned to their familiar seats +out of the damp crypt below. The great lectern in the midst of the +half circle behind the high altar became a hideous skeleton, headless, +its straight arms folded on its bony breast. The back of the high +altar itself was a great throne whereon sat in judgment a misty being +of awful form, judging the dead women all through the lonely night. +The stillness was appalling. Not a rat stirred. + +Unorna shuddered, not at what she saw, but at what she felt. She had +reached the place, and the doing of the deed was at hand. Beatrice +stood beside her erect, asleep, motionless, her dark face just +outlined in the surrounding dusk. + +Unorna took her hand and led her forwards. She could see now, and the +moment had come. She brought Beatrice before the high altar and made +her stand in front of it. Then she herself went back and groped for +something in the dark. It was the pair of small wooden steps upon +which the priest mounts in order to open the golden door of the high +tabernacle above the altar, when it is necessary to take therefrom the +Sacred Host for the Benediction, or other consecrated wafers for the +administration of the Communion. To all Christians, of all +denominations whatsoever, the bread-wafer when once consecrated is a +holy thing. To Catholics and Lutherans there is there, substantially, +the Presence of God. No imaginable act of sacrilege can be more +unpardonable than the desecration of the tabernacle and the wilful +defilement and destruction of the Sacred Host. + +This was Unorna's determination. Beatrice should commit this crime +against Heaven, and then die with the whole weight of it upon her +soul, and thus should her soul itself be tormented for ever and ever +to ages of ages. + +Considering what she believed, it is no wonder that she should have +shuddered at the tremendous thought. And yet, in the distortion of her +reasoning, the sin would be upon Beatrice who did the act, and not +upon herself who commanded it. There was no diminution of her own +faith in the sacredness of the place and the holiness of the +consecrated object--had she been one whit less sure of that, her +vengeance would have been vain and her whole scheme meaningless. + +She came back out of the darkness and set the wooden steps in their +place before the altar at Beatrice's feet. Then, as though to save +herself from all participation in the guilt of the sacrilege which was +to follow, she withdrew outside the Communion rail, and closed the +gate behind her. + +Beatrice, obedient to her smallest command, and powerless to move or +act without her suggestion, stood still as she had been placed, with +her back to the church and her face to the altar. Above her head the +richly wrought door of the tabernacle caught what little light there +was and reflected it from its own uneven surface. + +Unorna paused a moment, looked at the shadowy figure, and then glanced +behind her into the body of the church, not out of any ghostly fear, +but to assure herself that she was alone with her victim. She saw that +all was quite ready, and then she calmly knelt down just upon one side +of the gate and rested her folded hands upon the marble railing. A +moment of intense stillness followed. Again the thought of Keyork +Arabian flashed across her mind. Had there been any reality, she +vaguely wondered, in that compact made with him? What was she doing +now? But the crime was to be Beatrice's, not hers. Her heart beat fast +for a moment, and then she grew very calm again. + +The clock in the church tower chimed the first quarter past one. She +was able to count the strokes and was glad to find that she had lost +no time. As soon as the long, singing echo of the bells had died away, +she spoke, not loudly, but clearly and distinctly. + +"Beatrice Varanger, go forward and mount the steps I have placed for +you." + +The dark figure moved obediently, and Unorna heard the slight sound of +Beatrice's foot upon the wood. The shadowy form rose higher and higher +in the gloom, and stood upon the altar itself. + +"Now do as I command you. Open wide the door of the tabernacle." + +Unorna watched the black form intently. It seemed to stretch out its +hand as though searching for something, and then the arm fell again to +the side. + +"Do as I command you," Unorna repeated with the angry and dominant +intonation that always came into her voice when she was not obeyed. + +Again the hand was raised for a moment, groped in the darkness and +sank down into the shadow. + +"Beatrice Varanger, you must do my will. I order you to open the door +of the tabernacle, to take out what is within and to throw it to the +ground!" Her voice rang clearly through the church. "And may the crime +be on your soul for ever and ever," she added in a low voice. + +A third time the figure moved. A strange flash of light played for a +moment upon the tabernacle, the effect, Unorna thought, of the golden +door being suddenly opened. + +But she was wrong. The figure moved, indeed, and stretched out a hand +and moved again. A sudden crash of something very heavy, falling upon +stone, broke the great stillness--the dark form tottered, reeled and +fell to its length upon the great altar. Unorna saw that the golden +door was still closed, and that Beatrice had fallen. Unable to move or +act by her own free judgment, and compelled by Unorna's determined +command, she had made a desperate effort to obey. Unorna had forgotten +that there was a raised step upon the altar itself, and that there +were other obstacles in the way, including heavy candlesticks and the +framed Canon of the Mass, all of which are usually set aside before +the tabernacle is opened by the priest. In attempting to do as she was +told, the sleeping woman had stumbled, had overbalanced herself, had +clutched one of the great silver candlesticks so that it fell heavily +beside her, and then, having no further support, she had fallen +herself. + +Unorna sprang to her feet and hastily opened the gate of the railing. +In a moment she was standing by the altar at Beatrice's head. She +could see that the dark eyes were open now. The great shock had +recalled her to consciousness. + +"Where am I?" she asked in great distress, seeing nothing in the +darkness now, and groping with her hands. + +"Sleep--be silent and sleep!" said Unorna in low, firm tones, pressing +her palm upon the forehead. + +"No--no!" cried the startled woman in a voice of horror. "No--I will +not sleep--no, do not touch me! Oh, where am I--help! Help!" + +She was not hurt. With one strong, lithe movement, she sprang to the +ground and stood with her back to the altar, her hands stretched out +to defend herself from Unorna. But Unorna knew what extreme danger she +was in if Beatrice left the church awake and conscious of what had +happened. She seized the moving arms and tried to hold them down, +pressing her face forward so as to look into the dark eyes she could +but faintly distinguish. It was no easy matter, however, for Beatrice +was young and strong and active. Then all at once she began to see +Unorna's eyes, as Unorna could see hers, and she felt the terrible +influence stealing over her again. + +"No--no--no!" she cried, struggling desperately. "You shall not make +me sleep. I will not--I will not!" + +There was a flash of light again in the church, this time from behind +the high altar, and the noise of quick footsteps. But neither Unorna +nor Beatrice noticed the light or the sound. Then the full glow of a +strong lamp fell upon the faces of both and dazzled them, and Unorna +felt a cool thin hand upon her own. Sister Paul was beside them, her +face very white and her faded eyes turning from the one to the other. + +It was very simple. Soon after Compline was over the nun had gone to +Unorna's room, had knocked and had entered. To her surprise Unorna was +not there, but Sister Paul imagined that she had lingered over her +prayers and would soon return. The good nun had sat down to wait for +her, and telling her beads had fallen asleep. The unaccustomed warmth +and comfort of the guest's room had been too much for the weariness +that constantly oppressed a constitution broken with ascetic +practices. Accustomed by long habit to awake at midnight to attend the +service, her eyes opened of themselves, indeed, but a full hour later +than usual. She heard the clock strike one, and for a moment could not +believe her senses. Then she understood that she had been asleep, and +was amazed to find that Unorna had not come back. She went out hastily +into the corridor. The lay sister had long ago extinguished the +hanging lamp, but Sister Paul saw the light streaming from Beatrice's +open door. She went in and called aloud. The bed had not been touched. +Beatrice was not there. Sister Paul began to think that both the +ladies must have gone to the midnight service. The corridors were dark +and they might have lost their way. She took the lamp from the table +and went to the balcony at which the guests performed their devotion. +It had been her light that had flashed across the door of the +tabernacle. She had looked down into the choir, and far below her had +seen a figure, unrecognisable from that height in the dusk of the +church, but clearly the figure of a woman standing upon the altar. +Visions of horror rose before her eyes of the sacrilegious practices +of witchcraft, for she had thought of nothing else during the whole +evening. Lamp in hand she descended the stairs to the choir and +reached the altar, providentially, just in time to save Beatrice from +falling a victim again to the evil fascination of the enemy who had +planned the destruction of her soul as well as of her body. + +"What is this? What are you doing in this holy place and at this +hour?" asked Sister Paul, solemnly and sternly. + +Unorna folded her arms and was silent. No possible explanation of the +struggle presented itself even to her quick intellect. She fixed her +eyes on the nun's face, concentrating all her will, for she knew that +unless she could control her also, she herself was lost. Beatrice +answered the question, drawing herself up proudly against the great +altar and pointing at Unorna with her outstretched hand, her dark eyes +flashing indignantly. + +"We were talking together, this woman and I. She looked at me--she was +angry--and then I fainted, or fell asleep, I cannot tell which. I +awoke in the dark to find myself lying upon the altar here. Then she +took hold of me and tried to make me sleep again. But I would not. Let +her explain, herself, what she has done, and why she brought me here!" + +Sister Paul turned to Unorna and met the full glare of the unlike +eyes, with her own calm, half heavenly look of innocence. + +"What have you done, Unorna? What have you done?" she asked very +sadly. + +But Unorna did not answer. She only looked at the nun more fixedly and +savagely. She felt that she might as well have looked upon some +ancient picture of a saint in heaven, and bid it close its eyes. But +she would not give up the attempt, for her only safety lay in its +success. For a long time Sister Paul returned her gaze steadily. + +"Sleep!" said Unorna, putting up her hand. "Sleep, I command you!" + +But Sister Paul's eyes did not waver. A sad smile played for a moment +upon her waxen features. + +"You have no power over me--for your power is not of good," she said, +slowly and softly. + +Then she quietly turned to Beatrice, and took her hand. + +"Come with me, my daughter," she said. "I have a light and will take +you to a place where you will be safe. She will not trouble you any +more to-night. Say a prayer, my child, and do not be afraid." + +"I am not afraid," said Beatrice. "But where is she?" she asked +suddenly. + +Unorna had glided away while they were speaking. Sister Paul held the +lamp high and looked in all directions. Then she heard the heavy door +of the sacristy swing upon its hinges and strike with a soft thud +against the small leathern cushion. Both women followed her, but as +they opened the door again a blast of cold air almost extinguished the +lamp. The night wind was blowing in from the street. + +"She is gone out," said Sister Paul. "Alone and at this hour--Heaven +help her!" It was as she said, Unorna had escaped. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +After leaving Unorna at the convent, the Wanderer had not hesitated as +to the course he should pursue. It was quite clear that the only +person to whom he could apply at the present juncture was Keyork +Arabian. Had he been at liberty to act in the most natural and simple +way, he would have applied to the authorities for a sufficient force +with which to take Israel Kafka into custody as a dangerous lunatic. +He was well aware, however, that such a proceeding must lead to an +inquiry of a more or less public nature, of which the consequences +might be serious, or at least extremely annoying, to Unorna. Of the +inconvenience to which he might himself be exposed, he would have +taken little account, though his position would have been as difficult +to explain as any situation could be. The important point was to +prevent the possibility of Unorna's name being connected with an open +scandal. Every present circumstance in the case was directly or +indirectly the result of Unorna's unreasoning passion for himself, and +it was clearly his duty, as a man of honour, to shield her from the +consequences of her own acts, as far as lay in his power. + +He did not indeed believe literally all that she had told him in her +mad confession. Much of that, he was convinced, was but a delusion. It +might be possible, indeed, for Unorna to produce forgetfulness of such +a dream as she impressed upon Kafka's mind in the cemetery that same +afternoon, or even, perhaps, of some real circumstance of merely +relative importance in a man's life; but the Wanderer could not +believe that it was in her power to destroy the memory of the great +passion through which she pretended that he himself had passed. He +smiled at the idea, for he had always trusted his own senses and his +own memory. Unorna's own mind was clearly wandering, or else she had +invented the story, supposing him credulous enough to believe it. In +either case it did not deserve a moment's consideration except as +showing to what lengths her foolish and ill-bestowed love could lead +her. + +Meanwhile she was in danger. She had aroused the violent and deadly +resentment of Israel Kafka, a man who, if not positively insane, as +Keyork Arabian had hinted, was by no means in a normal state of mind +or body, a man beside himself with love and anger, and absolutely +reckless of life for the time being, a man who, for the security of +all concerned, must be at least temporarily confined in a place of +safety, until a proper treatment and the lapse of a certain length of +time should bring him to his senses. For the present, he was wholly +untractable, being at the mercy of the most uncontrolled passions and +of one of those intermittent phases of blind fatalism to which the +Semitic races are peculiarly subject. + +There were two reasons which determined the Wanderer to turn to Keyork +Arabian for assistance, besides his wish to see the bad business end +quickly and without publicity. Keyork, so far as the Wanderer was +aware, was himself treating Israel Kafka's case, and would therefore +know what to do, if any one knew at all. Secondly, it was clear from +the message which Unorna had left with the porter of her own house +that she expected Keyork to come at any moment. He was then in +immediate danger of being brought face to face with Israel Kafka +without having received the least warning of his present condition, +and it was impossible to say what the infuriated youth might do at +such a moment. He had been shut up, caught in his own trap, as it +were, for some time, and his anger and madness might reasonably be +supposed to have been aggravated rather than cooled by his unexpected +confinement. It was as likely as not that he would use the weapon he +carried upon the first person with whom he found himself face to face, +especially if that person made any attempt to overpower and disarm +him. + +The Wanderer drove to Keyork Arabian's house, and leaving his carriage +to wait in case of need, ascended the stairs and knocked at the door. +For some reason or other Keyork would not have a bell in his dwelling, +whether because, like Mahomet, he regarded the bell as the devil's +instrument, or because he was really nervously sensitive to the sound +of one, nobody had ever discovered. The Wanderer knocked therefore, +and Keyork answered the knock in person. + +"My dear friend!" he exclaimed in his richest and deepest voice, as he +recognised the Wanderer. "Come in. I am delighted to see you. You will +join me at supper. This is good indeed!" + +He took his visitor by the arm and led him in. Upon one of the tables +stood a round brass platter covered, so far as it was visible, with +Arabic inscriptions, and highly polished--one of those commonly used +all over the East at the present day for the same purpose. Upon this +were placed at random several silver bowls, mere hemispheres without +feet, remaining in a convenient position by their own weight. One of +these contained snowy rice, in that perfectly dry but tender state +dear to the taste of Orientals, in another there was a savoury, +steaming mess of tender capon, chopped in pieces with spices and +aromatic herbs, a third contained a pure white curd of milk, and a +fourth was heaped up with rare fruits. A flagon of Bohemian glass, +clear and bright as rock-crystal, and covered with very beautiful +traceries of black and gold, with a drinking-vessel of the same +design, stood upon the table beside the platter. + +"My simple meal," said Keyork, spreading out his hands, and smiling +pleasantly. "You will share it with me. There will be enough for two." + +"So far as I am concerned, I should say so," the Wanderer answered +with a smile. "But my business is rather urgent." + +Suddenly he saw that there was a third person in the room, and glanced +at Keyork in surprise. + +"I want to speak a few words with you alone," he said. "I would not +trouble you but----" + +"Not in the least, not in the least, my dear friend!" asseverated +Keyork, motioning him to a chair beside the board. + +"But we are not alone," observed the Wanderer, still standing and +looking at the stranger. Keyork saw the glance and understood. He +broke into peals of laughter. + +"That!" he exclaimed, presently. "That is only the Individual. He will +not disturb us. Pray be seated." + +"I assure you that my business is very private--" the Wanderer +objected. + +"Quite so--of course. But there is nothing to fear. The Individual is +my servant--a most excellent creature who has been with me for many +years. He cooks for me, cleans the specimens, and takes care of me in +all ways. A most reliable man, I assure you." + +"Of course, if you can answer for his discretion----" + +The Individual was standing at a little distance from the table +observing the two men intently but respectfully with his keen little +black eyes. The rest of his square, dark face expressed nothing. He +had perfectly straight, jet-black hair which hung evenly all around +his head and flat against his cheeks. He was dressed entirely in a +black robe of the nature of a kaftan, gathered closely round his waist +by a black girdle, and fitting tightly over his stalwart shoulders. + +"His discretion is beyond all doubt," Keyork answered, "and for the +best of all reasons. He is totally deaf and dumb and absolutely +illiterate. I brought him years ago in Astrakhan, of a Russian friend. +He is very clever with his fingers. It is he who stole for me the +Malayan lady's head over there, after she was executed. And now, my +dear friend, let us have supper." + +There were neither plates nor knives nor forks upon the table, and at +a sign from Keyork the Individual retired to procure those Western +incumbrances to eating. The Wanderer, acquainted as he had long been +with his host's eccentricities, showed little surprise, but understood +that whatever he said would not be overheard, any more than if they +had been alone. He hesitated a moment, however, for he had not +determined exactly how far it was necessary to acquaint Keyork with +the circumstances, and he was anxious to avoid all reference to +Unorna's folly in regard to himself. The Individual returned, +bringing, with other things, a drinking-glass for the Wanderer. Keyork +filled it and then filled his own. It was clear that ascetic practices +formed no part of his scheme for the prolongation of life. As he +raised his glass to his lips, his bright eyes twinkled. + +"To Keyork's long life and happiness," he said calmly, and then sipped +the wine. "And now for your story," he added, brushing the brown drops +from his white moustache with a small damask napkin which the +Individual presented to him and immediately received again, to throw +it aside as unfit for a second use. + +"I hardly think that we can afford to linger over supper," the +Wanderer said, noticing Keyork's coolness with some anxiety. "The case +is urgent. Israel Kafka has lost his head completely. He has sworn to +kill Unorna, and is at the present moment confined in the conservatory +in her house." + +The effect of the announcement upon Keyork was so extraordinary that +the Wanderer started, not being prepared for any manifestation of what +seemed to be the deepest emotion. The gnome sprang from the table with +a cry that would have been like the roar of a wounded wild beast if it +had not articulated a terrific blasphemy. + +"Unorna is quite safe," the Wanderer hastened to say. + +"Safe--where?" shouted the little man, his hands already on his furs. +The Individual, too, had sprung across the room like a cat and was +helping him. In five seconds Keyork would have been out of the house. + +"In a convent. I took her there, and saw the gate close behind her." + +Keyork dropped his furs and stood still a moment. The Individual, +always unmoved, rearranged the coat and cap neatly in their place, +following all his master's movements, however, with his small eyes. +Then the sage broke out in a different strain. He flung his arms round +the Wanderer's body and attempted to embrace him. + +"You have saved my life!--the curse of the three black angels on you +for not saying so first!" he cried in an agony of ecstasy. "Preserver! +What can I do for you?--Saviour of my existence, how can I repay you! +You shall live forever, as I will; you shall have all my secrets; the +gold spider shall spin her web in your dwelling; the Part of Fortune +shall shine on your path, it shall rain jewels on your roof; and your +winter shall have snows of pearls--you shall--" + +"Good Heavens! Keyork," interrupted the Wanderer. "Are you mad? What +is the matter with you?" + +"Mad? The matter? I love you! I worship you! I adore you! You have +saved her life, and you have saved mine; you have almost killed me +with fright and joy in two moments, you have--" + +"Be sensible, Keyork. Unorna is quite safe, but we must do something +about Kafka and--" + +The rest of his speech was drowned in another shout from the gnome, +ending in a portentous peal of laughter. He had taken his glass again +and was toasting himself. + +"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. + +"Perfectly," returned Keyork, growing quite calm again. "The locks are +very good on those doors. I saw to them myself." + +"But some one else--" + +"There is no some one else," interrupted the sage sharply. "Only three +persons can enter the house without question--you, I, and Kafka. You +and I are here, and Kafka is there already. When we have eaten we will +go to him, and I flatter myself that the last state of the young man +will be so immeasurably worse than the first, that he will not +recognise himself when I have done with him." + +He had helped his friend and began eating. Somewhat reassured the +Wanderer followed his example. Under the circumstances it was as well +to take advantage of the opportunity for refreshment. No one could +tell what might happen before morning. + +"It just occurs to me," said Keyork, fixing his keen eyes on his +companion's face, "that you have told me absolutely nothing, except +that Kafka is mad and that Unorna is safe." + +"Those are the most important points," observed the Wanderer. + +"Precisely. But I am sure that you will not think me indiscreet if I +wish to know a little more. For instance, what was the immediate cause +of Kafka's extremely theatrical and unreasonable rage? That would +interest me very much. Of course, he is mad, poor boy! But I take +delight in following out the workings of an insane intellect. Now +there are no phases of insanity more curious than those in which the +patient is possessed with a desire to destroy what he loves best. +These cases are especially worthy of study because they happen so +often in our day." + +The Wanderer saw that some explanation was necessary and he determined +to give one in as few words as possible. + +"Unorna and I had strolled into the Jewish Cemetery," he said. "While +we were talking there, Israel Kafka suddenly came upon us and spoke +and acted very wildly. He is madly in love with her. She became very +angry and would not let me interfere. Then, by way of punishment for +his intrusion I suppose, she hypnotised him and made him believe that +he was Simon Abeles, and brought the whole of the poor boy's life so +vividly before me, as I listened, that I actually seemed to see the +scenes. I was quite unable to stop her or to move from where I stood, +though I was quite awake. But I realised what was going on and I was +disgusted at her cruelty to the unfortunate man. He fainted at the +end, but when he came to himself he seemed to remember nothing. I took +him home and Unorna went away by herself. Then he questioned me so +closely as to what had happened that I was weak enough to tell him the +truth. Of course, as a fervent Hebrew, which he seems to be, he did +not relish the idea of having played the Christian martyr for Unorna's +amusement, and amidst the graves of his own people. He there and then +impressed me that he intended to take Unorna's life without delay, but +insisted that I should warn her of her danger, saying that he would +not be a common murderer. Seeing that he was mad and in earnest I went +to her. There was some delay, which proved fortunate, as it turned +out, for we left the conservatory by the small door just as he was +entering from the other end. We locked it behind us, and going round +by the passages locked the other door upon him also, so that he was +caught in a trap. And there he is, unless some one has let him out." + +"And then you took Unorna to the convent?" Keyork had listened +attentively. + +"I took her to the convent, promising to come to her when she should +send for me. Then I saw that I must consult you before doing anything +more. It will not do to make a scandal of the matter." + +"No," answered Keyork thoughtfully. "It will not do." + +The Wanderer had told his story with perfect truth and yet in a way +which entirely concealed the very important part Unorna's passion for +him had played in the sequence of events. Seeing that Keyork asked no +further questions he felt satisfied that he had accomplished his +purpose as he had intended, and that the sage suspected nothing. He +would have been very much disconcerted had he known that the latter +had long been aware of Unorna's love, and was quite able to guess at +the cause of Kafka's sudden appearance and extreme excitement. Indeed, +so soon as he had finished the short narrative, his mind reverted with +curiosity to Keyork himself, and he wondered what the little man had +meant by his amazing outburst of gratitude on hearing of Unorna's +safety. Perhaps he loved her. More impossible things than that had +occurred in the Wanderer's experience. Or, possibly, he had an object +to gain in exaggerating his thankfulness to Unorna's preserver. He +knew that Keyork rarely did anything without an object, and that, +although he was occasionally very odd and excitable, he was always in +reality perfectly well aware of what he was doing. He was roused from +his speculations by Keyork's voice. + +"There will be no difficulty in securing Kafka," he said. "The real +question is, what shall we do with him? He is very much in the way at +present, and he must be disposed of at once, or we shall have more +trouble. How infinitely more to the purpose it would have been if he +had wisely determined to cut his own throat instead of Unorna's! But +young men are so thoughtless!" + +"I will only say one thing," said the Wanderer, "and then I will leave +the direction to you. The poor fellow has been driven mad by Unorna's +caprice and cruelty. I am determined that he shall not be made to +suffer gratuitously anything more." + +"Do you think that Unorna was intentionally cruel to him?" inquired +Keyork. "I can hardly believe that. She has not a cruel nature." + +"You would have changed your mind, if you had seen her this afternoon. +But that is not the question. I will not allow him to be ill-treated." + +"No, no! of course not!" Keyork answered with eager assent. "But of +course you will understand that we have to deal with a dangerous +lunatic, and that it may be necessary to use whatever means are most +sure and certain." + +"I shall not quarrel with your means," the Wanderer said quietly, +"provided that there is no unnecessary brutality. If I see anything of +the kind I will take the matter into my own hands." + +"Certainly, certainly!" said the other, eyeing with curiosity the man +who spoke so confidently of taking out of Keyork Arabian's grasp +whatever had once found its way into it. + +"He shall be treated with every consideration," the Wanderer +continued. "Of course, if he is very violent, we shall have to use +force." + +"We will take the Individual with us," said Keyork. "He is very +strong. He has a trick of breaking silver florins with his thumbs and +fingers which is very pretty." + +"I fancy that you and I could manage him. It is a pity that neither of +us has the faculty of hypnotising. This would be the proper time to +use it." + +"A great pity. But there are other things that will do almost as +well." + +"What, for instance?" + +"A little ether in a sponge. He would only struggle a moment, and then +he would be much more really unconscious than if he had been +hypnotised." + +"Is it quite painless?" + +"Quite, if you give it gradually. If you hurry the thing, the man +feels as though he were being smothered. But the real difficulty is +what to do with him, as I said before." + +"Take him home and get a keeper from the lunatic asylum," the Wanderer +suggested. + +"Then comes the whole question of an inquiry into his sanity," +objected Keyork. "We come back to the starting-point. We must settle +all this before we go to him. A lunatic asylum is not a club in this +country. There is a great deal of formality connected with getting +into it, and a great deal more connected with getting out. Now, I +could not get a keeper for Kafka without going to the physician in +charge and making a statement, and demanding an examination, and all +the rest of it. And Israel Kafka is a person of importance among his +own people. He comes of great Jews in Moravia, and we should have the +whole Jews' quarter--which means nearly the whole of Prague, in a +broad sense--about our ears in twenty-four hours. No, no, my friend. +To avoid an enormous scandal things must be done very quietly indeed." + +"I cannot see anything to be done, then, unless we bring him here," +said the Wanderer, falling into the trap from sheer perplexity. +Everything that Keyork had said was undeniably true. + +"He would be a nuisance in the house," answered the sage, not wishing, +for reasons of his own, to appear to accept the proposition too +eagerly. "Not but that the Individual would make a capital keeper. He +is as gentle as he is strong, and as quick as a tiger-cat." + +"So far as that is concerned," said the Wanderer coolly, "I could take +charge of him myself, if you did not object to my presence." + +"You do not trust me," said the other, with a sharp glance. + +"My dear Keyork, we are old acquaintances, and I trust you implicitly +to do whatever you have predetermined to do for the advantage of your +studies, unless some one interferes with you. You have no more respect +for human life or sympathy for human suffering than you have belief in +the importance of anything not conducive to your researches. I am +perfectly well aware that if you thought you could learn something by +making experiments upon the body of Israel Kafka, you would not +scruple to make a living mummy of him, you would do it without the +least hesitation. I should expect to find him with his head cut off, +living by means of a glass heart and thinking through a rabbit's +brain. That is the reason why I do not trust you. Before I could +deliver him into your hands, I would require of you a contract to give +him back unhurt--and a contract of the kind you would consider +binding." + +Keyork Arabian wondered whether Unorna, in the recklessness of her +passion, had betrayed the nature of the experiment they had been +making together, but a moment's reflection told him that he need have +no anxiety on this score. He understood the Wanderer's nature too well +to suspect him of wishing to convey a covert hint instead of saying +openly what was in his mind. + +"Taste one of these oranges," he said, by way of avoiding an answer. +"they have just come from Smyrna." The Wanderer smiled as he took the +proffered fruit. + +"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. So far from taking your distrust +ill, I regard it as a providentially fortunate bias of your mind, +since it will keep us together for a time. You will be the only loser. +You see how simply I live." + +"There is a simplicity which is the extremest development of refined +sybarism," the Wanderer said, smiling again. "I know your simplicity +of old. It consists of getting precisely what you want, and in +producing local earthquakes and revolutions when you cannot get it. +Moreover you want what is good--to the taste, at least." + +"There is something in that," answered Keyork with a merry twinkle in +his eye. "Happiness is a matter of speculation. Comfort is a matter of +fact. Most men are uncomfortable, because they do not know what they +want. If you have tastes, study them. If you have intelligence, apply +it to the question of gratifying your tastes. Consult yourself first-- +and nobody second. Consider this orange--I am fond of oranges and they +suit my constitution admirably. Consider the difficulty I have had in +procuring it at this time of year--not in the wretched condition in +which they are sold in the market, plucked half green in Spain or +Italy and ripened on the voyage in the fermenting heat of the decay of +those which are already rotten--but ripe from the tree and brought to +me directly by the shortest and quickest means possible. Consider this +orange, I say. Do you vainly imagine that if I had but two or three +like it I would offer you one?" + +"I would not be so rash as to imagine anything of the kind, my dear +Keyork. I know you very well. If you offer me one it is because you +have a week's supply at least." + +"Exactly," said Keyork. "And a few to spare, because they will only +keep a week as I like them, and because I would no more run the risk +of missing my orange a week hence for your sake, than I would deprive +myself of it to-day." + +"And that is your simplicity." + +"That is my simplicity. It is indeed a perfectly simple matter, for +there is only one idea in it, and in all things I carry that one idea +out to its ultimate expression. That one idea, as you very well put +it, is to have exactly what I want in this world." + +"And will you be getting what you want in having me quartered upon you +as poor Israel Kafka's keeper?" asked the Wanderer, with an expression +of amusement. But Keyork did not wince. + +"Precisely," he answered without hesitation. "In the first place you +will relieve me of much trouble and responsibility, and the Individual +will not be so often called away from his manifold and important +household duties. In the second place I shall have a most agreeable +and intelligent companion with whom I can talk as long as I like. In +the third place I shall undoubtedly satisfy my curiosity." + +"In what respect, if you please?" + +"I shall discover the secret of your wonderful interest in Israel +Kafka's welfare. I always like to follow the workings of a brain +essentially different from my own, philanthropic, of course. How could +it be anything else? Philanthropy deals with a class of ideas wholly +unfamiliar to me. I shall learn much in your society." + +"And possibly I shall learn something from you," the Wanderer +answered. "There is certainly much to be learnt. I wonder whether your +ideas upon all subjects are as simple as those you hold about +oranges." + +"Absolutely. I make no secret of my principles. Everything I do is for +my own advantage." + +"Then," observed the Wanderer, "the advantage of Unorna's life must be +an enormous one to you, to judge by your satisfaction at her safety." + +Keyork stared at him a moment and then laughed, but less heartily and +loudly than usual his companion fancied. + +"Very good!" he exclaimed. "Excellent! I fell into the trap like a rat +into a basin of water. You are indeed an interesting companion, my +dear friend--so interesting that I hope we shall never part again." +There was a rather savage intonation in the last words. + +They looked at each other intently, neither wincing nor lowering his +gaze. The Wanderer saw that he had touched upon Keyork's greatest and +most important secret, and Keyork fancied that his companion knew more +than he actually did. But nothing further was said, for Keyork was far +too wise to enter into explanation, and the Wanderer knew well enough +that if he was to learn anything it must be by observation and not by +questioning. Keyork filled both glasses in silence and both men drank +before speaking again. + +"And now that we have refreshed ourselves," he said, returning +naturally to his former manner, "we will go and find Israel Kafka. It +is as well that we should have given him a little time to himself. He +may have returned to his senses without any trouble on our part. Shall +we take the Individual?" + +"As you please," the Wanderer answered indifferently as he rose from +his place. + +"It is very well for you not to care," observed Keyork. "You are big +and strong and young, whereas I am a little man and very old at that. +I shall take him for my own protection. I confess that I value my life +very highly. It is a part of that simplicity which you despise. That +devil of a Jew is armed, you say?" + +"I saw something like a knife in his hand, as we shut him in," said +the Wanderer with the same indifference as before. + +"Then I will take the Individual," Keyork answered promptly. "A man's +bare hands must be strong and clever to take a man's life in a +scuffle, and few men can use a pistol to any purpose. But a knife is a +weapon of precision. I will take the Individual, decidedly." + +He made a few rapid signs, and the Individual disappeared, coming back +a moment later attired in a long coat not unlike his master's except +that the fur of the great collar was of common fox instead of being of +sable. Keyork drew his peaked cape comfortably down over the tips of +his ears. + +"The ether!" he exclaimed. "How forgetful I am growing! Your charming +conversation had almost made me forget the object of our visit!" + +He went back and took the various things he needed. Then the three men +went out together. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +More than an hour had elapsed since the Wanderer and Unorna had +finally turned the key upon Israel Kafka, leaving him to his own +reflections. During the first moments he made desperate efforts to get +out of the conservatory, throwing himself with all his weight and +strength against the doors and thrusting the point of his long knife +into the small apertures of the locks. Then, seeing that every attempt +was fruitless, he desisted and sat down, in a state of complete +exhaustion. A reaction began to set in after the furious excitement of +the afternoon, and he felt all at once that it would be impossible for +him to make another step or raise his arm to strike. A man less sound +originally in bodily constitution would have broken down sooner, and +it was a proof of Israel Kafka's extraordinary vigour and energy that +he did not lose his senses in a delirious fever at the moment when he +felt that his strength could bear no further strain. + +But his thoughts, such as they were, did not lack clearness. He saw +that his opportunity was gone, and he began to think of the future, +wondering what would take place next. Assuredly when he had come to +Unorna's house with the fixed determination to take her life, the last +thing that he had expected had been to be taken prisoner and left to +his own meditations. It was clear that the Wanderer's warning had been +conveyed without loss of time and had saved Unorna from her immediate +fate. Nevertheless, he did not regret having given her the opportunity +of defending herself. He had not meant that there should be any secret +about the deed, for he was ready to sacrifice his own life in +executing it. + +Yet he was not altogether brave. He had neither Unorna's innate +indifference to physical danger, nor the Wanderer's calm superiority +to fear. He would not have made a good soldier, and he could not have +faced another man's pistol at fifteen paces without experiencing a +mental and bodily commotion not unlike terror, which he might or might +not have concealed from others, but which would in any case have been +painfully apparent to himself. + +It is a noticeable fact in human nature that a man of even ordinary +courage will at any time, when under excitement, risk his life rather +than his happiness. Moreover, an immense number of individuals, +naturally far from brave, destroy their own lives yearly in the moment +when all chances of happiness are temporarily eclipsed. 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. The fact of having +been made to play a part which to him seemed at once blasphemous and +ignoble had indeed turned the scale, but was not the motive. In all +things, the final touch which destroys the balance is commonly +mistaken for the force which has originally produced a state of +unstable equilibrium, whereas there is very often no connection +between the one and the other. The Moravian himself believed that the +sacrifice of Unorna, and of himself afterwards, was to be an expiation +of the outrage Unorna had put upon his faith in his own person. He had +merely seized upon the first excuse which presented itself for ending +all, because he was in reality past hope. + +We have, as yet, no absolute test of sanity, as we have of fever in +the body and of many other unnatural conditions of the human organism. +The only approximately accurate judgments in the patient's favour are +obtained from examinations into the relative consecutiveness and +consistency of thought in the individual examined, when the whole +tendency of that thought is towards an end conceivably approvable by a +majority of men. A great many philosophers and thinkers have +accordingly been pronounced insane at one period of history and have +been held up as models of sanity at another. The most immediately +destructive consequences of individual reasoning on a limited scale, +murder and suicide, have been successively regarded as heroic acts, as +criminal deeds, and as the deplorable but explicable actions of +irresponsible beings in consecutive ages of violence, strict law and +humanitarianism. It seems to be believed that the combination of +murder and suicide is more commonly observed under the last of the +three reigns than it was under the first; it was undoubtedly least +common under the second. In other words it appears probable that the +practice of considering certain crimes as the result of insanity has a +tendency to make those crimes increase in number, as they undoubtedly +increase in barbarity, from year to year. Meanwhile, however, no +definite conclusion has been reached as to the state of mind of a man +who murders the woman he loves and then ends his own life. + +Israel Kafka may therefore be regarded as mad or sane. In favour of +the theory of his madness the total uselessness of the deed he +contemplated may be adduced; on the other hand the extremely +consecutive and consistent nature of his thoughts and actions gives +evidence of his sanity. + +When he found himself a prisoner in Unorna's conservatory, his +intention underwent no change though his body was broken with fatigue +and his nerves with the long continued strain of a terrible +excitement. His determination was as cool and as fixed as ever. + +These somewhat dry reflections seem necessary to the understanding of +what followed. + +The key turned in the lock and the bolt was slipped back. Instantly +Israel Kafka's energy returned. He rose quickly and hid himself in the +shrubbery, in a position from which he could observe the door. He had +seen Unorna enter before and had of course heard her cry before the +Wanderer had carried her away, and he had believed that she had wished +to face him, either with the intention of throwing herself upon his +mercy or in the hope of dominating him with her eyes as she had so +often done before. Of course, he had no means of knowing that she had +already left the house. He imagined that the Wanderer had gone and +that Unorna, being freed from his restraint, was about to enter the +place again. The door opened and the three men came in. Kafka's first +idea, on seeing himself disappointed, was that they had come to take +him into custody, and his first impulse was to elude them. + +The Wanderer entered first, tall, stately, indifferent, the quick +glance of his deep eyes alone betraying that he was looking for some +one. Next came Keyork Arabian, muffled still in his furs, turning his +head sharply from side to side in the midst of the sable collar that +half buried it, and evidently nervous. Last of all the Individual, who +had divested himself of his outer coat and whose powerful proportions +did not escape Israel Kafka's observation. It was clear that if there +were a struggle it could have but one issue. Kafka would be +overpowered. His knowledge of the disposition of the plants and trees +offered him a hope of escape. The three men had entered the +conservatory, and if he could reach the door before they noticed him, +he could lock it upon them, as it had been locked upon himself. He +could hear their footsteps on the marble pavement very near him, and +he caught glimpses of their moving figures through the thick leaves. + +With cat-like tread he glided along in the shadows of the foliage +until he could see the door. From the entrance an open way was left in +a straight line towards the middle of the hall, down which his +pursuers were still slowly walking. He must cross an open space in the +line of their vision in order to get out, and he calculated the +distance to be traversed, while listening to their movements, until he +felt sure that they were so far from the door as not to be able to +reach him. Then he made his attempt, darting across the smooth +pavement with his knife in his hand. There was no one in the way. + +Then came a violent shock and he was held as in a vice, so tightly +that he could not believe himself in the arms of a human being. His +captors had anticipated that he would try to escape and has posted the +Individual in the shadow of a tree near the doorway. The deaf and dumb +man had received his instructions by means of a couple of quick signs, +and not a whisper had betrayed the measures taken. Kafka struggled +desperately, for he was within three feet of the door and still +believed an escape possible. He tried to strike behind him with his +sharp blade of which a single touch would have severed muscle and +sinew like silk threads, but the bear-like embrace seemed to confine +his whole body, his arms and even his wrists. Then he felt himself +turned round and the Individual pushed him towards the middle of the +hall. The Wanderer was advancing quickly, and Keyork Arabian, who had +again fallen behind, peered at Kafka from behind his tall companion +with a grotesque expression in which bodily fear and a desire to laugh +at the captive were strongly intermingled. + +"It is of no use to resist," said the Wanderer quietly. "We are too +strong for you." + +Kafka said nothing, but his bloodshot eyes glared up angrily at the +tall man's face. + +"He looks dangerous, and he still has that thing in his hand," said +Keyork Arabian. "I think I will give him ether at once while the +Individual holds him. Perhaps you could do it." + +"You will do nothing of the kind," the Wanderer answered. "What a +coward you are, Keyork!" he added contemptuously. + +Going to Kafka's side he took him by the wrist of the hand which held +the knife. But Kafka still clutched it firmly. + +"You had better give it up," he said. + +Kafka shook his head angrily and set his teeth, but the Wanderer +unclasped the fingers by quiet force and took the weapon away. He +handed it to Keyork, who breathed a sigh of relief as he looked at it, +smiling at last, and holding his head on one side. + +"To think," he soliloquised, "that an inch of such pretty stuff as +Damascus steel, in the right place, can draw the sharp red line +between time and eternity!" + +He put the knife tenderly away in the bosom of his fur coat. His whole +manner changed and he came forward with his usual, almost jaunty step. + +"And now that you are quite harmless, my dear friend," he said, +addressing Israel Kafka, "I hope to make you see the folly of your +ways. I suppose you know that you are quite mad and that the proper +place for you is a lunatic asylum." + +The Wanderer laid his hand heavily upon Keyork's shoulder. + +"Remember what I told you," he said sternly. "He will be reasonable +now. Make your fellow understand that he is to let him go." + +"Better shut the door first," said Keyork, suiting the action to the +word and then coming back. + +"Make haste!" said the Wanderer with impatience. "The man is ill, +whether he is mad or not." + +Released at last from the Individual's iron grip, Israel Kafka +staggered a little. The Wanderer took him kindly by the arm, +supporting his steps and leading him to a seat. Kafka glanced +suspiciously at him and at the other two, but seemed unable to make +any further effort and sank back with a low groan. His face grew pale +and his eyelids drooped. + +"Get some wine--something to restore him," the Wanderer said. + +Keyork looked at the Moravian critically for a moment. + +"Yes," he assented, "he is more exhausted than I thought. He is not +very dangerous now." Then he went in search of what was needed. The +Individual retired to a distance and stood looking on with folded +arms. + +"Do you hear me?" asked the Wanderer, speaking gently. "Do you +understand what I say?" + +Israel Kafka nodded, but said nothing. + +"You are very ill. This foolish idea that has possessed you this +evening comes from your illness. Will you go away quietly with me, and +make no resistance, so that I may take care of you?" + +This time there was not even a movement of the head. + +"This is merely a passing thing," the Wanderer continued in a tone of +quiet encouragement. "You have been feverish and excited, and I +daresay you have been too much alone of late. If you will come with +me, I will take care of you, and see that all is well." + +"I told you that I would kill her--and I will," said Israel Kafka, +faintly but distinctly. + +"You will not kill her," answered his companion. "I will prevent you +from attempting it, and as soon as you are well you will see the +absurdity of the idea." + +Israel Kafka made an impatient gesture, feeble but sufficiently +expressive. Then all at once his limbs relaxed, and his head fell +forward upon his breast. The Wanderer started to his feet and moved +him into a more comfortable position. There were one or two quickly +drawn breaths and the breathing ceased altogether. At that moment +Keyork returned carrying a bottle of wine and a glass. + +"It is too late," said the Wanderer gravely. "Israel Kafka is dead." + +"Dead!" exclaimed Keyork, setting down what he had in his hands, and +hastening to examine the unfortunate man's face and eyes. "The +Individual squeezed him a little too hard, I suppose," he added, +applying his ear to the region of the heart, and moving his head about +a little as he did so. + +"I hate men who make statements about things they do not understand," +he said viciously, looking up as he spoke, but without any expression +of satisfaction. "He is no more dead than you are--the greater pity! +It would have been so convenient. It is nothing but a slight syncope-- +probably the result of poorness of blood and an over-excited state of +the nervous system. Help me to lay him on his back. You ought to have +known that was the only thing to do. Put a cushion under his head. +There--he will come to himself presently, but he will not be so +dangerous as he was." + +The Wanderer drew a long breath of relief as he helped Keyork to make +the necessary arrangements. + +"How long will it last?" he inquired. + +"How can I tell?" returned Keyork sharply. "Have you never heard of a +syncope? Do you know nothing about anything?" + +He had produced a bottle containing some very strong salt and was +applying it to the unconscious man's nostrils. The Wanderer paid no +attention to his irritable temper and stood looking on. A long time +passed and yet the Moravian gave no further signs of consciousness. + +"It is clear that he cannot stay here if he is to be seriously ill," +the Wanderer said. + +"And it is equally clear that he cannot be taken away," retorted +Keyork. + +"You seem to be in a very combative frame of mind," the other +answered, sitting down and looking at his watch. "If you cannot revive +him, he ought to be brought to more comfortable quarters for the +night." + +"In his present condition--of course," said Keyork with a sneer. + +"Do you think he would be in danger on the way?" + +"I never think--I know," snarled the sage. + +The Wanderer showed a slight surprise at the roughness of the answer, +but said nothing, contenting himself with watching the proceedings +keenly. He was by no means past suspecting that Keyork might apply +some medicine the very reverse of reviving, if left to himself. For +the present there seemed to be no danger. The pungent smell of salts +of ammonia pervaded the place; but the Wanderer knew that Keyork had a +bottle of ether in the pocket of his coat, and he rightly judged that +a very little of that would put an end to the life that was hanging in +the balance. Nearly half an hour passed before either spoke again. +Then Keyork looked up. This time his voice was smooth and persuasive. +His irritability had all disappeared. + +"You must be tired," he said. "Why do you not go home? Or else go to +my house and wait for us. The Individual and I can take care of him +very well." + +"Thanks," replied the Wanderer with a slight smile. "I am not in the +least tired, and I prefer to stay where I am. I am not hindering you, +I believe." + +Now Keyork Arabian had no interest in allowing Israel Kafka to die, +though the Wanderer half believed that he had, though he could not +imagine what that interest might be. The little man was in reality on +the track of an experiment, and he knew very well that so long as he +was so narrowly watched it would be quite impossible to try it. In +spite of his sneers at his companion's ignorance, he was aware that +the latter knew enough to make every effort conducive to reviving the +patient if left to himself, and he submitted with a bad grace to doing +what he would rather have left undone. + +He would have wished to let the flame of life sink yet lower before +making it brighten again, for he had with him a preparation which he +had been carrying in his pocket for months in the hope of accidentally +happening upon just such a case as the present, and he longed for an +opportunity of trying it. But to give it a fair trial he wished to +apply it at the precise point when, according to all previous +experience, the moment of death was past--the moment when the +physician usually puts his watch in his pocket and looks about for his +hat. Possibly if Kafka, being left without any assistance, had shown +no further signs of sinking, Keyork would have helped him to sink a +little lower. To produce this much-desired result, he had nothing with +him but the ether, of which the Wanderer of course knew the smell and +understood the effects. He saw the chances of making the experiment +upon an excellent subject slipping away before his eyes and he grew +more angry in proportion as they seemed farther removed. + +"He is a little better," he said discontentedly, after another long +interval of silence. + +The Wanderer bent down and saw that the eyelids were quivering and +that the face was less deathly livid than before. Then the eyes opened +and stared dreamily at the glass roof. + +"And I will," said the faint, weak voice, as though completing a +sentence. + +"I think not," observed Keyork, as though answering. "The people who +do what they mean to do are not always talking about will." But Kafka +had closed his eyes again. + +This time, however, his breathing was apparent and he was evidently +returning to a conscious state. The Wanderer arranged the pillow more +comfortably under his head and covered him with his own furs. Keyork, +relinquishing all hopes of trying the experiment at present, poured a +little wine down his throat. + +"Do you think we can take him home to-night?" inquired the Wanderer. + +He was prepared for an ill-tempered answer, but not for what Keyork +actually said. The little man got upon his feet and coolly buttoned +his coat. + +"I think not," he replied. "There is nothing to be done but to keep +him quiet. Good-night. I am tired of all this nonsense, and I do not +mean to lose my night's rest for all the Israels in Jewry--or all the +Jews in Israel. You can stay with him if you please." + +Thereupon he turned on his heel, making a sign to the Individual, who +had not moved from his place since Kafka had lost consciousness, and +who immediately followed his master. + +"I will come and see to him in the morning," said Keyork carelessly, +as he disappeared from sight among the plants. + +The Wanderer's long-suffering temper was roused and his eyes gleamed +angrily as he looked after the departing sage. + +"Hound!" he exclaimed in a very audible voice. + +He hardly knew why he was so angry with the man who called himself his +friend. Keyork had behaved no worse than an ordinary doctor, for he +had stayed until the danger was over and had promised to come again in +the morning. It was his cool way of disclaiming all further +responsibility and of avoiding all further trouble which elicited the +Wanderer's resentment, as well as the unpleasant position in which the +latter found himself. + +He had certainly not anticipated being left in charge of a sick man-- +and that sick man Israel Kafka--in Unorna's house for the whole night, +and he did not enjoy the prospect. The mere detail of having to give +some explanation to the servants, who would doubtless come before long +to extinguish the lights, was far from pleasant. Moreover, though +Keyork had declared the patient out of danger, there seemed no +absolute certainty that a relapse would not take place before morning, +and Kafka might actually lay in the certainty--delusive enough--that +Unorna could not return until the following day. + +He did not dare to take upon himself the responsibility of calling +some one to help him and of removing the Moravian in his present +condition. The man was still very weak and either altogether +unconscious, or sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. The weather, too, +was bitterly cold, and the exposure to the night air might bring on +immediate and fatal consequences. He examined Kafka closely and came +to the conclusion that he was really asleep. To wake him would be +absolutely cruel as well as dangerous. He looked kindly at the weary +face and then began to walk up and down between the plants, coming +back at the end of every turn to look again and assure himself that no +change had taken place. + +After some time he began to wonder at the total silence in the house, +or, rather, the silence which was carefully provided for in the +conservatory impressed itself upon him for the first time. It was +strange, he thought, that no one came to put out the lamps. He thought +of looking out into the vestibule beyond, to see whether the lights +were still burning there. To his great surprise he found the door +securely fastened. Keyork Arabian had undoubtedly locked him in, and +to all intents and purposes he was a prisoner. He suspected some +treachery, but in this he was mistaken. Keyork's sole intention had +been to insure himself from being disturbed in the course of the night +by a second visit from the Wanderer, accompanied perhaps by Kafka. It +immediately occurred to the Wanderer that he could ring the bell. But +disliking the idea of entering into an explanation, he reserved that +for an emergency. Had he attempted it he would have been still further +surprised to find that it would have produced no result. In going +through the vestibule Keyork had used Kafka's sharp knife to cut one +of the slender silk-covered copper wires which passed out of the +conservatory on that side, communicating with the servants' quarters. +He was perfectly acquainted with all such details of the household +arrangement. + +Keyork's precautions were in reality useless and they merely +illustrate the ruthlessly selfish character of the man. The Wanderer +would in all probability neither have attempted to leave the house +with Kafka that night, nor to communicate with the servants, even if +he had been left free to do either, and if no one had disturbed him in +his watch. He was disturbed, however, and very unexpectedly, between +half-past one and a quarter to two in the morning. + +More than once he had remained seated for a long time, but his eyes +were growing heavy and he roused himself and walked again until he was +thoroughly awake. It was certainly true that of all the persons +concerned in the events of the day, except Keyork, he had undergone +the least bodily fatigue and mental excitement. But even to the +strongest, the hours of the night spent in watching by a sick person +seem endless when there is no really strong personal anxiety felt. 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. His position towards +Israel Kafka was altogether unexpected, and what he felt was no more +than pity for his sufferings and indignation against those who had +caused them. + +When the door was suddenly opened, he stood still in his walk and +faced it. He hardly recognised Unorna in the pale, dishevelled woman +with circled eyes who came towards him under the bright light. She, +too, stood still when she saw him, starting suddenly. She seemed to be +very cold, for she shivered visibly and her teeth were chattering. +Without the least protection against the bitter night air she had fled +bareheaded and cloakless through the open streets from the church to +her home. + +"You here!" she exclaimed, in an unsteady voice. + +"Yes, I am still here," answered the Wanderer. "But I hardly expected +you to come back to-night," he added. + +At the sound of his voice a strange smile came into her wan face and +lingered there. She had not thought to hear him speak again, kindly or +unkindly, for she had come with the fixed determination to meet her +death at Israel Kafka's hands and to let that be the end. 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. "Tell me what has +happened." + +It was like a dream to her. The tremendous excitement of what had +happened in the convent had cut her off from the realisation of what +had gone before. Strange as it seemed even to herself, she scarcely +comprehended the intimate connection between the two series of events, +nor the bearing of the one upon the other. Israel Kafka sank into such +insignificance that she had began to pity his condition, and it was +hard to remember that the Wanderer was the man whom Beatrice had +loved, and of whom she had spoken so long and so passionately. She +found, too, an unreasoned joy in being once more by his side, no +matter under what conditions. In that happiness, one-sided and +unshared, she forgot everything else. Beatrice had been a dream, a +vision, an unreal shadow. Kafka was nothing to her, and yet +everything, as she suddenly saw, since he constituted a bond between +her and the man she loved, which would at least outlast the night. In +a flash she saw that the Wanderer would not leave her alone with the +Moravian, and that the latter could not be moved for the present +without danger to his life. They must watch together by his side +through the long hours. Who could tell what the night would bring +forth? + +As the new development of the situation presented itself, the colour +rose again to her cheeks. The warmth of the conservatory, too, +dispelled the chill that had penetrated her, and the familiar odours +of the flowers contributed to restore the lost equilibrium of mind and +body. + +"Tell me what has happened," she said again. + +In the fewest possible words the Wanderer told her all that had +occurred up to the moment of her coming, not omitting the detail of +the locked door. + +"And for what reason do you suppose that Keyork shut you in?" she +asked. + +"I do not know," the Wanderer answered. "I do not trust him, though I +have known him so long." + +"It was mere selfishness," said Unorna scornfully. "I know him better +than you do. He was afraid you would disturb him again in the night." + +The Wanderer said nothing, wondering how any man could be so +elaborately thoughtful of his own comfort. + +"There is no help for it," Unorna said, "we must watch together." + +"I see no other way," the Wanderer answered indifferently. + +He placed a chair for her to sit in, within sight of the sick man, and +took one himself, wondering at the strange situation, and yet not +caring to ask Unorna what had brought her back, so breathless and so +pale, at such an hour. He believed, not unnaturally, that her motive +had been either anxiety for himself, or the irresistible longing to +see him again, coupled with a distrust of his promise to return when +she should send for him. It seemed best to accept her appearance +without question, lest an inquiry should lead to a fresh outburst, +more unbearable now than before, since there seemed to be no way of +leaving the house without exposing her to danger. A nervous man like +Israel Kafka might spring up at any moment and do something dangerous. + +After they had taken their places the silence lasted some moments. + +"You did not believe all I told you this evening?" said Unorna softly, +with an interrogation in her voice. + +"No," the Wanderer answered quietly, "I did not." + +"I am glad of that--I was mad when I spoke." + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +The Wanderer was not inclined to deny the statement which accorded +well enough with his total disbelief of the story Unorna had told him. +But he did not answer her immediately, for he found himself in a very +difficult position. He would neither do anything in the least +discourteous beyond admitting frankly that he had not believed her, +when she taxed him with incredulity; nor would say anything which +might serve her as a stepping-stone for returning to the original +situation. He was, perhaps, inclined to blame her somewhat less than +at first, and her changed manner in speaking of Kafka somewhat +encouraged his leniency. A man will forgive, or at least condone, much +harshness to others when he is thoroughly aware that it has been +exhibited out of love for himself; and a man of the Wanderer's +character cannot help feeling a sort of chivalrous respect and +delicate forbearance for a woman who loves him sincerely, though +against his will, while he will avoid with an almost exaggerated +prudence the least word which could be interpreted as an expression of +reciprocal tenderness. He runs the risk, at the same time, of being +thrust into the ridiculous position of the man who, though young, +assumes the manner and speech of age and delivers himself of grave, +paternal advice to one who looks upon him, not as an elder, but as her +chosen mate. + +After Unorna had spoken, the Wanderer, therefore, held his peace. He +inclined his head a little, as though to admit that her plea of +madness might not be wholly imaginary; but he said nothing. He sat +looking at Israel Kafka's sleeping face and outstretched form, +inwardly wondering whether the hours would seem very long before +Keyork Arabian returned in the morning and put an end to the +situation. Unorna waited in vain for some response, and at last spoke +again. + +"Yes," she said, "I was mad. You cannot understand it. I daresay you +cannot even understand how I can speak of it now, and yet I cannot +help speaking." + +Her manner was more natural and quiet than it had been since the +moment of Kafka's appearance in the cemetery. The Wanderer noticed the +tone. There was an element of real sadness in it, with a leaven of +bitter disappointment and a savour of heartfelt contrition. She was in +earnest now, as she had been before, but in a different way. He could +hardly refuse her a word in answer. + +"Unorna," he said gravely, "remember that you are leaving me no +choice. I cannot leave you alone with that poor fellow, and so, +whatever you wish to say, I must hear. But it would be much better to +say nothing about what has happened this evening--better for you and +for me. Neither men nor women always mean exactly what they say. We +are not angels. Is it not best to let the matter drop?" + +Unorna listened quietly, her eyes upon his face. + +"You are not so hard with me as you were," she said thoughtfully, +after a moment's hesitation, and there was a touch of gratitude in her +voice. As she felt the dim possibility of a return to her former +relations of friendship with him, Beatrice and the scene in the church +seemed to be very far away. Again the Wanderer found it difficult to +answer. + +"It is not for me to be hard, as you call it," he said quietly. There +was a scarcely perceptible smile on his face, brought there not by any +feeling of satisfaction, but by his sense of his own almost laughable +perplexity. He saw that he was very near being driven to the +ridiculous necessity of giving her some advice of the paternal kind. +"It is not for me, either, to talk to you of what you have done to +Israel Kafka to-day," he confessed. "Do not oblige me to say anything +about it. It will be much safer. You know it all better than I do, and +you understand your own reasons, as I never can. If you are sorry for +him now, so much the better--you will not hurt him any more if you can +help it. If you will say that much about the future I shall be very +glad, I confess." + +"Do you think that there is anything which I will not do--if you ask +it?" Unorna asked very earnestly. + +"I do not know," the Wanderer answered, trying to seem to ignore the +meaning conveyed by her tone. "Some things are harder to do than +others----" + +"Ask me the hardest!" she exclaimed. "Ask me to tell you the whole +truth----" + +"No," he said firmly, in the hope of checking an outburst of +passionate speech. "What you have thought and done is no concern of +mine. If you have done anything that you are sorry for, without my +knowledge, I do not wish to know of it. I have seen you do many good +and kind acts during the last month, and I would rather leave those +memories untouched as far as possible. You may have had an object in +doing them which in itself was bad. I do not care. The deeds were +good. Take credit for them and let me give you credit for them. That +will do neither of us any harm." + +"I could tell you--if you would let me--" + +"Do not tell me," he interrupted. "I repeat that I do not wish to +know. The one thing that I have seen is bad enough. Let that be all. +Do you not see that? Besides, I am myself the cause of it in a measure +--unwilling enough, Heaven knows!" + +"The only cause," said Unorna bitterly. + +"Then I am in some way responsible. I am not quite without blame--we +men never are in such cases. If I reproach you, I must reproach myself +as well--" + +"Reproach yourself!--ah no! What can you say against yourself?" she +could not keep the love out of her voice, if she would; her bitterness +had been for herself. + +"I will not go into that," he answered. "I am to blame in one way or +another. Let us say no more about it. Will you let the matter rest?" + +"And let bygones be bygones, and be friends to each other, as we were +this morning?" she asked, with a ray of hope. + +The Wanderer was silent for a few seconds. His difficulties were +increasing. A while ago he had told her, as an excuse for herself, +that men and women did not always mean exactly what they said, and +even now he did not set himself up in his own mind as an exception to +the rule. Very honourable and truthful men do not act upon any set of +principles in regard to truth and honour. Their instinctively brave +actions and naturally noble truthfulness make those principles which +are held up to the unworthy for imitation, by those whose business is +the teaching of what is good. The Wanderer's only hesitation lay +between answering the question or not answering it. + +"Shall we be friends again?" Unorna asked a second time, in a low +tone. "Shall we go back to the beginning?" + +"I do not see how that is possible," he answered slowly. + +Unorna was not like him, and did not understand such a nature as his +as she understood Keyork Arabian. She had believed that he would at +least hold out some hope. + +"You might have spared me that!" she said, turning her face away. +There were tears in her voice. + +A few hours earlier his answer would have brought fire to her eyes and +anger to her voice. But a real change had come over her, not lasting, +perhaps, but strong in its immediate effects. + +"Not even a little friendship left?" she said, breaking the silence +that followed. + +"I cannot change myself," he answered, almost wishing that he could. +"I ought, perhaps," he added, as though speaking to himself. "I have +done enough harm as it is." + +"Harm? To whom?" She looked round suddenly and he saw the moisture in +her eyes. + +"To him," he replied, glancing at Kafka, "and to you. You loved him +once. I have ruined his life." + +"Loved him? No--I never loved him." She shook her head, wondering +whether she spoke the truth. + +"You must have made him think so." + +"I? No--he is mad." But she shrank before his honest look, and +suddenly broke down. "No--I will not lie to you--you are too true-- +yes, I loved him, or I thought I did, until you came, and I saw that +there was no one----" + +But she checked herself, as she felt the blood rising to her cheeks. +She could blush still, and still be ashamed. Even she was not all bad, +now that she was calm and that the change had come over her. + +"You see," the Wanderer said gently, "I am to blame for it all." + +"For it all? No--not for the thousandth part of it all. What blame +have you in being what you are? Blame God in Heaven--for making such a +man. Blame me for what you know; blame me for all that you will not +let me tell you. Blame Kafka for his mad belief in me and Keyork +Arabian for the rest--but do not blame yourself--oh, no! Not that!" + +"Do not talk like that, Unorna," he said. "Be just first." + +"What is justice?" she asked. Then she turned her head away again. "If +you knew what justice means for me--you would not ask me to be just. +You would be more merciful." + +"You exaggerate----" He spoke kindly, but she interrupted him. + +"No. You do not know, that is all. And you can never guess. There is +only one man living who could imagine such things as I have done--and +tried to do. He is Keyork Arabian. But he would have been wiser than +I, perhaps." + +She relapsed into silence. Before her rose the dim altar in the +church, the shadowy figure of Beatrice standing up in the dark, the +horrible sacrilege that was to have been done. Her face grew dark with +fear of her own soul. The Wanderer went so far as to try and distract +her from her gloomy thoughts, out of pure kindness of heart. + +"I am no theologian," he said, "but I fancy that in the long reckoning +the intention goes for more than the act." + +"The intention!" she cried, looking back with a start. "If that be +true----" + +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. Judge for yourself which of us two, he +or I, has anything to forgive. I am to-day what I was yesterday and +may be to-morrow. He lies there, dying of his love for you, if ever a +man died for love. And as though that were not enough, you have +tortured him--well, I will not speak of it. But that is all. I know +nothing of the deeds, or intentions, of which you accuse yourself. You +are tired, overwrought, worn out with all this--what shall I say? It +is natural enough, I suppose--" + +"You say there is no question of forgiveness," she said, interrupting +him, but speaking more calmly. "What is it then? What is the real +question? If you have nothing to forgive why can we not be friends as +we were before?" + +"There is something besides that needed. It is not enough that of two +people neither should have injured the other. You have broken +something, destroyed something--I cannot mend it. I wish I could." + +"You wish you could?" she repeated earnestly. + +"I wish that the thing had not been done. I wish that I had not seen +what I saw to-day. We should be where we were this morning--and he +perhaps would not be here." + +"It must have come some day," Unorna said. "He must have seen that I +loved--that I loved you. Is there any use in not speaking plainly now? +Then at some other time, in some other place, he would have done what +he did, and I should have been angry and cruel--for it is my nature to +be cruel when I am angry, and to be angry easily, at that. Men talk so +easily of self-control, and self-command and dignity, and self- +respect! They have not loved--that is all. I am not angry now, nor +cruel. I am sorry for what I did, and I would undo it, if deeds were +knots and wishes deeds. I am sorry, beyond all words to tell you. How +poor it sounds now that I have said it! You do not even believe me." + +"You are wrong. I know that you are in earnest." + +"How do you know?" she asked bitterly. "Have I never lied to you? If +you believed me, you would forgive me. If you forgave me, your +friendship would come back. I cannot even swear to you that I am +telling the truth. Heaven would not be my witness now if I told a +thousand truths, each truer than the last." + +"I have nothing to forgive," the Wanderer said, almost wearily. "I +have told you so, you have not injured me, but him." + +"But if it meant a whole world to me--no, for I am nothing to you--but +if it cost you nothing, but the little breath that can carry the three +words--would you say it? Is it much to say? Is it like saying, I love +you, or, I honour you, respect you? It is so little, and would mean so +much." + +"To me it can mean nothing, unless you ask me to forgive you deeds of +which I know nothing. And then it means still less to me." + +"Will you say it, only say the three words once?" + +"I forgive you," said the Wanderer quietly. It cost him nothing, and, +to him, meant less. + +Unorna bent her head and was silent. It was something to have heard +him say it though he could not guess the least of the sins which she +made it include. She herself hardly knew why she had so insisted. +Perhaps it was only the longing to hear words kind in themselves, if +not in tone, nor in his meaning of them. Possibly, too, she felt a dim +presentiment of her coming end, and would take with her that +infinitesimal grain of pardon to the state in which she hoped for no +other forgiveness. + +"It was good of you to say it," she said at last. + +A long silence followed during which the thoughts of each went their +own way. Suddenly Israel Kafka stirred in his sleep. The Wanderer went +quickly forward and knelt down beside him and arranged the silken +pillow as best he could. Unorna was on the other side almost as soon. +With a tenderness of expression and touch which nothing can describe +she moved the sleeping head into a comfortable position and smoothed +the cushion, and drew up the furs disturbed by the nervous hands. The +Wanderer let her have her way. When she had finished their eyes met. +He could not tell whether she was asking his approval and a word of +encouragement, but he withheld neither. + +"You are very gentle with him. He would thank you if he could." + +"Did you not tell me to be kind to him?" she said. "I am keeping my +word. But he would not thank me. He would kill me if he were awake." + +The Wanderer shook his head. + +"He was ill and mad with pain," he answered. "He did not know what he +was doing. When he wakes, it will be different." + +Unorna rose, and the Wanderer followed her. + +"You cannot believe that I care," she said, as she resumed her seat. +"He is not you. My soul would not be the nearer to peace for a word of +his." + +For a long time she sat quite still, her hands lying idly in her lap, +her head bent wearily as though she bore a heavy burden. + +"Can you not rest?" the Wanderer asked at length. "I can watch alone." + +"No. I cannot rest. I shall never rest again." + +The words came slowly, as though spoken to herself. + +"Do you bid me go?" she asked after a time, looking up and seeing his +eyes fixed on her. + +"Bid you go? In your own house?" The tone was one of ordinary +courtesy. Unorna smiled sadly. + +"I would rather you struck me than that you spoke to me like that!" +she exclaimed. "You have no need of such civil forbearance with me. If +you bid me go, I will go. If you bid me stay, I will not move. Only +speak frankly. Say which you would prefer." + +"Then stay," said the Wanderer simply. + +She bowed her head slightly and was silent again. A distant clock +chimed the hour. The morning was slowly drawing near. + +"And you," said Unorna, looking up at the sound. "Will you not rest? +Why should you not sleep?" + +"I am not tired." + +"You do not trust me, I think," she answered sadly. "And yet you might +--you might." Her voice died away dreamily. + +"Trust you to watch that poor man? Indeed I do. You were not acting +just now, when you touched him so tenderly. You are in earnest. You +will be kind to him, and I thank you for it." + +"And you yourself? Do you fear nothing from me, if you should sleep +before my eyes? Do you not fear that in your unconsciousness I might +touch you and make you more unconscious still and make you dream +dreams and see visions?" + +The Wanderer looked at her and smiled incredulously, partly out of +scorn for the imaginary danger, and partly because something told him +that she had changed and would not attempt any of her witchcraft upon +him. + +"No," he answered. "I am not afraid of that." + +"You are right," she said gravely. "My sins are enough already. The +evil is sufficient. Do as you will. If you can sleep, then sleep in +peace. If you will watch, watch with me." + +Then neither spoke again. Unorna bent her head as she had done before. +The Wanderer leaned back resting comfortably against the cushion of +the high carved chair, his eyes directed towards the place where +Israel Kafka lay. The air was warm, the scent of the flowers sweet but +not heavy. The silence was intense, for even the little fountain was +still. He had watched almost all night and his eyelids drooped. He +forgot Unorna and thought only of the sick man, trying to fix his +attention on the pale head as it lay under the bright light. + +When Unorna looked up at last she saw that he was asleep. At first she +was surprised, in spite of what she had said to him half an hour +earlier, for she herself could not have closed her eyes, and felt that +she could never close them again. Then she sighed. It was but one +proof more of his supreme indifference. He had not even cared to speak +to her, and if she had not constantly spoken to him throughout the +hours they had passed together he would perhaps have been sleeping +long before now. + +And yet she feared to wake him and was almost glad that he was +unconscious. In the solitude she could gaze on him to her heart's +desire, she could let her eyes look their fill, and no one could say +her nay. He must be very tired, she thought, and she vaguely wondered +why she felt no bodily weariness, when her soul was so heavy. + +She sat still and watched him. It might be the last time, she thought, +for who could tell what would happen to-morrow? She shuddered as she +thought of it all. What would Beatrice do? What would Sister Paul say? +How much would she tell of what she had seen? How much had she really +seen which she could tell clearly? There were terrible possibilities +in the future if all were known. Such deeds, and even the attempt at +such deeds as she had tried to do, could be judged by the laws of the +land, she might be brought to trial, if she lived, as a common +prisoner, and held up to the execration of the world in all her shame +and guilt. But death would be worse than that. As she thought of that +other Judgment, she grew dizzy with horror as she had been when the +idea had first entered her brain. + +Then she was conscious that she was again looking at the Wanderer as +he lay back asleep in his tall chair. The pale and noble face +expressed the stainless soul and the manly character. She saw in it +the peace she had lost, and yet knew that through him she had lost her +peace for ever. + +It was perhaps the last time. Never again, perhaps, after the morning +had broken, should she look on what she loved best on earth. She would +be gone, ruined, dead perhaps. And he? He would be still himself. He +would remember her half carelessly, half in wonder, as a woman who had +once been almost his friend. That would be all that would be left in +him of her, beyond a memory of the repulsion he had felt for her +deeds. + +She fancied she could have met the worst in the future less hopelessly +if he could have remembered her a little more kindly when all was +over. Even now, it might be in her power to cast a veil upon the +pictures in his mind. But the mere thought was horrible to her, though +a few hours before she had hardly trembled at the doing of a frightful +sacrilege. In that short time the humiliation of failure, the +realisation of what she had almost done, above all the ever-rising +tide of a real and passionate love, had swept away many familiar +landmarks in her thoughts, and had turned much to lead which had once +seemed brighter than gold. She hated the very idea of using again +those arts which had so directly wrought her utter destruction. But +she longed to know that in the world whither he would doubtless go +to-morrow he would bear with him one kind memory of her, one natural +friendly thought not grafted upon his mind by her power, but growing +of its own self in his inmost heart. Only a friendly memory--nothing +more than that. + +She rose noiselessly and came to his side and looked down into his +face. Very long she stood there, motionless as a statue, beautiful as +a mourning angel. + +It was so little that she asked. It was so little compared with all +she had hoped, or in comparison with all she had demanded, so little +in respect of what she had given. For she had given her soul. And in +return she asked only for one small kindly thought when all should be +over. + +She bent down as she stood and touched his cool forehead with her +lips. + +"Sleep on, my beloved," she said in a voice that murmured softly and +sadly. + +She started a little at what she had done, and drew back, half afraid, +like an innocent girl. But as though he had obeyed her words, he +seemed to sleep more deeply still. He must be very tired, she thought, +to sleep like that, but she was thankful that the soft kiss, the first +and last, had not waked him. + +"Sleep on," she said again in a whisper scarcely audible to herself. +"Forget Unorna, if you cannot think of her mercifully and kindly. +Sleep on, you have the right to rest, and I can never rest again. You +have forgiven--forget, too, then, unless you can remember better +things of me than I have deserved in your memory. Let her take her +kingdom back. It was never mine--remember what you will, forget at +least the wrong I did, and forgive the wrong you never knew--for you +will know it surely some day. Ah, love--I love you so--dream but one +dream, and let me think I take her place. She never loved you more +than I, she never can. She would not have done what I have done. Dream +only that I am Beatrice for this once. Then when you wake you will not +think so cruelly of me. Oh, that I might be she--and you your loving +self--that I might be she for one day in thought and word, in deed and +voice, in face and soul! Dear love--you would never know it, yet I +should know that you had had one loving thought for me. You would +forget. It would not matter then to you, for you would have only +dreamed, and I should have the certainty--for ever, to take with me +always!" + +As though the words carried a meaning with them to his sleeping +senses, a look of supreme and almost heavenly happiness stole over his +sleeping face. But Unorna could not see it. She had turned suddenly +away, burying her face in her hands upon the back of her own chair. + +"Are there no miracles left in Heaven?" she moaned, half whispering +lest she should wake him. "Is there no miracle of deeds undone again +and of forgiveness given--for me? God! God! That we should be for ever +what we make ourselves!" + +There were no tears in her eyes now, as there had been twice that +night. In her despair, that fountain of relief, shallow always and not +apt to overflow, was dried up and scorched with pain. And, for the +time at least, worse things were gone from her, though she suffered +more. As though some portion of her passionate wish had been +fulfilled, she felt that she could never do again what she had done; +she felt that she was truthful now as he was, and that she knew evil +from good even as Beatrice knew it. The horror of her sins took new +growth in her changed vision. + +"Was I lost from the first beginning?" she asked passionately. "Was I +born to be all I am, and fore-destined to do all I have done? Was she +born an angel and I a devil from hell? What is it all? What is this +life, and what is that other beyond it?" + +Behind her, in his chair, the Wanderer still slept. Still his face +wore the radiant look of joy that had so suddenly come into it as she +turned away. He scarcely breathed, so calmly he slept. But Unorna did +not raise her head nor look at him, and on the carpet near her feet +Israel Kafka lay as still and as deeply unconscious as the Wanderer +himself. By a strange destiny she sat there, between the two men in +whom her whole life had been wrecked, and she alone was waking. + +When she at last raised her eyes the dawn was breaking. 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. Unorna turned from the one and looked upon the +other. For the first time she saw how he had changed, and wondered. + +"How peacefully he sleeps!" she thought. "He is dreaming of her." + +The dawn came stealing on, not soft and blushing as in southern lands, +but cold, resistless and grim as ancient fate; not the maiden herald +of the sun with rose-tipped fingers and grey, liquid eyes, but hard, +cruel, sullen, and less darkness following upon a greater and going +before a dull, sunless and heavy day. + +The door opened somewhat noisily and a brisk step fell upon the marble +pavement. Unorna rose noiselessly to her feet and hastening along the +open space came face to face with Keyork Arabian. He stopped and +looked up at her from beneath his heavy brows, with surprise and +suspicion. She raised one finger to her lips. + +"You here already?" he asked, obeying her gesture and speaking in a +low voice. + +"Hush! Hush!" she whispered, not satisfied. "They are asleep. You will +wake them." + +Keyork came forward. He could move quietly enough when he chose. He +glanced at the Wanderer. + +"He looks comfortable enough," he whispered, half contemptuously. + +Then he bent down over Israel Kafka and carefully examined his face. +To him the ghastly pallor meant nothing. It was but the natural result +of excessive exhaustion. + +"Put him into a lethargy," said he under his breath, but with +authority in his manner. + +Unorna shook her head. Keyork's small eyes brightened angrily. + +"Do it," he said. "What is this caprice? Are you mad? I want to take +his temperature without waking him." + +Unorna folded her arms. + +"Do you want him to suffer more?" asked Keyork with a diabolical +smile. "If so I will wake him by all means; I am always at your +service, you know." + +"Will he suffer, if he wakes naturally?" + +"Horribly--in the head." + +Unorna knelt down and let her hand rest a few seconds on Kafka's brow. +The features, drawn with pain, immediately relaxed. + +"You have hypnotised the one," grumbled Keyork as he bent down again. +"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. Unorna had risen to +her feet, disdaining to defend herself against the imputation +expressed in his face. Some minutes passed in silence. + +"He has no fever," said Keyork looking at the little instrument. "I +will call the Individual and we will take him away." + +"Where?" + +"To his lodging, of course. Where else?" He turned and went towards +the door. + +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. You will not forget all that has +happened, but you will never love me again. I forbid you ever to love +me again! Do you understand?" + +"I understand." + +"You will only forget that I have told you this, though you will obey. +You will see me again, and if you can forgive me of your own free +will, forgive me then. That must be of your own free will. Wake in two +hours of yourself, without pain or sickness." + +Again she touched his forehead and then sprang to her feet. Keyork was +coming back with his dumb servant. At a sign, the Individual lifted +Kafka from the floor, taking from him the Wanderer's furs and wrapping +him in others which Keyork had brought. The strong man walked away +with his burden as though he were carrying a child. Keyork Arabian +lingered a moment. + +"What made you come back so early?" he asked. + +"I will not tell you," she answered, drawing back. + +"No? Well, I am not curious. You have an excellent opportunity now." + +"An opportunity?" Unorna repeated with a cold interrogative. + +"Excellent," said the little man, standing on tiptoe to reach her ear, +for she would not bend her head. "You have only to whisper into his +ear that you are Beatrice and he will believe you for the rest of his +life." + +"Go!" said Unorna. + +Though the word was not spoken above her breath it was fierce and +commanding. Keyork Arabian smiled in an evil way, shrugged his +shoulders and left her. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Unorna was left alone with the Wanderer. His attitude did not change, +his eyes did not open, as she stood before him. Still he wore the look +which had at first attracted Keyork Arabian's attention and which had +amazed Unorna herself. It was the expression that had come into his +face in the old cemetery when in his sleep she had spoken to him of +love. + +"He is dreaming of her," Unorna said to herself again, as she turned +sadly away. + +But since Keyork had been with her a doubt had assailed her which +painfully disturbed her thoughts, so that her brow contracted with +anxiety and from time to time she drew a quick hard breath. Keyork had +taken it for granted that the Wanderer's sleep was not natural. + +She tried to recall what had happened shortly before dawn but it was +no wonder that her memory served her ill and refused to bring back +distinctly the words she had spoken. Her whole being was unsettled and +shaken, so that she found it hard to recognise herself. The stormy +hours through which she had lived since yesterday had left their +trace; the lack of rest, instead of producing physical exhaustion, had +brought about an excessive mental weariness, and it was not easy for +her now to find all the connecting links between her actions. Then, +above all else, there was the great revulsion that had swept over her +after her last and greatest plan of evil had failed, causing in her +such a change as could hardly have seemed natural or even possible to +a calm person watching her inmost thoughts. + +And yet such sudden changes take place daily in the world of crime and +passion. In one uncalled-for confession, of which it is hard to trace +the smallest reasonable cause, the intricate wickednesses of a +lifetime are revealed and repeated; in the mysterious impulse of a +moment the murderer turns back and delivers himself to justice; under +an influence for which there is often no accounting, the woman who has +sinned securely through long years lays bare her guilt and throws +herself upon the mercy of the man whom she has so skilfully and +consistently deceived. We know the fact. The reason we cannot know. +Perhaps, to natures not wholly bad, sin is a poison of which the moral +organization can only bear a certain fixed amount, great or small, +before rejecting it altogether and with loathing. We do not know. We +speak of the workings of conscience, not understanding what we mean. +It is like that subtle something which we call electricity; we can +play with it, command it, lead it, neutralise it and die of it, make +light and heat with it, or language and sound, kill with it and cure +with it, while absolutely ignorant of its nature. We are no nearer to +a definition of it than the Greek who rubbed a bit of amber and lifted +with it a tiny straw, and from amber, Elektron called the something +electricity. Are we even as near as that to a definition of the human +conscience? + +The change that had come over Unorna, whether it was to be lasting or +not, was profound. The circumstances under which it took place are +plain enough. The reasons must be left to themselves--it remains only +to tell the consequences which thereon followed. + +The first of these was a hatred of that extraordinary power with which +nature had endowed her, which brought with it a determination never +again to make use of it for any evil purpose, and, if possible, never +even for good. + +But as though her unhappy fate were for ever fighting against her good +impulses, that power of hers had exerted itself unconsciously, since +her resolution had been formed. Keyork Arabian's words, and his +evident though unspoken disbelief in her denial, showed that he at +least was convinced of the fact that the Wanderer was not sleeping a +natural sleep. Unorna tried to recall what she had done and said, but +all was vague and indistinct. Of one thing she was sure. She had not +laid her hand upon his forehead, and she had not intentionally done +any of those things which she had always believed necessary for +producing the results of hypnotism. She had not willed him to do +anything, she thought and she felt sure that she had pronounced no +words of the nature of a command. Step by step she tried to +reconstruct for her comfort a detailed recollection of what had +passed, but every effort in that direction was fruitless. Like many +men far wiser than herself, she believed in the mechanics of hypnotic +science, in the touches, in the passes, in the fixed look, in the will +to fascinate. More than once Keyork Arabian had scoffed at what he +called her superstitions, and had maintained that all the varying +phenomena of hypnotism, all the witchcraft of the darker ages, all the +visions undoubtedly shown to wondering eyes by mediaeval sorcerers, +were traceable to moral influence, and to no other cause. Unorna could +not accept his reasoning. For her there was a deeper and yet a more +material mystery in it, as in her own life, a mystery which she +cherished as an inheritance, which impressed her with a sense of her +own strange destiny and of the gulf which separated her from other +women. She could not detach herself from the idea that the +supernatural played a part in all her doings, and she clung to the use +of gestures and passes and words in the exercise of her art, in which +she fancied a hidden and secret meaning to exist. Certain things had +especially impressed her. The not uncommon answer of hypnotics to the +question concerning their identity, "I am the image in your eyes," is +undoubtedly elicited by the fact that their extraordinarily acute and, +perhaps, magnifying vision, perceives the image of themselves in the +eyes of the operator with abnormal distinctness, and, not impossibly, +of a size quite incompatible with the dimensions of the pupil. To +Unorna the answer meant something more. It suggested the actual +presence of the person she was influencing, in her own brain, and +whenever she was undertaking anything especially difficult, she +endeavoured to obtain the reply relating to the image as soon as +possible. + +In the present case, she was sure that she had done none of the things +which she considered necessary to produce a definite result. She was +totally unconscious of having impressed upon the sleeper any +suggestion of her will. Whatever she had said, she had addressed the +words to herself without any intention that they should be heard and +understood. + +These reflections comforted her as she paced the marble floor, and yet +Keyork's remark rang in her ears and disturbed her. She knew how vast +his experience was and how much he could tell by a single glance at a +human face. He had been familiar with every phase of hypnotism long +before she had known him, and might reasonably be supposed to know by +inspection whether the sleep were natural or not. That a person +hypnotised may appear to sleep as naturally as one not under the +influence is certain, but the condition of rest is also very often +different, to a practised eye, from that of ordinary slumber. There is +a fixity in the expression of the face, and in the attitude of the +body, which cannot continue under ordinary circumstances. He had +perhaps noticed both signs in the Wanderer. + +She went back to his side and looked at him intently. She had scarcely +dared to do so before, and she felt that she might have been mistaken. +The light, too, had changed, for it was broad day, though the lamps +were still burning. Yet, even now, she could not tell. Her judgment of +what she saw was disturbed by many intertwining thoughts. + +At least, he was happy. Whatever she had done, if she had done +anything, it had not hurt him. There was no possibility of +misinterpreting the sleeping man's expression. + +She wished that he would wake, though she knew how the smile would +fade, how the features would grow cold and indifferent, and how the +grey eyes she loved would open with a look of annoyance at seeing her +before him. It was like a vision of happiness in a house of sorrow to +see him lying there, so happy in his sleep, so loving, so peaceful. +She could make it all to last, too, if she would, and she realised +that with a sudden pang. The woman of whom he dreamed, whom he had +loved so faithfully and sought so long, was very near him. A word from +Unorna and Beatrice could come and find him as he lay asleep, and +herself open the dear eyes. + +Was that sacrifice to be asked of her before she was taken away to the +expiation of her sins? Fate could not be so very cruel--and yet the +mere idea was an added suffering. The longer she looked at him the +more the possibility grew and tortured her. + +After all, it was almost certain that they would meet now, and at the +meeting she felt sure that all his memory would return. Why should she +do anything, why should she raise her hand, to bring them to each +other? It was too much to ask. Was it not enough that both were free, +and both in the same city together, and that she had vowed neither to +hurt nor hinder them? If it was their destiny to be joined together it +would so happen surely in the natural course; if not, was it her part +to join them? The punishment of her sins, whatever it should be, she +could bear; but this thing she could not do. + +She passed her hand across her eyes as though to drive it away, and +her thoughts came back to the point from which they had started. The +suspense became unbearable when she realised that she did not know in +what condition the Wanderer would wake, nor whether, if left to +nature, he would wake at all. She could not endure it any longer. She +touched his sleeve, lightly at first, and then more heavily. She moved +his arm. It was passive in her hand and lay where she placed it. Yet +she would not believe that she had made him sleep. She drew back and +looked at him. Then her anxiety overcame her. + +"Wake!" she cried, aloud. "For God's sake, wake! I cannot bear it!" + +His eyes opened at the sound of her voice, naturally and quietly. Then +they grew wide and deep and fixed themselves in a great wonder of many +seconds. Then Unorna saw no more. + +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. She had no power of thought left in her, as she felt +herself borne along, body and soul, in the rush of a passion more +masterful than her own. + +Then she was on her feet again, but his arms were round her still, and +hers, whether she would or not, were clasped about his neck. Dreams, +truth, faith kept or broken, hell and Heaven itself were swept away, +all wrecked together in the tide of love. And through it all his voice +was in her ear. + +"Love, love, at last! From all the years, you have come back--at last +--at last!" + +Broken and almost void of sense the words came then, through the storm +of his kisses and the tempest of her tears. She could no more resist +him nor draw herself away than the frail ship, wind-driven through +crashing waves, can turn and face the blast; no more than the long dry +grass can turn and quench the roaring flame; no more than the drooping +willow bough can dam the torrent and force it backwards up the steep +mountain side. + +In those short, false moments, Unorna knew what happiness could mean. +Torn from herself, lifted high above the misery and the darkness of +her real life, it was all true to her. There was no other Beatrice but +herself, no other woman whom he had ever loved. An enchantment greater +than her own was upon her and held her in bonds she could neither bend +nor break. + +She was sitting in her own chair now and he was kneeling before her, +holding her hands and looking up to her. For him the world held +nothing else. For him her hair was black as night; for him the unlike +eyes were dark and fathomless; for him the heavy marble hand was +light, responsive, delicate; for him her face was the face of +Beatrice, as he had last seen it long ago. The years had passed, +indeed, and he had sought her through many lands, but she had come +back to him the same, in the glory of her youth, in the strength of +her love, in the divinity of her dark beauty, his always, through it +all, his now--for ever. + +For a long time he did not speak. The words rose to his lips and +failed of utterance, as the first mist of early morning is drawn +heavenwards to vanish in the rising sun. The long-drawn breath could +have made no sound of sweeter meaning than the unspoken speech that +rose in the deep gray eyes. Nature's grand organ, touched by hands +divine, can yield no chord more moving than a lover's sigh. + +Words came at last, as after the welcome shower in summer's heat the +song of birds rings through the woods, and out across the fields, upon +the clear, earth-scented air--words fresh from their long rest within +his heart, unused in years of loneliness but unforgotten and familiar +still--untarnished jewels from the inmost depths; rich treasures from +the storehouse of a deathless faith; diamonds of truth, rubies of +passion, pearls of devotion studding the golden links of the chain of +love. + +"At last--at last--at last! Life of my life, the day is come that is +not day without you, and now it will always be day for us two--day +without end and sun for ever! And yet, I have seen you always in my +night, just as I see you now. As I hold your dear hands, I have held +them--day by day and year by year--and I have smoothed that black hair +of yours that I love, and kissed those dark eyes of yours many and +many a thousand times. It has been so long, love, so very long! But I +knew it would come some day. I knew I should find you, for you have +been always with me, dear--always and everywhere. The world is all +full of you, for I have wandered through it all and taken you with me +and made every place yours with the thought of you, and the love of +you and the worship of you. For me, there is not an ocean nor a sea +nor a river, nor rock nor island nor broad continent of earth, that +has not known Beatrice and loved her name. Heart of my heart, soul of +my soul--the nights and the days without you, the lands and the oceans +where you were not, the endlessness of this little world that hid you +somewhere, the littleness of the whole universe without you--how can +you ever know what it has been to me? And so it is gone at last--gone +as a dream of sickness in the morning of health; gone as the blackness +of storm-clouds in the sweep of the clear west wind; gone as the +shadow of evil before the face of an angel of light! And I know it +all. I see it all in your eyes. You knew I was true, and you knew I +sought you, and would find you at last--and you have waited--and there +has been no other, not the thought of another, not the passing image +of another between us. For I know there has not been that and I should +have known it anywhere in all these years, the chill of it would have +found me, the sharpness of it would have been in my heart--no matter +where, no matter how far--yet say it, say it once--say that you have +loved me, too--" + +"God knows how I have loved you--how I love you now!" Unorna said in a +low, unsteady voice. + +The light that had been in his face grew brighter still as she spoke, +while she looked at him, wondering, her head thrown back against the +high chair, her eyelids wet and drooping, her lips still parted, her +hand in his. Small wonder if he had loved her for herself, she was so +beautiful. Small wonder it would have been if she had taken Beatrice's +place in his heart during those weeks of close and daily converse. But +that first great love had left no fertile ground in which to plant +another seed, no warmth of kindness under which the tender shoot might +grow to strength, no room beneath its heaven for other branches than +its own. Alone it had stood in majesty as a lordly tree, straight, +tall, and ever green, on a silent mountain top. Alone it had borne the +burden of grief's heavy snows; unbent, for all its loneliness, it had +stood against the raging tempest; and green still, in all its giant +strength of stem and branch, in all its kingly robe of unwithered +foliage. Unscathed, unshaken, it yet stood. Neither storm nor +lightning, wind nor rain, sun nor snow had prevailed against it to dry +it up and cast it down that another might grow in its place. + +Yet this love was not for her to whom he spoke, and she knew it as she +answered him, though she answered truly, from the fulness of her +heart. She had cast an enchantment over him unwittingly, and she was +taken in the toils of her own magic even as she had sworn that she +would never again put forth her powers. She shuddered as she realised +it all. In a few short moments she had felt his kisses, and heard his +words, and been clasped to his heart, as she had many a time madly +hoped. But in those moments, too, she had known the truth of her +woman's instinct when it had told her that love must be for herself +and for her own sake, or not be love at all. + +The falseness, the fathomless untruth of it, would have been bad +enough alone. But the truth that was so strong made it horrible. Had +she but inspired in him a burning love for herself, however much +against his will, it would have been very different. She would have +heard her name from his lips, she would have known that all, however +false, however artificial, was for herself, while it might last. To +know that it was real, and not for her, was intolerable. To see this +love of his break out at last--this other love which she had dreaded, +against which she had fought, which she had met with a jealousy as +strong as itself, and struggled with and buried under an imposed +forgetfulness--to feel its great waves surging around her and beating +up against her heart, was more than she could bear. Her face grew +whiter and her hands were cold. She dreaded each moment lest he should +call her Beatrice again, and say that her fair hair was black and that +he loved those deep dark eyes of hers. + +There had been one moment of happiness, in that first kiss, in the +first pressure of those strong arms. Then night descended. The hands +that held her had not been yet unclasped, the kiss was not cold upon +her cheek, the first great cry of his love had hardly died away in a +softened echo, and her punishment was upon her. His words were lashes, +his touch poison, his eyes avenging fires. As in nature's great +alchemy the diamond and the blackened coal are one, as nature with the +same elements pours life and death from the same vial with the same +hand, so now the love which would have been life to Unorna was made +worse than death because it was not for her. + +Yet the disguise was terribly perfect. The unconscious spell had done +its work thoroughly. He took her for Beatrice, and her voice for +Beatrice's there in the broad light, in the familiar place where he +had so often talked with her for hours and known her for Unorna. But a +few paces away was the very spot where she had fallen at his feet last +night and wept and abused herself before him. There was the carpet on +which Israel Kafka had lain throughout the long hours while they had +watched together. Upon that table at her side a book lay which they +had read together but two days ago. In her own chair she sat, Unorna +still, unchanged, unaltered save for him. She doubted her own senses +as she heard him speak, and ever and again the name of Beatrice rang +in her ears. He looked at her hands, and knew them; at her black +dress, and knew it for her own, and yet he poured out the eloquence of +his love--kneeling, then standing, then sitting at her side, drawing +her head to his shoulder and smoothing her fair hair--so black to him +--with a gentle hand. She was passive through it all, as yet. There +seemed to be no other way. He paused sometimes, then spoke again. +Perhaps, in the dream that possessed him, he heard her speak. +Possibly, he was unconscious of her silence, borne along by the +torrent of his own long pent-up speech. She could not tell, she did +not care to know. Of one thing alone she thought, of how to escape +from it all and be alone. + +She feared to move, still more to rise, not knowing what he would do. +As he was now, she could not tell what effect her words would have if +she spoke. It might be but a passing state after all. What would the +awakening be? Would his forgetfulness of Beatrice and his coldness to +herself return with the subsidence of his passion? Far better that +than to see him and hear him as he was now. + +And yet there were moments now and then when he pronounced no name, +when he recalled no memory of the past, when there was only the +tenderness of love itself in his words, and then, as she listened, she +could almost think it was for her. It was bitter joy, unreal and +fantastic, but it was a relief. Had she loved him less, such a +conflict between sense and senses would have been impossible even in +imagination. But she loved him greatly and the deep desire to be loved +in turn was in her still, shaming her better thoughts, but sometimes +ruling her in spite of herself and of the pain she suffered with each +word self-applied. All the vast contradictions, all the measureless +inconsistency, all the enormous selfishness of which human hearts are +capable, had met in hers as in a battle-ground, fighting each other, +rending what they found of herself amongst them, sometimes uniting to +throw their whole weight together against the deep-rooted passion, +sometimes taking side with it to drive out every other rival. + +It was shameful, base, despicable, and she knew it. A moment ago she +had longed to tear herself away, to silence him, to stop her ears, +anything not to hear those words that cut like whips and stung like +scorpions. And now again she was listening for the next, eagerly, +breathlessly, drunk with their sound and revelling almost in the +unreality of the happiness they brought. More and more she despised +herself as the intervals between one pang of suffering and the next +grew longer, and the illusion deeper and more like reality. + +After all, it was he, and no other. It was the man she loved who was +pouring out his own love into her ears, and smoothing her hair and +pressing the hand he held. Had he not said it once, and more than +once? What matter where, what matter how, provided that he loved? She +had received the fulfilment of her wish. He loved her now. Under +another name, in a vision, with another face and another voice, yet, +still, she was herself. + +As in a storm the thunder-claps came crashing through the air, +deafening and appalling at first, then rolling swiftly into a far +distance, fainter and fainter, till all is still and only the plash of +the fast-falling rain is heard, so, as she listened, the tempest of +her pain was passing away. Easier and easier it became to hear herself +called Beatrice, easier and easier it grew to take the other's place, +to accept the kiss, the touch, the word, the pressure of the hand that +were all another's due, and given to herself only for the mask she +wore in his dream. + +And the tide of the great temptation rose, and fell a little, and rose +higher again each time, till it washed the fragile feet of the last +good thought that lingered, taking refuge on the highest point above +the waves. On and on it came, receding and coming back, higher and +higher, surer and surer. Had she drawn back in time it would have been +so easy. Had she turned and fled when the first moment of senseless +joy was over, when she could still feel all the shame, and blush for +all the abasement, it would have been over now, and she would have +been safe. But she had learned to look upon the advancing water, and +the sound of it had no more terror for her. It was very high now. +Presently it would climb higher and close above her head. + +There were long intervals of silence now. The first rush of his speech +had spent itself, for he had told her much and she had heard it all, +even through the mists of her changing moods. And now that he was +silent she longed to hear him speak again. She could never weary of +that voice. It had been music to her in the days when it had been full +of cold indifference--now each vibration roused high harmonies in her +heart, each note was a full chord, and all the chords made but one +great progression. She longed to hear it all again, wondering greatly +how it could never have been not good to hear. + +Then with the greater temptation came the less, enclosed within it, +suddenly revealed to her. There was but one thing she hated in it all. +That was the name. Would he not give her another--her own perhaps? She +trembled as she thought of speaking. Would she still have Beatrice's +voice? Might not her own break down the spell and destroy all at once? +Yet she had spoken once before. She had told him that she loved him +and he had not been undeceived. + +"Beloved--" she said at last, lingering on the single word and then +hesitating. + +He looked into her face as he drew her to him, with happy eyes. She +might speak, then, for he would hear tones not hers. + +"Beloved, I am tired of my name. Will you not call me by another?" She +spoke very softly. + +"By another name?" he exclaimed, surprised, but smiling at what seemed +a strange caprice. + +"Yes. It is a sad name to me. It reminds me of many things--of a time +that is better forgotten since it is gone. Will you do it for me? It +will make it seem as though that time had never been." + +"And yet I love your own name," he said, thoughtfully. "It is so much +--or has been so much in all these years, when I had nothing but your +name to love." + +"Will you not do it? It is all I ask." + +"Indeed I will, if you would rather have it so. Do you think there is +anything that I would not do if you asked it of me?" + +They were almost the words she had spoken to him that night when they +were watching together by Israel Kafka's side. She recognised them and +a strange thrill of triumph ran through her. What matter how? What +matter where? The old reckless questions came to her mind again. If he +loved her, and if he would but call her Unorna, what could it matter, +indeed? Was she not herself? She smiled unconsciously. + +"I see it pleases you," he said tenderly. "Let it be as you wish. What +name will you choose for your dear self?" + +She hesitated. She could not tell how far he might remember what was +past. And yet, if he had remembered he would have seen where he was in +the long time that had passed since his awakening. + +"Did you ever--in your long travels--hear the name Unorna?" she asked +with a smile and a little hesitation. + +"Unorna? No. I cannot remember. It is a Bohemian word--it means 'she +of February.' It has a pretty sound--half familiar to me. I wonder +where I have heard it." + +"Call me Unorna, then. It will remind us that you found me in +February. + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +After carefully locking and bolting the door of the sacristy Sister +Paul turned to Beatrice. She had set down her lamp upon the broad, +polished shelf which ran all round the place, forming the top of a +continuous series of cupboards, as in most sacristies, used for the +vestments of the church. At the back of these high presses rose half +way to the spring of the vault. + +The nun seemed a little nervous and her voice quavered oddly as she +spoke. If she had tried to take up her lamp her hand would have +shaken. In the moment of danger she had been brave and determined, but +now that all was over her enfeebled strength felt the reaction from +the strain. She turned to Beatrice and met her flashing black eyes. +The young girl's delicate nostrils quivered and her lips curled +fiercely. + +"You are angry, my dear child," said Sister Paul. "So am I, and it +seems to me that our anger is just enough. 'Be angry and sin not.' I +think we can apply that to ourselves." + +"Who is that woman?" Beatrice asked. She was certainly angry, as the +nun had said, but she felt by no means sure that she could resist the +temptation of sinning if it presented itself as the possibility of +tearing Unorna to pieces. + +"She was once with us," the nun answered. "I knew her when she was a +mere girl--and I loved her then, in spite of her strange ways. But she +has changed. They call her a Witch--and indeed I think it is the only +name for her." + +"I do not believe in witches," said Beatrice, a little scornfully. +"But whatever she is, she is bad. I do not know what it was that she +wanted me to do in the church, upon the altar there--it was something +horrible. Thank God you came in time! What could it have been, I +wonder?" + +Sister Paul shook her head sorrowfully, but said nothing. She knew no +more than Beatrice of Unorna's intention, but she believed in the +existence of a Black Art, full of sacrilegious practices, and credited +Unorna vaguely with the worst designs which she could think of, though +in her goodness she was not able to imagine anything much worse than +the saying of a /Pater Noster/ backwards in a consecrated place. But +she preferred to say nothing, lest she should judge Unorna unjustly. +After all, she did not know. What she had seen had seemed bad enough +and strange enough, but apart from the fact that Beatrice had been +found upon the altar, where she certainly had no business to be, and +that Unorna had acted like a guilty woman, there was little to lay +hold of in the way of fact. + +"My child," she said at last, "until we know more of the truth, and +have better advice than we can give each other, let us not speak of it +to any one of the sisters. In the morning I will tell all I have seen +in confession, and then I shall get advice. Perhaps you should do the +same. I know nothing of what happened before you left your room. +Perhaps you have something to reproach yourself with. It is not for me +to ask. Think it over." + +"I will tell you the whole truth," Beatrice answered, resting her +elbow upon the polished shelf and supporting her head in her hand, +while she looked earnestly into Sister Paul's faded eyes. + +"Think well, my daughter. I have no right to any confession from you. +If there is anything----" + +"Sister Paul--you are a woman, and I must have a woman's help. I have +learned something to-night which will change my whole life. No--do not +be afraid--I have done nothing wrong. At least, I hope not. While my +father lived, I submitted. I hoped, but I gave no sign. I did not even +write, as I once might have done. I have often wished that I had--was +that wrong?" + +"But you have told me nothing, dear child. How can I answer you?" The +nun was perplexed. + +"True. I will tell you. Sister Paul--I am five-and-twenty years old, I +am a grown woman and this is no mere girl's love story. Seven years +ago--I was only eighteen then--I was with my father as I have been +ever since. My mother had not been dead long then--perhaps that is the +reason why I seemed to be everything to my father. But they had not +been happy together, and I had loved her best. We were travelling--no +matter where--and then I met the man I have loved. He was not of our +country--that is, of my father's. He was of the same people as my +mother. Well--I loved him. How dearly you must guess, and try to +understand. I could not tell you that. No one could. It began +gradually, for he was often with us in those days. My father liked him +for his wit, his learning, though he was young; for his strength and +manliness--for a hundred reasons which were nothing to me. I would +have loved him had he been a cripple, poor, ignorant, despised, +instead of being what he was--the grandest, noblest man God ever made. +For I did not love him for his face, nor for his courtly ways, nor for +such gifts as other men might have, but for himself and for his heart +--do you understand?" + +"For his goodness," said Sister Paul, nodding in approval. "I +understand." + +"No," Beatrice answered, half impatiently. "Not for his goodness +either. Many men are good, and so was he--he must have been, of +course. No matter. I loved him. That is enough. He loved me, too. And +one day we were alone, in the broad spring sun, upon a terrace. There +were lemon trees there--I can see the place. Then we told each other +that we loved--but neither of us could find the words--they must be +somewhere, those strong beautiful words that could tell how we loved. +We told each other--" + +"Without your father's consent?" asked the nun almost severely. + +Beatrice's eyes flashed. "Is a woman's heart a dog that must follow at +heel?" she asked fiercely. "We loved. That was enough. My father had +the power, but not the heart, to come between. We told him, then, for +we were not cowards. We told him boldly that it must be. He was a +thoughtful man, who spoke little. He said that we must part at once, +before we loved each other better--and that we should soon forget. We +looked at each other, the man I loved and I. We knew that we should +love better yet, parted or together, though we could not tell how that +could be. But we knew also that such love as there was between us was +enough. My father gave no reasons, but I knew that he hated the name +of my mother's nation. Of course we met again. I remember that I could +cry in those days. My father had not learned to part us then. Perhaps +he was not quite sure himself, at all events the parting did not come +so soon. We told him that we would wait, for ever if it must be. He +may have been touched, though little touched him at the best. Then, +one day, suddenly and without warning, he took me away to another +city. And what of him? I asked. He told me that there was an evil +fever in the city and that it had seized him--the man I loved. "He is +free to follow us if he pleases," said my father. But he never came. +Then followed a journey, and another, and another, until I knew that +my father was travelling to avoid him. When I saw that I grew silent, +and never spoke his name again. Farther and farther, longer and +longer, to the ends of the earth. We saw many people, many asked for +my hand. Sometimes I heard of him, from men who had seen him lately. I +waited patiently, for I knew that he was on our track, and sometimes I +felt that he was near." + +Beatrice paused. + +"It is a strange story," said Sister Paul, who had rarely heard a tale +of love. + +"The strange thing is this," Beatrice answered. "That woman--what is +her name? Unorna? She loves him, and she knows where he is." + +"Unorna?" repeated the nun in bewilderment. + +"Yes. She met me after Compline to-night. I could not but speak to +her, and then I was deceived. I cannot tell whether she knew what I am +to him, but she deceived me utterly. She told me a strange story of +her own life. I was lonely. In all those years I have never spoken of +what has filled me. I cannot tell how it was. I began to speak, and +then I forgot that she was there, and told all." + +"She made you tell her, by her secret arts," said Sister Paul in a low +voice. + +"No--I was lonely and I believed that she was good, and I felt that I +must speak. Then--I cannot think how I could have been so mad--but I +thought that we should never meet again, and I showed her a likeness +of him. She turned on me. I shall not forget her face. I heard her say +that she knew him and loved him too. When I awoke I was lying on the +altar. That is all I know." + +"Her evil arts, her evil arts," repeated the nun, shaking her head. +"Come, my dear child, let us see if all is in order there, upon the +altar. If these things are to be known they must be told in the right +quarter. The sacristan must not see that any one has been in the +church." + +Sister Paul took up the lamp, but Beatrice laid a hand upon her arm. + +"You must help me to find him," she said firmly. "He is not far away." + +Her companion looked at her in astonishment. + +"Help you to find him?" she stammered. "But I cannot--I do not know--I +am afraid it is not right--an affair of love--" + +"An affair of life, Sister Paul, and of death too, perhaps. This woman +lives in Prague. She is rich and must be well known--" + +"Well known, indeed. Too well known--the Witch they call her." + +"Then there are those who know her. Tell me the name of one person +only--it is impossible that you should not remember some one who is +acquainted with her, who has talked with you of her--perhaps one of +the ladies who have been here in retreat." + +The nun was silent for a moment, gathering her recollections. + +"There is one, at least, who knows her," she said at length. "A great +lady here--it is said that she, too, meddles with forbidden practices +and that Unorna has often been with her--that together they have +called up the spirits of the dead with strange rappings and writings. +She knows her, I am sure, for I have talked with her and she says it +is all natural, and that there is a learned man with them sometimes, +who explains how all such things may happen in the course of nature--a +man--let me see, let me see--it is George, I think, but not as we call +it, not Jirgi, nor Jegor--no--it sounds harder--Ke-Keyrgi--no, Keyork +--Keyork Aribi----" + +"Keyork Arabian!" exclaimed Beatrice. "Is he here?" + +"You know him?" Sister Paul looked almost suspiciously at the young +girl. + +"Indeed I do. He was with us in Egypt once. He showed us wonderful +things among the tombs. A strange little man, who knew everything, but +very amusing." + +"I do not know. But that is his name. He lives in Prague." + +"How can I find him? I must see him at once--he will help me." + +The nun shook her head with disapproval. + +"I should be sorry that you should talk with him," she said. "I fear +he is no better than Unorna, and perhaps worse." + +"You need not fear," Beatrice answered, with a scornful smile. "I am +not in the least afraid. Only tell me how I am to find him. He lives +here, you say--is there no directory in the convent?" + +"I believe the portress keeps such a book," said Sister Paul still +shaking her head uneasily. "But you must wait until the morning, my +dear child, if you will do this thing. Of the two, I should say that +you would do better to write to the lady. Come, we must be going. It +is very late." + +She had taken the lamp again and was moving slowly towards the door. +Beatrice had no choice but to submit. It was evident that nothing more +could be done at present. The two women went back into the church, and +going round the high altar began to examine everything carefully. The +only trace of disorder they could discover was the fallen candlestick, +so massive and strong that it was not even bent or injured. They +climbed the short wooden steps, and uniting their strength, set it up +again, carefully and in its place, restoring the thick candle to the +socket. Though broken in the middle by the fall, the heavy wax +supported itself easily enough. Then they got down again and Sister +Paul took away the steps. For a few moments both women knelt down +before the altar. + +They left the church by the nuns' staircase, bolting the door behind +them, and ascended to the corridors and reached Beatrice's room. +Unorna's door was open, as the nun had left it, and the yellow light +streamed upon the pavement. She went in and extinguished the lamp, and +then came back to Beatrice. + +"Are you not afraid to be alone after what has happened?" she asked. + +"Afraid? Of what? No, indeed." Then she thanked her companion again +and kissed Sister Paul's waxen cheek. + +"Say a prayer, my daughter--and may all be well with you, now and +ever!" said the good sister as she went away through the darkness. She +needed no light in the familiar way to her cell. + +Beatrice searched among her numerous belongings and at last brought +out a writing-case. Then she sat down to her table by the light of the +lamp that had illuminated so many strange sights that night. + +She wrote the name of the convent clearly upon the paper, and then +wrote a plain message in the fewest possible words. Something of her +strong, devoted nature showed itself in her handwriting. + + + "Beatrice Varanger begs that Keyork Arabian will meet her in the + parlour of the convent as soon after receiving this as possible. + The matter is very important." + + +She had reasons of her own for believing that Keyork had not forgotten +her in the five years or more since they had been in Egypt together. +Apart from the fact that his memory had always been surprisingly good, +he had at that time professed the most unbounded admiration for her, +and she remembered with a smile his quaint devotion, his fantastic +courtesy, and his gnome-like attempts at grace. + +She folded the note, to wait for the address which she could not +ascertain until the morning. She could do nothing more. It was nearly +two o'clock and there was evidently nothing to be done but to sleep. + +As she laid her head upon the pillow a few minutes later she was +amazed at her own calm. Strong natures, in great tests, often surprise +themselves far more than they surprise others. Others see the results, +always simpler in proportion as they are greater. But the actors +themselves alone know how hard the great and simple can seem. + +Beatrice's calmness was not only of the outward kind at the present +moment. She felt that she was alone in the world, and that she had +taken her life into her own hands. Fate had lent her the clue of her +happiness at last and she would hold it firmly to the end. It would be +time enough then to open the flood-gates. It would have been unlike +her to dwell long upon the thought of Unorna or to give way to any +passionate outbreak of hatred. Why should Unorna not love him? The +whole world loved him, and small wonder. She feared no rival. + +But he was near her now. Her heart leaped as she realised how very +near he might well be, then sank again to its calm beating. He had +been near her a score of times in the past years, and yet they had not +met. But she had not been free, then, as she was now. There was more +hope than before, but she could not delude herself with any belief in +a certainty. + +So thinking, and so saying to herself, she fell asleep, and slept +soundly without dreaming as most people do who are young and strong, +and who are clear-headed and active when they are awake. + +It was late when she opened her eyes, and the broad cold light filled +the room. She lost no time in thinking over the events of the night, +for everything was fresh in her memory. Half dressed, she wrapped +about her a cloak that came down to her feet, and throwing a black +veil over her hair she went down to the portress's lodge. In five +minutes she had found Keyork's address and had despatched one of the +convent gardeners with the note. Then she leisurely returned to her +room and set about completing her toilet. She naturally supposed that +an hour or two must elapse before she received an answer, certainly +before Keyork appeared in person, a fact which showed that she had +forgotten something of the man's characteristics. + +Twenty minutes had scarcely passed, and she had not finished dressing +when Sister Paul entered the room, evidently in a state of +considerable anxiety. As has been seen, it chanced to be her turn to +superintend the guest's quarters at that time, and the portress had of +course informed her immediately of Keyork's coming, in order that she +might tell Beatrice. + +"He is there!" she said, as she came in. + +Beatrice was standing before the little mirror that hung upon the +wall, trying, under no small difficulties, to arrange her hair. He +turned her head quickly. + +"Who is there? Keyork Arabian?" + +Sister Paul nodded, glad that she was not obliged to pronounce the +name that had for her such an unChristian sound. + +"Where is he? I did not think he could come so soon. Oh, Sister Paul, +do help me with my hair! I cannot make it stay." + +"He is in the parlour, down stairs," answered the nun, coming to her +assistance. "Indeed, child, I do not see how I can help you." She +touched the black coils ineffectually. "There! Is that better?" she +asked in a timid way. "I do not know how to do it--" + +"No, no!" Beatrice exclaimed. "Hold that end--so--now turn it that +way--no, the other way--it is in the glass--so--now keep it there +while I put in a pin--no, no--in the same place, but the other way-- +oh, Sister Paul! Did you never do your hair when you were a girl?" + +"That was so long ago," answered the nun meekly. "Let me try again." + +The result was passably satisfactory at last, and assuredly not +wanting in the element of novelty. + +"Are you not afraid to go alone?" asked Sister Paul with evident +preoccupation, as Beatrice put a few more touches to her toilet. + +But the young girl only laughed and made the more haste. Sister Paul +walked with her to the head of the stairs, wishing that the rules +would allow her to accompany Beatrice into the parlour. Then as the +latter went down the nun stood at the top looking after her and +audibly repeating prayers for her preservation. + +The convent parlour was a large, bare room, lighted by a high and +grated window. Plain, straight, modern chairs were ranged against the +wall at regular intervals. There was no table, but a square piece of +green carpet lay upon the middle of the stone pavement. A richly +ornamented glazed earthenware stove, in which a fire had just been +lighted, occupied one corner, a remnant of former aesthetic taste and +strangely out of place since the old carved furniture was gone. A +crucifix of inferior workmanship and realistically painted hung +opposite the door. The place was reserved for the use of ladies in +retreat and was situated outside the constantly closed door which shut +off the cloistered part of the convent from the small portion +accessible to outsiders. + +Keyork Arabian was standing in the middle of the parlour waiting for +Beatrice. When she entered at last he made two steps forward, bowing +profoundly, and then smiled in a deferential manner. + +"My dear lady," he said, "I am here. I have lost no time. It so +happened that I received your note just as I was leaving my carriage +after a morning drive. I had no idea that you were in Bohemia." + +"Thanks. It was good of you to come so soon." + +She sat down upon one of the stiff chairs and motioned to him to +follow her example. + +"And your dear father--how is he?" inquired Keyork with suave +politeness, as he took his seat. + +"My father died a week ago," said Beatrice gravely. + +Keyork's face assumed all the expression of which it was capable. "I +am deeply grieved," he said, moderating his huge voice to a soft and +purring sub-bass. "He was an old and valued friend." + +There was a moment's silence. Keyork, who knew many things, was well +aware that a silent feud, of which he also knew the cause, had existed +between father and daughter when he had last been with them, and he +rightly judged from his knowledge of their obstinate characters that +it had lasted to the end. He thought therefore that his expression of +sympathy had been sufficient and could pass muster. + +"I asked you to come," said Beatrice at last, "because I wanted your +help in a matter of importance to myself. I understand that you know a +person who calls herself Unorna, and who lives here." + +Keyork's bright blue eyes scrutinized her face. He wondered how much +she knew. + +"Very well indeed," he answered, as though not at all surprised. + +"You know something of her life, then. I suppose you see her very +often, do you not?" + +"Daily, I can almost say." + +"Have you any objection to answering one question about her?" + +"Twenty if you ask them, and if I know the answers," said Keyork, +wondering what form the question would take, and preparing to meet a +surprise with indifference. + +"But will you answer me truly?" + +"My dear lady, I pledge you my sacred word of honour," Keyork answered +with immense gravity, meeting her eyes and laying his hand upon his +heart. + +"Does she love that man--or not?" Beatrice asked, suddenly showing him +the little miniature of the Wanderer, which she had taken from its +case and had hitherto concealed in her hand. + +She watched every line of his face for she knew something of him, and +in reality put very little more faith in his word of honour than he +did himself, which was not saying much. But she had counted upon +surprising him, and she succeeded, to a certain extent. His answer did +not come as glibly as he could have wished, though his plan was soon +formed. + +"Who is it! Ah, dear me! My old friend. We call him the Wanderer. +Well, Unorna certainly knew him when he was here." + +"Then he is gone?" + +"Indeed, I am not quite sure," said Keyork, regaining all his self- +possession. "Of course I can find out for you, if you wish to know. +But as regards Unorna, I can tell you nothing. They were a good deal +together at one time. I fancy he was consulting her. You have heard +that she is a clairvoyant, I daresay." + +He made the last remark quite carelessly, as though he attached no +importance to the fact. + +"Then you do not know whether she loves him?" + +Keyork indulged himself with a little discreet laughter, deep and +musical. + +"Love is a very vague word," he said presently. + +"Is it?" Beatrice asked, with some coldness. + +"To me, at least," Keyork hastened to say, as though somewhat +confused. "But, of course, I can know very little about it in myself, +and nothing about it in others." + +Not knowing how matters might turn out, he was willing to leave +Beatrice with a suspicion of the truth, while denying all knowledge of +it. + +"You know him yourself, of course," Beatrice suggested. + +"I have known him for years--oh, yes, for him, I can answer. He was +not in the least in love." + +"I did not ask that question," said Beatrice rather haughtily. "I knew +he was not." + +"Of course, of course. I beg your pardon!" + +Keyork was learning more from her than she from him. It was true that +she took no trouble to conceal her interest in the Wanderer and his +doings. + +"Are you sure that he has left the city?" Beatrice asked. + +"No, I am not positive. I could not say with certainty." + +"When did you see him last?" + +"Within the week, I am quite sure," Keyork answered with alacrity. + +"Do you know where he was staying?" + +"I have not the least idea," the little man replied, without the +slightest hesitation. "We met at first by chance in the Teyn Kirche, +one afternoon--it was a Sunday, I remember, about a month ago." + +"A month ago--on a Sunday," Beatrice repeated thoughtfully. + +"Yes--I think it was New Year's Day, too." + +"Strange," she said. "I was in the church that very morning, with my +maid. I had been ill for several days--I remember how cold it was. +Strange--the same day." + +"Yes," said Keyork, noting the words, but appearing to take no notice +of them. "I was looking at Tycho Brahe's monument. You know how it +annoys me to forget anything--there was a word in the inscription +which I could not recall. I turned round and saw him sitting just at +the end of the pew nearest to the monument." + +"The old red slab with a figure on it, by the last pillar?" Beatrice +asked eagerly. + +"Exactly. I daresay you know the church very well. You remember that +the pew runs very near to the monument so that there is hardly room to +pass." + +"I know--yes." + +She was thinking that it could hardly have been a mere accident which +had led the Wanderer to take the very seat she had occupied on the +morning of that day. He must have seen her during the Mass, but she +could not imagine how he could have missed her. They had been very +near then. And now, a whole month had passed, and Keyork Arabian +professed not to know whether the Wanderer was still in the city or +not. + +"Then you wish to be informed of our friend's movements, as I +understand it?" said Keyork going back to the main point. + +"Yes--what happened on that day?" Beatrice asked, for she wished to +hear more. + +"Oh, on that day? Yes. Well, nothing happened worth mentioning. We +talked a little and went out of the church and walked a little way +together. I forget when we met next, but I have seen him at least a +dozen times since then, I am sure." + +Beatrice began to understand that Keyork had no intention of giving +her any further information. She reflected that she had learned much +in this interview. The Wanderer had been, and perhaps still was, in +Prague. Unorna loved him and they had been frequently together. He had +been in the Teyn Kirche on the day she had last been there herself, +and in all probability he had seen her, since he had chosen the very +seat in which she had sat. Further, she gathered that Keyork had some +interest in not speaking more frankly. She gave up the idea of +examining him any further. He was a man not easily surprised, and it +was only by means of a surprise that he could be induced to betray +even by a passing expression what he meant to conceal. Her means of +attack were exhausted for the present. She determined at least to +repeat her request clearly before dismissing him, in the hope that it +might suit his plans to fulfil it, but without the least trust in his +sincerity. + +"Will you be so kind as to make some inquiry, and let me know the +result to-day?" she asked. + +"I will do everything to give you an early answer," said Keyork. "And +I shall be the more anxious to obtain one without delay in order that +I may have the very great pleasure of visiting you again. There is +much that I would like to ask you, if you would allow me. For old +friends, as I trust I may say that we are, you must admit that we have +exchanged few--very few--confidences this morning. May I come again +to-day? It would be an immense privilege to talk of old times with +you, of our friends in Egypt and of our many journeys. For you have no +doubt travelled much since then. Your dear father," he lowered his +voice reverentially, "was a great traveller, as well as a very learned +man. Ah, well, my dear lady--we must all make up our minds to +undertake that great journey one of these days. But I pain you. I was +very much attached to your dear father. Command all my service. I will +come again in the course of the day." + +With many sympathetic smiles and half-comic inclinations of his short, +broad body, the little man bowed himself out. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +Unorna drew one deep breath when she first heard her name fall with a +loving accent from the Wanderer's lips. Surely the bitterness of +despair was past since she was loved and not called Beatrice. The sigh +that came then was of relief already felt, the forerunner, as she +fancied, too, of a happiness no longer dimmed by shadows of fear and +mists of rising remorse. Gazing into his eyes, she seemed to be +watching in their reflection a magic change. She had been Beatrice to +him, Unorna to herself, but now the transformation was at hand--now it +was to come. For him she loved, and who loved her, she was Unorna even +to the name, in her own thoughts she had taken the dark woman's face. +She had risked all upon the chances of one throw and she had won. So +long as he had called her by another's name the bitterness had been as +gall mingled in the wine of love. But now that too was gone. She felt +that it was complete at last. Her golden head sank peacefully upon his +shoulder in the morning light. + +"You have been long in coming, love," she said, only half consciously, +"but you have come as I dreamed--it is perfect now. There is nothing +wanting any more." + +"It is all full, all real, all perfect," he answered, softly. + +"And there is to be no more parting, now----" + +"Neither here, nor afterwards, beloved." + +"Then this is afterwards. Heaven has nothing more to give. What is +Heaven? The meeting of those who love--as we have met. I have +forgotten what it was to live before you came----" + +"For me, there is nothing to remember between that day and this." + +"That day when you fell ill," Unorna said, "the loneliness, the fear +for you----" + +Unorna scarcely knew that it had not been she who had parted from him +so long ago. Yet she was playing a part, and in the semi-consciousness +of her deep self-illusion it all seemed as real as a vision in a dream +so often dreamed that it has become part of the dreamer's life. Those +who fall by slow degrees under the power of the all-destroying opium +remember yesterday as being very far, very long past, and recall faint +memories of last year as though a century had lived and perished since +then, seeing confusedly in their own lives the lives of others, and +other existences in their own, until identity is almost gone in the +endless transmigration of their souls from the shadow in one dream- +tale to the wraith of themselves that dreams the next. So, in that +hour, Unorna drifted through the changing scenes that a word had power +to call up, scarce able, and wholly unwilling, to distinguish between +her real and her imaginary self. What matter how? What matter where? +The very questions which at first she had asked herself came now but +faintly as out of an immeasurable distance, and always more faintly +still. They died away in her ears, as when, after long waiting, and +false starts, and turnings back and anxious words exchanged, the great +race is at last begun, the swift long limbs are gathered and stretched +and strained and gathered again, the thunder of flying hoofs is in the +air, and the rider, with low hands, and head inclined and eyes bent +forward, hears the last anxious word of parting counsel tremble and +die in the rush of the wind behind. + +She had really loved him throughout all those years; she had really +sought him and mourned for him and longed for a sight of his face; +they had really parted and had really found each other but a short +hour since; there was no Beatrice but Unorna and no Unorna but +Beatrice, for they were one and indivisible and interchangeable as the +glance of a man's two eyes that look on one fair sight; each sees +alone, the same--but seeing together, the sight grows doubly fair. + +"And all the sadness, where is it now?" she asked. "And all the +emptiness of that long time? It never was, my love--it was yesterday +we met. We parted yesterday, to meet to-day. Say it was yesterday--the +little word can undo seven years." + +"It seems like yesterday," he answered. + +"Indeed, I can almost think so, now, for it was all night between. But +not quite dark, as night is sometimes. It was a night full of stars-- +each star was a thought of you, that burned softly and showed me where +heaven was. And darkest night, they say, means coming morning--so when +the stars went out I knew the sun must rise." + +The words fell from her lips naturally. To her it seemed true that she +had indeed waited long and hoped and thought of him. And it was not +all false. Ever since her childhood she had been told to wait, for her +love would come and would come only once. And so it was true, and the +dream grew sweeter and the illusion of the enchantment more enchanting +still. For it was an enchantment and a spell that bound them together +there, among the flowers, the drooping palms, the graceful tropic +plants and the shadowy leaves. And still the day rose higher, but +still the lamps burned on, fed by the silent, mysterious current that +never tires, blending a real light with an unreal one, an emblem of +Unorna's self, mixing and blending, too, with a self not hers. + +"And the sun is risen, indeed," she added presently. + +"Am I the sun, dear?" he asked, foretasting the delight of listening +to her simple answer. + +"You are the sun, beloved, and when you shine, my eyes can see nothing +else in heaven." + +"And what are you yourself--Beatrice--no, Unorna--is that the name you +chose? It is so hard to remember anything when I look at you." + +"Beatrice--Unorna--anything," came the answer, softly murmuring. +"Anything, dear, any name, any face, any voice, if only I am I, and +you are you, and we two love! Both, neither, anything--do the blessed +souls in Paradise know their own names?" + +"You are right--what does it matter? Why should you need a name at +all, since I have you with me always? It was well once--it served me +when I prayed for you--and it served to tell me that my heart was gold +while you were there, as the goldsmith's mark upon his jewel stamps +the pure metal, that all men may know it." + +"You need no sign like that to show me what you are," said she, with a +long glance. + +"Nor I to tell me you are in my heart," he answered. "It was a foolish +speech. Would you have me wise now?" + +"If wisdom is love--yes. If not----" She laughed softly. + +"Then folly?" + +"Then folly, madness, anything--so that this last, as last it must, or +I shall die!" + +"And why should it not last? Is there any reason, in earth or Heaven, +why we two should part? If there is--I will make that reason itself +folly, and madness, and unreason. Dear, do not speak of this not +lasting. Die, you say? Worse, far worse; as much as eternal death is +worse than bodily dying. Last? Does any one know what for ever means, +if we do not? Die, we must, in these dying bodies of ours, but part-- +no. Love has burned the cruel sense out of that word, and bleached its +blackness white. We wounded the devil, parting, with one kiss, we +killed him with the next--this buries him--ah, love, how sweet----" + +There was neither resistance nor the thought of resisting. Their lips +met and were withdrawn only that their eyes might drink again the +draught the lips had tasted, long draughts of sweetness and liquid +light and love unfathomable. And in the interval of speech half false, +the truth of what was all true welled up from the clear depths and +overflowed the falseness, till it grew falser and more fleeting still +--as a thing lying deep in a bright water casts up a distorted image +on refracted rays. + +Glance and kiss, when two love, are as body and soul, supremely human +and transcendently divine. The look alone, when the lips cannot meet, +is but the disembodied spirit, beautiful even in its sorrow, sad, +despairing, saying "ever," and yet sighing "never," tasting and +knowing all the bitterness of both. The kiss without the glance? The +body without the soul? The mortal thing without the undying thought? +Draw down the thick veil and hide the sight, lest devils sicken at it, +and lest man should loathe himself for what man can be. + +Truth or untruth, their love was real, hers as much as his. She +remembered only what her heart had been without it. What her goal +might be, now that it had come, she guessed even then, but she would +not ask. Was there never a martyr in old times, more human than the +rest, who turned back, for love perhaps, if not for fear, and said +that for love's sake life still was sweet, and brought a milk-white +dove to Aphrodite's altar, or dropped a rose before Demeter's feet? +There must have been, for man is man, and woman, woman. And if in the +next month, or even the next year, or after many years, that youth or +maid took heart to bear a Christian's death, was there then no +forgiveness, no sign of holy cross upon the sandstone in the deep +labyrinth of graves, no crown, no sainthood, and no reverent memory of +his name or hers among those of men and women worthier, perhaps, but +not more suffering? + +No one can kill Self. No one can be altogether another, save in the +passing passion of a moment's acting. I--in that syllable lies the +whole history of each human life; in that history lives the +individuality; in the clear and true conception of that individuality +dwells such joint foreknowledge of the future as we can have, such +vague solution as to us is possible of that vast equation in which all +quantities are unknown save that alone, that I which we know as we can +know nothing else. + +"Bury it!" she said. "Bury that parting--the thing, the word, and the +thought--bury it with all others of its kind, with change, and old +age, and stealing indifference, and growing coldness, and all that +cankers love--bury them all, together, in one wide deep grave--then +build on it the house of what we are--" + +"Change? Indifference? I do not know those words," the Wanderer said. +"Have they been in your dreams, love? They have never been in mine." + +He spoke tenderly, but with the faintest echo of sadness in his voice. +The mere suggestion that such thoughts could have been near her was +enough to pain him. She was silent, and again her head lay upon his +shoulder. She found there still the rest and the peace. Knowing her +own life, the immensity of his faith and trust in that other woman +were made clear by the simple, heartfelt words. If she had been indeed +Beatrice, would he have loved her so? If it had all been true, the +parting, the seven years' separation, the utter loneliness, the +hopelessness, the despair, could she have been as true as he? In the +stillness that followed she asked herself the question which was so +near a greater and a deadlier one. But the answer came quickly. That, +at least, she could have done. She could have been true to him, even +to death. It must be so easy to be faithful when life was but one +faith. In that chord at least no note rang false. + +"Change in love--indifference to you!" she cried, all at once, hiding +her lovely face in his breast and twining her arms about his neck. +"No, no! I never meant that such things could be--they are but empty +words, words one hears spoken lightly by lips that never spoke the +truth, by men and women who never had such truth to speak as you and +I." + +"And as for old age," he said, dwelling upon her speech, "what is that +to us? Let it come, since come it must. It is good to be young and +fair and strong, but would not you or I give up all that for love's +sake, each of us of our own free will, rather than lose the other's +love?" + +"Indeed, indeed I would!" Unorna answered. + +"Then what of age? What is it after all? A few gray hairs, a wrinkle +here and there, a slower step, perhaps a dimmer glance. That is all it +is--the quiet, sunny channel between the sea of earthly joy and the +ocean of heavenly happiness. The breeze of love still fills the sails, +wafting us softly onward through the narrows, never failing, though it +be softer and softer, till we glide out, scarce knowing it, upon the +broader water and are borne swiftly away from the lost land by the +first breath of heaven." + +His words brought peace and the mirage of a far-off rest, that soothed +again the little half-born doubt. + +"Yes," she said. "It is better to think so. Then we need think of no +other change." + +"There is no other possible," he answered, gently pressing the +shoulder upon which his hand was resting. "We have not waited and +believed, and trusted and loved, for seven years, to wake at last-- +face to face as we are to-day--and to find that we have trusted vainly +and loved two shadows, I yours, and you mine, to find at the great +moment of all that we are not ourselves, the selves we knew, but +others of like passions but of less endurance. Have we, beloved? And +if we could love, and trust, and believe without each other, each +alone, is it not all the more sure that we shall be unchanging +together? It must be so. The whole is greater than its parts, two +loves together are greater and stronger than each could be of itself. +The strength of two strands close twined together is more than twice +the strength of each." + +She said nothing. By merest chance he had said words that had waked +the doubt again, so that it grew a little and took a firmer hold in +her unwilling heart. To love a shadow, he had said, to wake and find +self not self at all. That was what might come, would come, must come, +sooner or later, said the doubt. What matter where, or when, or how? +The question came again, vaguely, faintly as a mere memory, but +confidently as though knowing its own answer. Had she not rested in +his arms, and felt his kisses and heard his voice? What matter how, +indeed? It matters greatly, said the growing doubt, rearing its head +and finding speech at last. It matters greatly, it said, for love lies +not alone in voice, and kiss, and gentle touch, but in things more +enduring, which to endure must be sound and whole and not cankered to +the core by a living lie. Then came the old reckless reasoning again: +Am I not I? Is he not he? Do I not love him with my whole strength? +Does he not love this very self of mine, here as it is, my head upon +his shoulder, my hand within his hand? And if he once loved another, +have I not her place, to have and hold, that I may be loved in her +stead? Go, said the doubt, growing black and strong; go, for you are +nothing to him but a figure in his dream, disguised in the lines of +one he really loved and loves; go quickly, before it is too late, +before that real Beatrice comes and wakes him and drives you out of +the kingdom you usurp. + +But she knew it was only a doubt, and had it been the truth, and had +Beatrice's foot been on the threshold, she would not have been driven +away by fear. But the fight had begun. + +"Speak to me, dear," she said. "I must hear your voice--it makes me +know that it is all real." + +"How the minutes fly!" he exclaimed, smoothing her hair with his hand. +"It seems to me that I was but just speaking when you spoke." + +"It seems so long--" She checked herself, wondering whether an hour +had passed or but a second. + +Though love be swifter than the fleeting hours, doubt can outrun a +lifetime in one beating of the heart. + +"Then how divinely long it all may seem," he answered. "But can we not +begin to think, and to make plans for to-morrow, and the next day, and +for the years before us? That will make more time for us, for with the +present we shall have the future, too. No--that is foolish again. And +yet it is so hard to say which I would have. Shall the moment linger +because it is so sweet? Or shall it be gone quickly, because the next +is to be sweeter still? Love, where is your father?" + +Unorna started. The question was suggested, perhaps, by his +inclination to speak of what was to be done, but it fell suddenly upon +her ears, as a peal of thunder when the sky has no clouds. Must she +lie now, or break the spell? One word, at least, she could yet speak +with truth. + +"Dead." + +"Dead!" the Wanderer repeated, thoughtfully and with a faint surprise. +"Is it long ago, beloved?" he asked presently, in a subdued tone as +though fearing to wake some painful memory. + +"Yes," she answered. The great doubt was taking her heart in its +strong hands now and tearing it, and twisting it. + +"And whose house is this in which I have found you, darling? Was it +his?" + +"It is mine," Unorna said. + +How long would he ask questions to which she could find true answers? +What question would come next? There were so many he might ask and few +to which she could reply so truthfully even in that narrow sense of +truth which found its only meaning in a whim of chance. But for a +moment he asked nothing more. + +"Not mine," she said. "It is yours. You cannot take me and yet call +anything mine." + +"Ours, then, beloved. What does it matter? So he died long ago--poor +man! And yet, it seems but a little while since some one told me--but +that was a mistake, of course. He did not know. How many years may it +be, dear one? I see you still wear mourning for him." + +"No--that was but a fancy--to-day. He died--he died more than two +years ago." + +She bent her head. It was but a poor attempt at truth, a miserable +lying truth to deceive herself with, but it seemed better than to lie +the whole truth outright, and say that her father--Beatrice's father-- +had been dead but just a week. The blood burned in her face. Brave +natures, good and bad alike, hate falsehood, not for its wickedness, +perhaps, but for its cowardice. She could do things as bad, far worse. +She could lay her hand upon the forehead of a sleeping man and inspire +in him a deep, unchangeable belief in something utterly untrue; but +now, as it was, she was ashamed and hid her face. + +"It is strange," he said, "how little men know of each other's lives +or deaths. They told me he was alive last year. But it has hurt you to +speak of it. Forgive me, dear, it was thoughtless of me." + +He tried to lift her head, but she held it obstinately down. + +"Have I pained you, Beatrice?" he asked, forgetting to call her by the +other name that was so new to him. + +"No--oh, no!" she exclaimed without looking up. + +"What is it then?" + +"Nothing--it is nothing--no, I will not look at you--I am ashamed." +That at least was true. + +"Ashamed, dear heart! Of what?" + +He had seen her face in spite of herself. Lie, or lose all, said a +voice within. + +"Ashamed of being glad that--that I am free," she stammered, +struggling on the very verge of the precipice. + +"You may be glad of that, and yet be very sorry he is dead," the +Wanderer said, stroking her hair. + +It was true, and seemed quite simple. She wondered that she had not +thought of that. Yet she felt that the man she loved, in all his +nobility and honesty, was playing the tempter to her, though he could +not know it. Deeper and deeper she sank, yet ever more conscious that +she was sinking. Before him she felt no longer as loving woman to +loving man--she was beginning to feel as a guilty prisoner before his +judge. + +He thought to turn the subject to a lighter strain. By chance he +glanced at his own hand. + +"Do you know this ring?" he asked, holding it before her, with a +smile. + +"Indeed, I know it," she answered, trembling again. + +"You gave it to me, love, do you remember? And I gave you a likeness +of myself, because you asked for it, though I would rather have given +you something better. Have you it still?" + +She was silent. Something was rising in her throat. Then she choked it +down. + +"I had it in my hand last night," she said in a breaking voice. True, +once more. + +"What is it, darling? Are you crying? This is no day for tears." + +"I little thought that I should have yourself to-day," she tried to +say. + +Then the tears came, tears of shame, big, hot, slow. They fell upon +his hand. She was weeping for joy, he thought. What else could any man +think in such a case? He drew her to him, and pressed her cheek with +his hand as her head nestled on his shoulder. + +"When you put this ring on my finger, dear--so long ago----" + +She sobbed aloud. + +"No, darling--no, dear heart," he said, comforting her, "you must not +cry--that long ago is over now and gone for ever. Do you remember that +day, sweetheart, in the broad spring sun upon the terrace among the +lemon trees. No, dear--your tears hurt me always, even when they are +shed in happiness--no, dear, no. Rest there, let me dry your dear eyes +--so and so. Again? For ever, if you will. While you have tears, I +have kisses to dry them--it was so then, on that very day. I can +remember. I can see it all--and you. You have not changed, love, in +all those years, more than a blossom changes in one hour of a summer's +day! You took this ring and put it on my finger. Do you remember what +I said? I know the very words. I promised you--it needed no promise +either--that it should never leave its place until you took it back-- +and you--how well I remember your face--you said that you would take +it from my hand some day, when all was well, when you should be free +to give me another in its stead, and to take one in return. I have +kept my word, beloved. Keep yours--I have brought you back the ring. +Take it, sweetheart. It is heavy with the burden of lonely years. Take +it and give me that other which I claim." + +She did not speak, for she was fighting down the choking sobs, +struggling to keep back the burning drops that scalded her cheeks, +striving to gather strength for the weight of a greater shame. Lie, or +lose all, the voice said. + +Very slowly she raised her head. She knew that his hand was close to +hers, held there that she might fulfil Beatrice's promise. Was she not +free? Could she not give him what he asked? No matter how--she tried +to say it to herself and could not. She felt his breath upon her hair. +He was waiting. If she did not act soon or speak he would wonder what +held her back--wonder--suspicion next and then? She put out her hand +to touch his fingers, half blinded, groping as though she could not +see. He made it easy for her. He fancied she was trembling, as she was +weeping, with the joy of it all. + +She felt the ring, though she dared not look at it. She drew it a +little and felt that it would come off easily. She felt the fingers +she loved so well, straight, strong and nervous, and she touched them +lovingly. The ring was not tight, it would pass easily over the joint +that alone kept it in its place. + +"Take it, beloved," he said. "It has waited long enough." + +He was beginning to wonder at her hesitation as she knew he would. +After wonder would come suspicion--and then? Very slowly--it was just +upon the joint of his finger now. Should she do it? What would happen? +He would have broken his vow--unwittingly. How quickly and gladly +Beatrice would have taken it. What would she say, if they lived and +met--why should they not meet? Would the spell endure that shock--who +would Beatrice be then? The woman who had given him this ring? Or +another, whom he would no longer know? But she must be quick. He was +waiting and Beatrice would not have made him wait. + +Her hand was like stone, numb, motionless, immovable, as though some +unseen being had taken it in an iron grasp and held it there, in mid- +air, just touching his. Yes--no--yes--she could not move--a hand was +clasped upon her wrist, a hand smaller than his, but strong as fate, +fixed in its grip as an iron vice. + +Unorna felt a cold breath, that was not his, upon her forehead, and +she felt as though her heavy hair were rising of itself upon her head. +She knew that horror, for she had been overtaken by it once before. +She was not afraid, but she knew what it was. There was a shadow, too, +and a dark woman, tall, queenly, with deep flashing eyes was standing +beside her. She knew, before she looked; she looked, and it was there. +Her own face was whiter than that other woman's. + +"Have you come already?" she asked of the shadow, in a low despairing +tone. + +"Beatrice--what has happened?" cried the Wanderer. To him, she seemed +to be speaking to the empty air and her white face startled him. + +"Yes," she said, staring still, in the same hopeless voice. "It is +Beatrice. She has come for you." + +"Beatrice--beloved--do not speak like that! For God's sake--what do +you see? There is nothing there." + +"Beatrice is there. I am Unorna." + +"Unorna, Beatrice--have we not said it should be all the same! +Sweetheart--look at me! Rest here--shut those dear eyes of yours. It +is gone now whatever it was--you are tired, dear--you must rest." + +Her eyes closed and her head sank. It was gone, as he said, and she +knew what it had been--a mere vision called up by her own over- +tortured brain. Keyork Arabian had a name for it. + +Frightened by your own nerves, laughed the voice, when, if you had not +been a coward, you might have faced it down and lied again, and all +would have been well. But you shall have another chance, and lying is +very easy, even when the nerves are over-wrought. You will do better +the next time. + +The voice was like Keyork Arabian's. Unstrung, almost forgetting all, +she wondered vaguely at the sound, for it was a real sound and a real +voice to her. Was her soul his, indeed, and was he drawing it on +slowly, surely to the end? Had he been behind her last night? Had he +left an hour's liberty only to come back again and take at last what +was his? + +There is time yet, you have not lost him, for he thinks you mad. The +voice spoke once more. + +And at the same moment the strong dear arms were again around her, +again her head was on that restful shoulder of his, again her pale +face was turned up to his, and kisses were raining on her tired eyes, +while broken words of love and tenderness made music through the +tempest. + +Again the vast temptation rose. How could he ever know? Who was to +undeceive him, if he was not yet undeceived? Who should ever make him +understand the truth so long as the spell lasted? Why not then take +what was given her, and when the end came, if it came, then tell all +boldly? Even then, he would not understand. Had he understood last +night, when she had confessed all that she had done before? He had not +believed one word of it, except that she loved him. Could she make him +believe it now, when he was clasping her so fiercely to his breast, +half mad with love for her himself? + +So easy, too. She had but to forget that passing vision, to put her +arms about his neck, to give kiss for kiss, and loving word for loving +word. Not even that. She had but to lie there, passive, silent if she +could not speak, and it would be still the same. No power on earth +could undo what she had done, unless she willed it. Neither man nor +woman could make his clasping hands let go of her and give her up. + +Be still and wait, whispered the voice, you have lost nothing yet. + +But Unorna would not. She had spoken and acted her last lie. It was +over. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +Unorna struggled for a moment. The Wanderer did not understand, but +loosed his arms, so that she was free. She rose to her feet and stood +before him. + +"You have dreamed all this," she said. "I am not Beatrice." + +"Dreamed? Not Beatrice?" she heard him cry in his bewilderment. + +Something more he said, but she could not catch the words. She was +already gone, through the labyrinth of the many plants, to the door +through which twelve hours earlier she had fled from Israel Kafka. She +ran the faster as she left him behind. She passed the entrance and the +passage and the vestibule beyond, not thinking whither she was going, +or not caring. She found herself in that large, well-lighted room in +which the ancient sleeper lay alone. Perhaps her instinct led her +there as to a retreat safer even than her own chamber. She knew that +if she would there was something there which she could use. + +She sank into a chair and covered her face, trembling from head to +foot. For many minutes after that she could neither see nor hear--she +would hardly have felt a wound or a blow. And yet she knew that she +meant to end her life, since all that made it life was ended. + +After a time, her hands fell in a despairing gesture upon her knees +and she stared about the room. Her eyes rested on the sleeper, then +upon his couch, lying as a prophet in state, the massive head raised +upon a silken pillow, the vast limbs just outlined beneath the snow- +white robe, the hoary beard flowing down over the great breast that +slowly rose and fell. + +To her there was a dreadful irony in that useless life, prolonged in +sleep beyond the limits of human age. Yet she had thought it worth the +labour and care and endless watchfulness it had cost for years. And +now her own, strong, young and fresh, seemed not only useless but fit +only to be cut off and cast away, as an existence that offended God +and man and most of all herself. + +But if she died then, there, in that secret chamber where she and her +companion had sought the secret of life for years, if she died now-- +how would all end? Was it an expiation--or a flight? Would one short +moment of half-conscious suffering pay half her debt? + +She stared at the old man's face with wide, despairing eyes. Many a +time, unknown to Keyork and once to his knowledge, she had roused the +sleeper to speak, and on the whole he had spoken truly, wisely, and +well. She lacked neither the less courage to die, nor the greater to +live. She longed but to hear one honest word, not of hope, but of +encouragement, but one word in contrast to those hideous whispered +promptings that had come to her in Keyork Arabian's voice. How could +she trust herself alone? Her evil deeds were many--so many, that, +although she had turned at last against them, she could not tell where +to strike. + +"If you would only tell me!" she cried leaning over the unconscious +head. "If you would only help me. You are so old that you must be +wise, and if so very wise, then you are good! Wake, but this once, and +tell me what is right!" + +The deep eyes opened and looked up to hers. The great limbs stirred, +the bony hands unclasped. There was something awe-inspiring in the +ancient strength renewed and filled with a new life. + +"Who calls me?" asked the clear, deep voice. + +"I, Unorna----" + +"What do you ask of me?" + +He had risen from his couch and stood before her, towering far above +her head. Even the Wanderer would have seemed but of common stature +beside this man of other years, of a forgotten generation, who now +stood erect and filled with a mysterious youth. + +"Tell me what I should do----" + +"Tell me what you have done." + +Then in one great confession, with bowed head and folded hands, she +poured out the story of her life. + +"And I am lost!" she cried at last. "One holds my soul, and one my +heart! May not my body die? Oh, say that it is right--that I may die!" + +"Die? Die--when you may yet undo?" + +"Undo?" + +"Undo and do. Undo the wrong and do the right." + +"I cannot. The wrong is past undoing--and I am past doing right." + +"Do not blaspheme--go! Do it." + +"What?" + +"Call her--that other woman--Beatrice. Bring her to him, and him to +her." + +"And see them meet!" + +She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped her +lips. + +"May I not die?" she cried despairingly. "May I not die--for him--for +her, for both? Would that not be enough? Would they not meet? Would +they not then be free?" + +"Do you love him still?" + +"With all my broken heart----" + +"Then do not leave his happiness to chance alone, but go at once. +There is one little act of Heaven's work still in your power. Make it +all yours." + +His great hands rested on her shoulders and his eyes looked down to +hers. + +"Is it so bitter to do right?" he asked. + +"It is very bitter," she answered. + +Very slowly she turned, and as she moved he went beside her, gently +urging her and seeming to support her. Slowly, through vestibule and +passage, they went on and entered together the great hall of the +flowers. The Wanderer was there alone. + +He uttered a short cry and sprang to meet her, but stepped back in awe +of the great white-robed figure that towered by her side. + +"Beatrice!" he cried, as they passed. + +"I am not Beatrice," she answered, her downcast eyes not raised to +look at him, moving still forward under the gentle guidance of the +giant's hand. + +"Not Beatrice--no--you are not she--you are Unorna! Have I dreamed all +this?" + +She had passed him now, and still she would not turn her head. But her +voice came back to him as she walked on. + +"You have dreamed what will very soon be true," she said. "Wait here, +and Beatrice will soon be with you." + +"I know that I am mad," the Wanderer cried, making one step to follow +her, then stopping short. Unorna was already at the door. The ancient +sleeper laid one hand upon her head. + +"You will do it now," he said. + +"I will do it--to the end," she answered. "Thank God that I have made +you live to tell me how." + +So she went out, alone, to undo what she had done so evilly well. + +The old man turned and went towards the Wanderer, who stood still in +the middle of the hall, confused, not knowing whether he had dreamed +or was really mad. + +"What man are you?" he asked, as the white-robed figure approached. + +"A man, as you are, for I was once young--not as you are, for I am +very old, and yet like you, for I am young again." + +"You speak in riddles. What are you doing here, and where have you +sent Unorna?" + +"When I was old, in that long time between, she took me in, and I have +slept beneath her roof these many years. She came to me to-day. She +told me all her story and all yours, waking me from my sleep, and +asking me what she should do. And she is gone to do that thing of +which I told her. Wait and you will see. She loves you well." + +"And you would help her to get my love, as she had tried to get it +before?" the Wanderer asked with rising anger. "What am I to you, or +you to me, that you would meddle in my life?" + +"You to me? Nothing. A man." + +"Therefore an enemy--and you would help Unorna--let me go! This home +is cursed. I will not stay in it." The hoary giant took his arm, and +the Wanderer started at the weight and strength of the touch. + +"You shall bless this house before you leave it. In this place, here +where you stand, you shall find the happiness you have sought through +all the years." + +"In Unorna?" the question was asked scornfully. + +"By Unorna." + +"I do not believe you. You are mad, as I am. Would you play the +prophet?" + +The door opened in the distance, and from behind the screen of plants +Keyork Arabian came forward into the hall, his small eyes bright, his +ivory face set and expressionless, his long beard waving in the swing +of his walk. The Wanderer saw him first and called to him. + +"Keyork--come here!" he said. "Who is this man?" + +For a moment Keyork seemed speechless with amazement. But it was anger +that choked his words. Then he came on quickly. + +"Who waked him?" he cried in fury. "What is this? Why is he here?" + +"Unorna waked me," answered the ancient sleeper very calmly. + +"Unorna? Again? The curse of The Three Black Angels on her! Mad again? +Sleep, go back! It is not ready yet, and you will die, and I shall +lose it all--all--all! Oh, she shall pay for this with her soul in +hell!" + +He threw himself upon the giant, in an insane frenzy, clasping his +arms round the huge limbs and trying to force him backwards. + +"Go! go!" he cried frantically. "It may not be too late! You may yet +sleep and live! Oh, my Experiment, my great Experiment! All lost----" + +"What is this madness?" asked the Wanderer. "You cannot carry him, and +he will not go. Let him alone." + +"Madness?" yelled Keyork, turning on him. "You are the madman, you the +fool, who cannot understand! Help me to move him--you are strong and +young--together we can take him back--he may yet sleep and live--he +must and shall! I say it! Lay your hands on him--you will not help me? +Then I will curse you till you do----" + +"Poor Keyork!" exclaimed the Wanderer, half pitying him. "Your big +thoughts have cracked your little brain at last." + +"Poor Keyork? You call me poor Keyork? You boy! You puppet! You ball, +that we have bandied to and fro, half sleeping, half awake! It drives +me mad to see you standing there, scoffing instead of helping me!" + +"You are past my help, I fear." + +"Will you not move? Are you dead already, standing on your feet and +staring at me?" + +Again Keyork threw himself upon the huge old man, and stamped and +struggled and tried to move him backwards. He might as well have spent +his strength against a rock. Breathless but furious still, he desisted +at last, too much beside himself to see that he whose sudden death he +feared was stronger than he, because the great experiment had +succeeded far beyond all hope. + +"Unorna has done this!" he cried, beating his forehead in impotent +rage. "Unorna has ruined me, and all,--and everything--so she has paid +me for my help! Trust a woman when she loves? Trust angels to curse +God, or Hell to save a sinner! But she shall pay, too--I have her +still. Why do you stare at me? Wait, fool! You shall be happy now. +What are you to me that I should even hate you? You shall have what +you want. I will bring you the woman you love, the Beatrice you have +seen in dreams--and then Unorna's heart will break and she will die, +and her soul--her soul----" + +Keyork broke into a peal of laughter, deep, rolling, diabolical in its +despairing, frantic mirth. He was still laughing as he reached the +door. + +"Her soul, her soul!" they heard him cry, between one burst and +another as he went out, and from the echoing vestibule, and from the +staircase beyond, the great laughter rolled back to them when they +were left alone. + +"What is it all? I cannot understand," the Wanderer said, looking up +to the grand calm face. + +"It is not always given to evil to do good, even for evil's sake," +said the old man. "The thing that he would is done already. The wound +that he would make is already bleeding; the heart he is gone to break +is broken; the soul that he would torture is beyond all his torments." + +"Is Unorna dead?" the Wanderer asked, turning, he knew now why, with a +sort of reverence to his companion. + +"She is not dead." + +Unorna waited in the parlour of the convent. Then Beatrice came in, +and stood before her. Neither feared the other, and each looked into +the other's eyes. + +"I have come to undo what I have done," Unorna said, not waiting for +the cold inquiry which she knew would come if she were silent. + +"That will be hard, indeed," Beatrice answered. + +"Yes. It is very hard. Make it still harder if you can, I could still +do it." + +"And do you think I will believe you, or trust you?" asked the dark +woman. + +"I know that you will when you know how I have loved him." + +"Have you come here to tell me of your love?" + +"Yes. And when I have told you, you will forgive me." + +"I am no saint," said Beatrice, coldly. "I do not find forgiveness in +such abundance as you need." + +"You will find it for me. You are not bad, as I am, but you can +understand what I have done, nevertheless, for you know what you +yourself would do for the sake of him we love. No--do not be angry +with me yet--I love him and I tell you so--that you may understand." + +"At that price, I would rather not have the understanding. I do not +care to hear you say it. It is not good to hear." + +"Yet, if I did not love him as I do, I should not be here, of my own +free will, to take you to him. I came for that." + +"I do not believe you," Beatrice answered in tones like ice. + +"And yet you will, and very soon. Whether you forgive or not--that is +another matter. I cannot ask it. God knows how much easier it would +have been to die than to come here. But if I were dead you might never +have found him, nor he you, though you are so very near together. Do +you think it is easier for me to come to you, whom he loves, than it +is for you to hear me say I love him, when I come to give him to you? +If you had found it all, not as it is, but otherwise--if you had found +that in these years he had known me and loved me, as he once loved +you, if he turned from you coldly and bid you forget him, because he +would be happy with me, and because he had utterly forgotten you-- +would it be easy for you to give him up?" + +"He loved me then--he loves me still," Beatrice said. "It is another +case." + +"A much more bitter case. Even then you would have the memory of his +love, which I can never have--in true reality, though I have much to +remember, in his dreams of you." + +Beatrice started a little, and her brow grew dark and angry. + +"Then you have tried to get what was not yours by your bad powers!" +she cried. "And you have made him sleep--and dream--what?" + +"Of you." + +"And he talked of love?" + +"Of love for you." + +"To you?" + +"To me." + +"And dreamed that you were I? That too?" + +"That I was you." + +"Is there more to tell?" Beatrice asked, growing white. "He kissed you +in that dream of his--do not tell me he did that--no, tell me--tell me +all!" + +"He kissed the thing he saw, believing the lips yours." + +"More--more--is it not done yet? Can you sting again? What else?" + +"Nothing--save that last night I tried to kill you, body and soul." + +"And why did you not kill me?" + +"Because you woke. Then the nun saved you. If she had not come, you +would have slept again, and slept for ever. And I would have let his +dreams last, and made it last--for him, I should have been the only +Beatrice." + +"You have done all this, and you ask me to forgive you?" + +"I ask nothing. If you will not go to him, I will bring him to you--" + +Beatrice turned away and walked across the room. + +"Loved her," she said aloud, "and talked to her of love, and kissed--" +She stopped suddenly. Then she came back again with swift steps and +grasped Unorna's arm fiercely. + +"Tell me more still--this dream has lasted long--you are man and +wife!" + +"We might have been. He would still have thought me you, for months +and years. He would have had me take from his finger that ring you put +there. I tried--I tell you the whole truth--but I could not. I saw you +there beside me and you held my hand. I broke away and left him." + +"Left him of your free will?" + +"I could not lie again. It was too much. He would have broken a +promise if I had stayed. I love him--so I left him." + +"Is all this true?" + +"Every word." + +"Swear it to me." + +"How can I? By what shall I swear to you? Heaven itself would laugh at +any oath of mine. With my life I will answer for every word. With my +soul--no--it is not mine to answer with. Will you have my life? My +last breath shall tell you that I tell the truth. The dying do not +lie." + +"You tell me that you love that man. You tell me that you made him +think in dreams that he loved you. You tell me that you might be man +and wife. And you ask me to believe that you turned back from such +happiness as would make an angel sin? If you had done this--but it is +not possible--no woman could! His words in your ear, and yet turn +back? His lips on yours, and leave him? Who could do that?" + +"One who loves him." + +"What made you do it?" + +"Love." + +"No--fear--nothing else----" + +"Fear? And what have I to fear? My body is beyond the fear of death, +as my soul is beyond the hope of life. If it were to be done again I +should be weak. I know I should. If you could know half of what the +doing cost! But let that alone. I did it, and he is waiting for you. +Will you come?" + +"If I only knew it to be true----" + +"How hard you make it. Yet, it was hard enough." + +Beatrice touched her arm, more gently than before, and gazed into her +eyes. + +"If I could believe it all I would not make it hard. I would forgive +you--and you would deserve better than that, better than anything that +is mine to give." + +"I deserve nothing and ask nothing. If you will come, you will see, +and, seeing, you will believe. And if you then forgive--well then, you +will have done far more than I could do." + +"I would forgive you freely----" + +"Are you afraid to go with me?" + +"No. I am afraid of something worse. You have put something here--a +hope----" + +"A hope? Then you believe. There is no hope without a little belief in +it. Will you come?" + +"To him?" + +"To him." + +"It can but be untrue," said Beatrice, still hesitating. "I can but +go. What of him!" she asked suddenly. "If he were living--would you +take me to him? Could you?" + +She turned very pale, and her eyes stared madly at Unorna. + +"If he were dead," Unorna answered, "I should not be here." + +Something in her tone and look moved Beatrice's heart at last. + +"I will go with you," she said. "And if I find him--and if all is well +with him--then God in Heaven repay you, for you have been braver than +the bravest I ever knew." + +"Can love save a soul as well as lose it?" Unorna asked. + +Then they went away together. + +They were scarcely out of sight of the convent gate when another +carriage drove up. Almost before it had stopped, the door opened and +Keyork Arabian's short, heavy form emerged and descended hastily to +the pavement. He rang the bell furiously, and the old portress set the +gate ajar and looked out cautiously, fearing that the noisy peal meant +trouble or disturbance. + +"The lady Beatrice Varanger--I must see her instantly!" cried the +little man in terrible excitement. + +"She is gone out," the portress replied. + +"Gone out? Where? Alone?" + +"With a lady who was here last night--a lady with unlike eyes--" + +"Where? Where? Where are they gone?" asked Keyork hardly able to find +breath. + +"The lady bade the coachman drive her home--but where she lives--" + +"Home? To Unorna's home? It is not true! I see it in your eyes. Witch! +Hag! Let me in! Let me in, I say! May vampires get your body and the +Three Black Angels cast lots upon your soul!" + +In the storm of curses that followed, the convent door was violently +shut in his face. Within, the portress stood shaking with fear, +crossing herself again and again, and verily believing that the devil +himself had tried to force an entrance into the sacred place. + +In fearful anger Keyork drew back. He hesitated one moment and then +regained his carriage. + +"To Unorna's house!" he shouted, as he shut the door with a crash. + +"This is my house, and he is here," Unorna said, as Beatrice passed +before her, under the deep arch of the entrance. + +Then she lead the way up the broad staircase, and through the small +outer hall to the door of the great conservatory. + +"You will find him there," she said. "Go on alone." + +But Beatrice took her hand to draw her in. + +"Must I see it all?" Unorna asked, hopelessly. + +Then from among the plants and trees a great white-robed figure came +out and stood between them. Joining their hands he gently pushed them +forward to the middle of the hall where the Wanderer stood alone. + +"It is done!" Unorna cried, as her heart broke. + +She saw the scene she had acted so short a time before. She heard the +passionate cry, the rain of kisses, the tempest of tears. The +expiation was complete. Not a sight, not a sound was spared her. The +strong arms of the ancient sleeper held her upright on her feet. She +could not fall, she could not close her eyes, she could not stop her +ears, no merciful stupor overcame her. + +"Is it so bitter to do right?" the old man asked, bending low and +speaking softly. + +"It is the bitterness of death," she said. + +"It is well done," he answered. + +Then came a noise of hurried steps and a loud, deep voice, calling, +"Unorna! Unorna!" + +Keyork Arabian was there. He glanced at Beatrice and the Wanderer, +locked in each other's arms, then turned to Unorna and looked into her +face. + +"It has killed her," he said. "Who did it?" + +His low-spoken words echoed like angry thunder. + +"Give her to me," he said again. "She is mine--body and soul." + +But the great strong arms were around her and would not let her go. + +"Save me!" she cried in failing tones. "Save me from him!" + +"You have saved yourself," said the solemn voice of the old man. + +"Saved?" Keyork laughed. "From me?" He laid his hand upon her arm. +Then his face changed again, and his laughter died dismally away, and +he hung back. + +"Can you forgive her?" asked the other voice. + +The Wanderer stood close to them now, drawing Beatrice to his side. +The question was for them. + +"Can you forgive me?" asked Unorna faintly, turning her eyes towards +them. + +"As we hope to find forgiveness and trust in a life to come," they +answered. + +There was a low sound in the air, unearthly, muffled, desperate as of +a strong being groaning in awful agony. When they looked, they saw +that Keyork Arabian was gone. + +The dawn of a coming day rose in Unorna's face as she sank back. + +"It is over," she sighed, as her eyes closed. + +Her question was answered; her love had saved her. + + + +End Project Gutenberg Etext of The Witch of Prague by F. Marion Crawford + diff --git a/old/twopr10.zip b/old/twopr10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..31f2f37 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/twopr10.zip |