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.