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.”