"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.
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