"
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.
Pages:
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256