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.
Pages:
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297