Chapter IV

The Witch of Prague

by F. Marion Crawford

After the Wanderer had left her, Unorna continued to hold in her
hand the book she had again taken up, following the printed lines
mechanically from left to right, from the top of the page to the
foot. Having reached that point, however, she did not turn over the
leaf. She was vaguely aware that she had not understood the sense of
the words, and she returned to the place at which she had begun,
trying to concentrate her attention upon the matter, moving her fresh
lips to form the syllables, and bending her brows in the effort of
understanding, so that a short, straight furrow appeared, like a
sharp vertical cut extending from between the eyes to the midst of
the broad forehead. One, two and three sentences she grasped and
comprehended; then her thoughts wandered again, and the groups of
letters passed meaningless before her sight. She was accustomed to
directing her intelligence without any perceptible effort, and she
was annoyed at being thus led away from her occupation, against her
will and in spite of her determination. A third attempt showed her
that it was useless to force herself any longer, and with a gesture
and look of irritation she once more laid the volume upon the table
at her side.

During a few minutes she sat motionless in her chair, her elbow
leaning on the carved arm-piece, her chin supported upon the back of
her half-closed hand, of which the heavy, perfect fingers were turned
inwards, drooping in classic curves towards the lace about her
throat. Her strangely mismatched eyes stared vacantly towards an
imaginary horizon, not bounded by banks of flowers, nor obscured by
the fantastic foliage of exotic trees.

Presently she held up her head, her white hand dropped upon her
knee, she hesitated an instant, and then rose to her feet, swiftly,
as though she had made a resolution and was about to act upon it. She
made a step forward, and then paused again, while a half-scornful
smile passed like a shadow over her face. Very slowly she began to
pace the marble floor, up and down in the open space before her
chair, turning and turning again, the soft folds of her white gown
following her across the smooth pavement with a gentle, sweeping
sound, such as the breeze makes among flowers in spring.

"Is it he?" she asked aloud in a voice ringing with the joy and
the fear of a passion that has waited long and is at last approaching
the fulfilment of satisfaction.

No answer came to her from among the thick foliage nor in the
scented breath of the violets and the lilies. The murmuring song of
the little fountain alone disturbed the stillness, and the rustle of
her own garments as she moved.

"Is it he? Is it he? Is it he?" she repeated again and again, in
varying tones, chiming the changes of hope and fear, of certainty and
vacillation, of sadness and of gladness, of eager passion and of
chilling doubt.

She stood still, staring at the pavement, her fingers clasped
together, the palms of her hands turned downward, her arms relaxed.
She did not see the dark red squares of marble, alternating with the
white and the gray, but as she looked a face and a form rose before
her, in the contemplation of which all her senses and faculties
concentrated themselves. The pale and noble head grew very distinct
in her inner sight, the dark gray eyes gazed sadly upon her, the
passionate features were fixed in the expression of a great
sorrow.

"Are you indeed he?" she asked, speaking softly and doubtfully,
and yet unconsciously projecting her strong will upon the vision, as
though to force it to give the answer for which she longed.

And the answer came, imposed by the effort of her imagination
upon the thing imagined. The face suddenly became luminous, as with a
radiance within itself; the shadows of grief melted away, and in
their place trembled the rising light of a dawning love. The lips
moved and the voice spoke, not as it had spoken to her lately, but in
tones long familiar to her in dreams by day and night.

"I am he, I am that love for whom you have waited; you are that
dear one whom I have long sought throughout the world. The hour of
our joy has struck, the new life begins to-day, and there shall be no
end."

Unorna's arms went out to grasp the shadow, and she drew it to
her in her fancy and kissed its radiant face.

"To ages of ages!" she cried.

Then she covered her eyes as though to impress the sight they
had seen upon the mind within, and groping blindly for her chair sank
back into her seat. But the mechanical effort of will and memory
could not preserve the image. In spite of all inward concentration of
thought, its colours faded, its outlines trembled, grew faint and
vanished, and darkness was in its place. Unorna's hand dropped to her
side, and a quick throb of pain stabbed her through and through,
agonising as the wound of a blunt and jagged knife, though it was
gone almost before she knew where she had felt it. Then her eyes
flashed with unlike fires, the one dark and passionate as the light
of a black diamond, the other keen and daring as the gleam of blue
steel in the sun.

"Ah, but I will!" she exclaimed. "And what I will--shall be."

As though she were satisfied with the promise thus made to
herself, she smiled, her eyelids drooped, the tension of her frame
was relaxed, and she sank again into the indolent attitude in which
the Wanderer had found her. A moment later the distant door turned
softly upon its hinges and a light footfall broke the stillness.
There was no need for Unorna to speak in order that the sound of her
voice might guide the new comer to her retreat. The footsteps
approached swiftly and surely. A young man of singular beauty came
out of the green shadows and stood beside the chair in the open
space.

Unorna betrayed no surprise as she looked up into her visitor's
face. She knew it well. In form and feature the youth represented the
noblest type of the Jewish race. It was impossible to see him without
thinking of a young eagle of the mountains, eager, swift, sure,
instinct with elasticity, far-sighted and untiring, strong to grasp
and to hold, beautiful with the glossy and unruffled beauty of a
plumage continually smoothed in the sweep and the rush of high,
bright air.

Israel Kafka stood still, gazing down upon the woman he loved,
and drawing his breath hard between his parted lips. His piercing
eyes devoured every detail of the sight before him, while the dark
blood rose in his lean olive cheek, and the veins of his temples
swelled with the beating of his quickened pulse.

"Well?"

The single indifferent word received the value of a longer
speech from the tone in which it was uttered, and from the look and
gesture which accompanied it. Unorna's voice was gentle, soft,
half-indolent, half- caressing, half-expectant, and half-careless.
There was something almost insolent in its assumption of superiority,
which was borne out by the little defiant tapping of two long white
fingers upon the arm of the carved chair. And yet, with the rising
inflection of the monosyllable there went a raising of the brows, a
sidelong glance of the eyes, a slowly wreathing smile that curved the
fresh lips just enough to unmask two perfect teeth, all of which lent
to the voice a meaning, a familiarity, a pliant possibility of
favourable interpretation, fit rather to flatter a hope than to chill
a passion.

The blood beat more fiercely in the young man's veins, his black
eyes gleamed yet more brightly, his pale, high-curved nostrils
quivered at every breath he drew. The throbbings of his heart
unseated his thoughts and strongly took possession of the government
of his body. Under an irresistible impulse he fell upon his knees
beside Unorna, covering her marble hand with all his lean, dark
fingers and pressing his forehead upon them, as though he had found
and grasped all that could be dear to him in life.

"Unorna! My golden Unorna!" he cried, as he knelt.

Unorna looked down upon his bent head. The smile faded from her
face, and for a moment a look of hardness lingered there, which gave
way to an expression of pain and regret. As though collecting her
thoughts she closed her eyes, as she tried to draw back her hand;
then as he held it still, she leaned back and spoke to him.

"You have not understood me," she said, as quietly as she
could.

The strong fingers were not lifted from hers, but the white
face, now bloodless and transparent, was raised to hers, and a look
of such fear as she had never dreamed of was in the wide black
eyes.

"Not--understood?" he repeated in startled, broken tones.

Unorna sighed, and turned away, for the sight hurt her and
accused her.

"No, you have not understood. Is it my fault? Israel Kafka, that
hand is not yours to hold."

"Not mine? Unorna!" Yet he could not quite believe what she
said.

"I am in earnest," she answered, not without a lingering
tenderness in the intonation. "Do you think I am jesting with you, or
with myself?"

Neither of the two stirred during the silence which followed.
Unorna sat quite still, staring fixedly into the green shadows of the
foliage, as though not daring to meet the gaze she felt upon her.
Israel Kafka still knelt beside her, motionless and hardly breathing,
like a dangerous wild animal startled by an unexpected enemy, and
momentarily paralysed in the very act of springing, whether backward
in flight, or forward in the teeth of the foe, it is not possible to
guess.

"I have been mistaken," Unorna continued at last.
"Forgive--forget--"

Israel Kafka rose to his feet and drew back a step from her
side. All his movements were smooth and graceful. The perfect man is
most beautiful in motion, the perfect woman in repose.

"How easy it is for you!" exclaimed the Moravian. "How easy! How
simple! You call me, and I come. You let your eyes rest on me, and I
kneel before you. You sigh, and I speak words of love. You lift your
hand and I crouch at your feet. You frown--and I humbly leave you.
How easy!"

"You are wrong, and you speak foolishly. You are angry, and you
do not weigh your words."

"Angry! What have I to do with so common a madness as anger? I
am more than angry. Do you think that because I have submitted to the
veering gusts of your good and evil humours these many months, I have
lost all consciousness of myself? Do you think that you can blow upon
me as upon a feather, from east and west, from north and south, hotly
or coldly, as your unstable nature moves you? Have you promised me
nothing? Have you given me no hope? Have you said and done nothing
whereby you are bound? Or can no pledge bind you, no promise find a
foothold in your slippery memory, no word of yours have meaning for
those who hear it?"

"I never gave you either pledge or promise," answered Unorna in
a harder tone. "The only hope I have ever extended to you was this,
that I would one day answer you plainly. I have done so. You are not
satisfied. Is there anything more to be said? I do not bid you leave
my house for ever, any more than I mean to drive you from my
friendship."

"From your friendship! Ah, I thank you, Unorna; I most humbly
thank you! For the mercy you extend in allowing me to linger near
you, I am grateful! Your friend, you say? Ay, truly, your friend and
servant, your servant and your slave, your slave and your dog. Is the
friend impatient and dissatisfied with his lot? A soft word shall
turn away his anger. Is the servant over-presumptuous? Your scorn
will soon teach him his duty. Is the slave disobedient? Blows will
cure him of his faults. Does your dog fawn upon you too familiarly?
Thrust him from you with your foot and he will cringe and cower till
you smile again. Your friendship--I have no words for thanks!"

"Take it, or take it not--as you will." Unorna glanced at his
angry face and quickly looked away.

"Take it? Yes, and more too, whether you will give it or not,"
answered Israel Kafka, moving nearer to her. "Yes. Whether you will,
or whether you will not, I have all, your friendship, your love, your
life, your breath, your soul--all, or nothing!"

"You are wise to suggest the latter alternative as a
possibility," said Unorna coldly and not heeding his approach.

The young man stood still, and folded his arms. The colour had
returned to his face and a deep flush was rising under his olive
skin.

"Do you mean what you say?" he asked slowly. "Do you mean that I
shall not have all, but nothing? Do you still dare to mean that,
after all that has passed between you and me?"

Unorna raised her eyes and looked steadily into his.

"Israel Kafka, do not speak to me of daring."

But the young man's glance did not waver. The angry expression
of his features did not relax; he neither drew back nor bent his
head. Unorna seemed to be exerting all the strength of her will in
the attempt to dominate him, but without result. In the effort she
made to concentrate her determination her face grew pale and her lips
trembled. Kafka faced her resolutely, his eyes on fire, the rich
colour mantling in his cheeks.

"Where is your power now?" he asked suddenly. "Where is your
witchery? You are only a woman, after all. You are only a weak
woman!"

Very slowly he drew nearer to her side, his lithe figure bending
a little as he looked down upon her. Unorna leaned far back,
withdrawing her face from his as far as she could, but still trying
to impose her will upon him.

"You cannot," he said between his teeth, answering her
thought.

Men who have tamed wild beasts alone know what such a moment is
like. A hundred times the brave man has held the tiger spell-bound
and crouching under his cold, fearless gaze. The beast, ever docile
and submissive, has cringed at his feet, fawned to his touch, and
licked the hand that snatched away the half-devoured morsel. Obedient
to voice and eye, the giant strength and sinewy grace have been
debased to make the sport of multitudes; the noble, pliant frame has
contorted itself to execute the mean antics of the low-comedy ape--to
counterfeit death like a poodle dog; to leap through gaudily-painted
rings at the word of command; to fetch and carry like a spaniel. A
hundred times the changing crowd has paid its paltry fee to watch the
little play that is daily acted behind the stout iron bars by the man
and the beast. The man, the nobler, braver creature, is arrayed in a
wretched flimsy finery of tights and spangles, parading his physical
weakness and inferiority in the toggery of a mountebank. The tiger,
vast, sleepy-eyed, mysterious, lies motionless in the front of his
cage, the gorgeous stripes of his velvet coat following each curve of
his body, from the cushions of his great fore paws to the arch of his
gathered haunches. The watchfulness and flexible activity of the
serpent and the strength that knows no master are clothed in the
magnificent robes of the native-born sovereign. Time and times again
the beautiful giant has gone through the slavish round of his
mechanical tricks, obedient to the fragile creature of intelligence,
to the little dwarf, man, whose power is in his eyes and heart only.
He is accustomed to the lights, to the spectators, to the laughter,
to the applause, to the frightened scream of the hysterical women in
the audience, to the close air and to the narrow stage behind the
bars. The tamer in his tights and tinsel has grown used to his tiger,
to his emotions, to his hourly danger. He even finds at last that his
mind wanders during the performance, and that at the very instant
when he is holding the ring for the leap, or thrusting his head into
the beast's fearful jaws, he is thinking of his wife, of his little
child, of his domestic happiness or household troubles, rather than
of what he is doing. Many times, perhaps many hundreds of times, all
passes off quietly and successfully. Then, inevitably, comes the
struggle. Who can tell the causes? The tiger is growing old, or is
ill fed, or is not well, or is merely in one of those evil humours to
which animals are subject as well as their masters. One day he
refuses to go through with the performance. First one trick fails,
and then another. The public grows impatient, the man in spangles
grows nervous, raises his voice, stamps loudly with his foot, and
strikes his terrible slave with his light switch. A low, deep sound
breaks from the enormous throat, the spectators hold their breath,
the huge, flexible limbs are gathered for the leap, and in the
gaslight and the dead silence man and beast are face to face. Life
hangs in the balance, and death is at the door.

Then the tamer's heart beats loud, his chest heaves, his brows
are furrowed. Even then, in the instant that still separates him from
triumph or destruction, the thought of his sleeping child or of his
watching wife darts through his brain. But the struggle has begun and
there is no escape. One of two things must happen: he must overcome
or he must die. To draw back, to let his glance waver, to show so
much as the least sign of fear, is death. The moment is supreme, and
he knows it.

Unorna grasped the arms of her chair as though seeking for
physical support in her extremity. She could not yield. Before her
eyes arose a vision unlike the reality in all its respects. She saw
an older face, a taller figure, a look of deeper thought between her
and the angry man who was trying to conquer her resistance with a
glance. Between her and her mistake the image of what should be stood
out, bright, vivid, and strong. A new conviction had taken the place
of the old, a real passion was flaming upon the altar whereon she had
fed with dreams the semblance of a sacred fire.

"You do not really love me," she said softly.

Israel Kafka started, as a man who is struck unawares. The
monstrous untruth which filled the words broke down his guard, sudden
tears veiled the penetrating sharpness of his gaze, and his hand
trembled.

"I do not love you? I! Unorna--Unorna!"

The first words broke from him in a cry of horror and
stupefaction. But her name, when he spoke it, sounded as the death
moan of a young wild animal wounded beyond all power to turn at
bay.

He moved unsteadily and laid hold of the tall chair in which she
sat. He was behind her now, standing, but bending down so that his
forehead pressed his fingers. He could not bear to look upon her
hair, still less upon her face. Even his hands were white and
bloodless. Unorna could hear his quick breathing just above her
shoulder. She sat quite still, and her lips were smiling, though her
brow was thoughtful and almost sad. She knew that the struggle was
over and that she had gained the mastery, though the price of victory
might be a broken heart.

"You thought I was jesting," she said in a low voice, looking
before her into the deep foliage, but knowing that her softest
whisper would reach him. "But there was no jest in what I said--nor
any unkindness in what I meant, though it is all my fault. But that
is true--you never loved me as I would be loved."

"Unorna----"

"No, I am not unkind. Your love is young, fierce, inconstant;
half terrible, half boyish, aflame to-day, asleep to-morrow, ready to
turn into hatred at one moment, to melt into tears at the next,
intermittent, unstable as water, fleeting as a cloud's shadow on the
mountain side--"

"It pleased you once," said Israel Kafka in broken tones. "It is
not less love because you are weary of it, and of me."

"Weary, you say? No, not weary--and very truly not of you. You
will believe that to-day, to-morrow, you will still try to force life
into your belief--and then it will be dead and gone like all thoughts
which have never entered into the shapes of reality. We have not
loved each other. We have but fancied that it would be sweet to love,
and the knife of truth has parted the web of our dreams, keenly, in
the midst, so that we see before us what is, though the ghost of what
might have been is yet lingering near."

"Who wove that web, Unorna? You, or I?" He lifted his heavy eyes
and gazed at her coiled hair.

"What matters it whether it was your doing or mine? But we wove
it together--and together we must see the truth."

"If this is true, there is no more 'together' for you and
me."

"We may yet glean friendship in the fields where love has
grown."

"Friendship! The very word is a wound! Friendship! The very
dregs and lees of the wine of life! Friendship! The sour drainings of
the heart's cup, left to moisten the lips of the damned when the
blessed have drunk their fill! I hate the word, as I hate the
thought!"

Unorna sighed, partly, perhaps, that he might hear the sigh, and
put upon it an interpretation soothing to his vanity, but partly,
too, from a sincere regret that he should need to suffer as he was
evidently suffering. She had half believed that she loved him, and
she owed him pity. Women's hearts pay such debts unwillingly, but
they do pay them, nevertheless. She wished that she had never set
eyes upon Israel Kafka; she wished that she might never see him
again; even his death would hardly have cost her a pang, and yet she
was sorry for him. Diana, the huntress, shot her arrows with
unfailing aim; Diana, the goddess, may have sighed and shed one
bright immortal tear, as she looked into the fast-glazing eyes of the
dying stag--may not Diana, the maiden, have felt a touch of human
sympathy and pain as she listened to the deep note of her hounds
baying on poor Actaeon's track! No one is all bad, or all good. No
woman is all earthly, nor any goddess all divine.

"I am sorry," said Unorna. "You will not understand----"

"I have understood enough. I have understood that a woman can
have two faces and two hearts, two minds, two souls; it is enough, my
understanding need go no farther. You sighed before you spoke. It was
not for me; it was for yourself. You never felt pain or sorrow for
another."

He was trying hard to grow cold and to find cold words to say,
which might lead her to believe him stronger than he was and able to
master his grief. But he was too young, too hot, too changeable for
such a part. Moreover, in his first violent outbreak Unorna had
dominated him, and he could not now regain the advantage.

"You are wrong, Israel Kafka. You would make me less than human.
If I sighed, it was indeed for you. See--I confess that I have done
you wrong, not in deeds, but in letting you hope. Truly, I myself
have hoped also. I have thought that the star of love was trembling
just below the east, and that you and I might be one to another--what
we cannot be now. My wisdom has failed me, my sight has been
deceived. Am I the only woman in this world who has been mistaken?
Can you not forgive? If I had promised, if I had said one word--and
yet, you are right, too, for I have let you think in earnest what has
been but a passing dream of my own thoughts. It was all wrong; it was
all my fault. There, lay your hand in mine and say that you forgive,
as I ask forgiveness."

He was still standing behind her, leaning against the back of
her chair. Without looking round she raised her hand above her
shoulder as though seeking for his. But he would not take it.

"Is it so hard?" she asked softly. "Is it even harder for you to
give than for me to ask? Shall we part like this--not to meet
again--each bearing a wound, when both might be whole? Can you not
say the word?"

"What is it to you whether I forgive you or not?"

"Since I ask it, believe that it is much to me," she answered,
slowly turning her head until, without catching sight of his face,
she could just see where his fingers were resting on her chair. Then,
over her shoulder, she touched them, and drew them to her cheek. He
made no resistance.

"Shall we part without one kind thought?" Her voice was softer
still and so low and sweet that it seemed as though the words were
spoken in the ripple of the tiny fountain. There was magic in the
place, in the air, in the sounds, above all in the fair woman's
touch.

"Is this friendship?" asked Kafka. Then he sank upon his knees
beside her, and looked up into her face.

"It is friendship; yes--why not? Am I like other women?"

"Then why need there be any parting?"

"If you will be my friend there need be none. You have forgiven
me now --I see it in your eyes. Is it not true?"

He was at her feet, passive at last under the superior power
which he had never been able to resist. Unorna's fascination was upon
him, and he could only echo her words, as he would have executed her
slightest command, without consciousness of free will or individual
thought. It was enough that for one moment his anger should cease to
give life to his resistance; it was sufficient that Unorna should
touch him thus, and speak softly, his eyelids quivered and his look
became fixed, his strength was absorbed in hers and incapable of
acting except under her direction. So long as she might please the
spell would endure.

"Sit beside me now, and let us talk," she said.

Like a man in a dream, he rose and sat down near her.

Unorna laughed, and there was something in the tone that was not
good to hear. A moment earlier it would have wounded Israel Kafka to
the quick and brought the hot, angry blood to his face. Now he
laughed with her, vacantly, as though not knowing the cause of his
mirth.

"You are only my slave, after all," said Unorna scornfully.

"I am only your slave, after all," he repeated.

"I could touch you with my hand and you would hate me, and
forget that you ever loved me."

This time the man was silent. There was a contraction of pain in
his face, as though a violent mental struggle were going on within
him. Unorna tapped the pavement impatiently with her foot and bent
her brows.

"You would hate me and forget that you ever loved me," she
repeated, dwelling on each word as though to impress it on his
consciousness. "Say it. I order you."

The contraction of his features disappeared.

"I should hate you and forget that I ever loved you," he said
slowly.

"You never loved me."

"I never loved you."

Again Unorna laughed, and he joined in her laughter,
unintelligently, as he had done before. She leaned back in her seat,
and her face grew grave. Israel Kafka sat motionless in his chair,
staring at her with unwinking eyes. But his gaze did not disturb her.
There was no more meaning in it than in the expression of a marble
statue, far less than in that of a painted portrait. Yet the man was
alive and in the full strength of his magnificent youth, supple,
active, fierce by nature, able to have killed her with his hands in
the struggle of a moment. Yet she knew that without a word from her
he could neither turn his head nor move in his seat.

For a long time Unorna was absorbed in her meditations. Again
and again the vision of a newer happiness took shape and colour
before her, so clearly and vividly that she could have clasped it and
held it and believed in its reality, as she had done before Israel
Kafka had entered. But there was a doubt now, which constantly arose
between her and it, the dark and shapeless shadow of a reasoning she
hated and yet knew to be strong.

"I must ask him," she said unconsciously.

"You must ask him," repeated Israel Kafka from his seat.

For the third time Unorna laughed aloud as she heard the echo of
her own words.

"Whom shall I ask?" she inquired contemptuously, as she rose to
her feet.

The dull, glassy eyes sought hers in painful perplexity,
following her face as she moved.

"I do not know," answered the powerless man.

Unorna came close to him and laid her hand upon his head.

"Sleep, until I wake you," she said.

The eyelids drooped and closed at her command, and instantly the
man's breathing became heavy and regular. Unorna's full lips curled
as she looked down at him.

"And you would be my master!" she exclaimed.

Then she turned and disappeared among the plants, leaving him
alone.