Chapter XXI

The Witch of Prague

by F. Marion Crawford

After leaving Unorna at the convent, the Wanderer had not
hesitated as to the course he should pursue. It was quite clear that
the only person to whom he could apply at the present juncture was
Keyork Arabian. Had he been at liberty to act in the most natural and
simple way, he would have applied to the authorities for a sufficient
force with which to take Israel Kafka into custody as a dangerous
lunatic. He was well aware, however, that such a proceeding must lead
to an inquiry of a more or less public nature, of which the
consequences might be serious, or at least extremely annoying, to
Unorna. Of the inconvenience to which he might himself be exposed, he
would have taken little account, though his position would have been
as difficult to explain as any situation could be. The important
point was to prevent the possibility of Unorna's name being connected
with an open scandal. Every present circumstance in the case was
directly or indirectly the result of Unorna's unreasoning passion for
himself, and it was clearly his duty, as a man of honour, to shield
her from the consequences of her own acts, as far as lay in his
power.

He did not indeed believe literally all that she had told him in
her mad confession. Much of that, he was convinced, was but a
delusion. It might be possible, indeed, for Unorna to produce
forgetfulness of such a dream as she impressed upon Kafka's mind in
the cemetery that same afternoon, or even, perhaps, of some real
circumstance of merely relative importance in a man's life; but the
Wanderer could not believe that it was in her power to destroy the
memory of the great passion through which she pretended that he
himself had passed. He smiled at the idea, for he had always trusted
his own senses and his own memory. Unorna's own mind was clearly
wandering, or else she had invented the story, supposing him
credulous enough to believe it. In either case it did not deserve a
moment's consideration except as showing to what lengths her foolish
and ill-bestowed love could lead her.

Meanwhile she was in danger. She had aroused the violent and
deadly resentment of Israel Kafka, a man who, if not positively
insane, as Keyork Arabian had hinted, was by no means in a normal
state of mind or body, a man beside himself with love and anger, and
absolutely reckless of life for the time being, a man who, for the
security of all concerned, must be at least temporarily confined in a
place of safety, until a proper treatment and the lapse of a certain
length of time should bring him to his senses. For the present, he
was wholly untractable, being at the mercy of the most uncontrolled
passions and of one of those intermittent phases of blind fatalism to
which the Semitic races are peculiarly subject.

There were two reasons which determined the Wanderer to turn to
Keyork Arabian for assistance, besides his wish to see the bad
business end quickly and without publicity. Keyork, so far as the
Wanderer was aware, was himself treating Israel Kafka's case, and
would therefore know what to do, if any one knew at all. Secondly, it
was clear from the message which Unorna had left with the porter of
her own house that she expected Keyork to come at any moment. He was
then in immediate danger of being brought face to face with Israel
Kafka without having received the least warning of his present
condition, and it was impossible to say what the infuriated youth
might do at such a moment. He had been shut up, caught in his own
trap, as it were, for some time, and his anger and madness might
reasonably be supposed to have been aggravated rather than cooled by
his unexpected confinement. It was as likely as not that he would use
the weapon he carried upon the first person with whom he found
himself face to face, especially if that person made any attempt to
overpower and disarm him.

The Wanderer drove to Keyork Arabian's house, and leaving his
carriage to wait in case of need, ascended the stairs and knocked at
the door. For some reason or other Keyork would not have a bell in
his dwelling, whether because, like Mahomet, he regarded the bell as
the devil's instrument, or because he was really nervously sensitive
to the sound of one, nobody had ever discovered. The Wanderer knocked
therefore, and Keyork answered the knock in person.

"My dear friend!" he exclaimed in his richest and deepest voice,
as he recognised the Wanderer. "Come in. I am delighted to see you.
You will join me at supper. This is good indeed!"

He took his visitor by the arm and led him in. Upon one of the
tables stood a round brass platter covered, so far as it was visible,
with Arabic inscriptions, and highly polished--one of those commonly
used all over the East at the present day for the same purpose. Upon
this were placed at random several silver bowls, mere hemispheres
without feet, remaining in a convenient position by their own weight.
One of these contained snowy rice, in that perfectly dry but tender
state dear to the taste of Orientals, in another there was a savoury,
steaming mess of tender capon, chopped in pieces with spices and
aromatic herbs, a third contained a pure white curd of milk, and a
fourth was heaped up with rare fruits. A flagon of Bohemian glass,
clear and bright as rock-crystal, and covered with very beautiful
traceries of black and gold, with a drinking-vessel of the same
design, stood upon the table beside the platter.

"My simple meal," said Keyork, spreading out his hands, and
smiling pleasantly. "You will share it with me. There will be enough
for two."

"So far as I am concerned, I should say so," the Wanderer
answered with a smile. "But my business is rather urgent."

Suddenly he saw that there was a third person in the room, and
glanced at Keyork in surprise.

"I want to speak a few words with you alone," he said. "I would
not trouble you but----"

"Not in the least, not in the least, my dear friend!"
asseverated Keyork, motioning him to a chair beside the board.

"But we are not alone," observed the Wanderer, still standing
and looking at the stranger. Keyork saw the glance and understood. He
broke into peals of laughter.

"That!" he exclaimed, presently. "That is only the Individual.
He will not disturb us. Pray be seated."

"I assure you that my business is very private--" the Wanderer
objected.

"Quite so--of course. But there is nothing to fear. The
Individual is my servant--a most excellent creature who has been with
me for many years. He cooks for me, cleans the specimens, and takes
care of me in all ways. A most reliable man, I assure you."

"Of course, if you can answer for his discretion----"

The Individual was standing at a little distance from the table
observing the two men intently but respectfully with his keen little
black eyes. The rest of his square, dark face expressed nothing. He
had perfectly straight, jet-black hair which hung evenly all around
his head and flat against his cheeks. He was dressed entirely in a
black robe of the nature of a kaftan, gathered closely round his
waist by a black girdle, and fitting tightly over his stalwart
shoulders.

"His discretion is beyond all doubt," Keyork answered, "and for
the best of all reasons. He is totally deaf and dumb and absolutely
illiterate. I brought him years ago in Astrakhan, of a Russian
friend. He is very clever with his fingers. It is he who stole for me
the Malayan lady's head over there, after she was executed. And now,
my dear friend, let us have supper."

There were neither plates nor knives nor forks upon the table,
and at a sign from Keyork the Individual retired to procure those
Western incumbrances to eating. The Wanderer, acquainted as he had
long been with his host's eccentricities, showed little surprise, but
understood that whatever he said would not be overheard, any more
than if they had been alone. He hesitated a moment, however, for he
had not determined exactly how far it was necessary to acquaint
Keyork with the circumstances, and he was anxious to avoid all
reference to Unorna's folly in regard to himself. The Individual
returned, bringing, with other things, a drinking-glass for the
Wanderer. Keyork filled it and then filled his own. It was clear that
ascetic practices formed no part of his scheme for the prolongation
of life. As he raised his glass to his lips, his bright eyes
twinkled.

"To Keyork's long life and happiness," he said calmly, and then
sipped the wine. "And now for your story," he added, brushing the
brown drops from his white moustache with a small damask napkin which
the Individual presented to him and immediately received again, to
throw it aside as unfit for a second use.

"I hardly think that we can afford to linger over supper," the
Wanderer said, noticing Keyork's coolness with some anxiety. "The
case is urgent. Israel Kafka has lost his head completely. He has
sworn to kill Unorna, and is at the present moment confined in the
conservatory in her house."

The effect of the announcement upon Keyork was so extraordinary
that the Wanderer started, not being prepared for any manifestation
of what seemed to be the deepest emotion. The gnome sprang from the
table with a cry that would have been like the roar of a wounded wild
beast if it had not articulated a terrific blasphemy.

"Unorna is quite safe," the Wanderer hastened to say.

"Safe--where?" shouted the little man, his hands already on his
furs. The Individual, too, had sprung across the room like a cat and
was helping him. In five seconds Keyork would have been out of the
house.

"In a convent. I took her there, and saw the gate close behind
her."

Keyork dropped his furs and stood still a moment. The
Individual, always unmoved, rearranged the coat and cap neatly in
their place, following all his master's movements, however, with his
small eyes. Then the sage broke out in a different strain. He flung
his arms round the Wanderer's body and attempted to embrace him.

"You have saved my life!--the curse of the three black angels on
you for not saying so first!" he cried in an agony of ecstasy.
"Preserver! What can I do for you?--Saviour of my existence, how can
I repay you! You shall live forever, as I will; you shall have all my
secrets; the gold spider shall spin her web in your dwelling; the
Part of Fortune shall shine on your path, it shall rain jewels on
your roof; and your winter shall have snows of pearls--you
shall--"

"Good Heavens! Keyork," interrupted the Wanderer. "Are you mad?
What is the matter with you?"

"Mad? The matter? I love you! I worship you! I adore you! You
have saved her life, and you have saved mine; you have almost killed
me with fright and joy in two moments, you have--"

"Be sensible, Keyork. Unorna is quite safe, but we must do
something about Kafka and--"

The rest of his speech was drowned in another shout from the
gnome, ending in a portentous peal of laughter. He had taken his
glass again and was toasting himself.

"To Keyork, to his long life, to his happiness!" he cried. Then
he wet his lips again in the golden juice, and the Individual,
unmoved, presented him with a second napkin.

The wine seemed to steady him, and he sat down again in his
place.

"Come!" he said. "Let us eat first. I have an amazing appetite,
and Israel Kafka can wait."

"Do you think so? Is it safe?" the Wanderer asked.

"Perfectly," returned Keyork, growing quite calm again. "The
locks are very good on those doors. I saw to them myself."

"But some one else--"

"There is no some one else," interrupted the sage sharply. "Only
three persons can enter the house without question--you, I, and
Kafka. You and I are here, and Kafka is there already. When we have
eaten we will go to him, and I flatter myself that the last state of
the young man will be so immeasurably worse than the first, that he
will not recognise himself when I have done with him."

He had helped his friend and began eating. Somewhat reassured
the Wanderer followed his example. Under the circumstances it was as
well to take advantage of the opportunity for refreshment. No one
could tell what might happen before morning.

"It just occurs to me," said Keyork, fixing his keen eyes on his
companion's face, "that you have told me absolutely nothing, except
that Kafka is mad and that Unorna is safe."

"Those are the most important points," observed the Wanderer.

"Precisely. But I am sure that you will not think me indiscreet
if I wish to know a little more. For instance, what was the immediate
cause of Kafka's extremely theatrical and unreasonable rage? That
would interest me very much. Of course, he is mad, poor boy! But I
take delight in following out the workings of an insane intellect.
Now there are no phases of insanity more curious than those in which
the patient is possessed with a desire to destroy what he loves best.
These cases are especially worthy of study because they happen so
often in our day."

The Wanderer saw that some explanation was necessary and he
determined to give one in as few words as possible.

"Unorna and I had strolled into the Jewish Cemetery," he said.
"While we were talking there, Israel Kafka suddenly came upon us and
spoke and acted very wildly. He is madly in love with her. She became
very angry and would not let me interfere. Then, by way of punishment
for his intrusion I suppose, she hypnotised him and made him believe
that he was Simon Abeles, and brought the whole of the poor boy's
life so vividly before me, as I listened, that I actually seemed to
see the scenes. I was quite unable to stop her or to move from where
I stood, though I was quite awake. But I realised what was going on
and I was disgusted at her cruelty to the unfortunate man. He fainted
at the end, but when he came to himself he seemed to remember
nothing. I took him home and Unorna went away by herself. Then he
questioned me so closely as to what had happened that I was weak
enough to tell him the truth. Of course, as a fervent Hebrew, which
he seems to be, he did not relish the idea of having played the
Christian martyr for Unorna's amusement, and amidst the graves of his
own people. He there and then impressed me that he intended to take
Unorna's life without delay, but insisted that I should warn her of
her danger, saying that he would not be a common murderer. Seeing
that he was mad and in earnest I went to her. There was some delay,
which proved fortunate, as it turned out, for we left the
conservatory by the small door just as he was entering from the other
end. We locked it behind us, and going round by the passages locked
the other door upon him also, so that he was caught in a trap. And
there he is, unless some one has let him out."

"And then you took Unorna to the convent?" Keyork had listened
attentively.

"I took her to the convent, promising to come to her when she
should send for me. Then I saw that I must consult you before doing
anything more. It will not do to make a scandal of the matter."

"No," answered Keyork thoughtfully. "It will not do."

The Wanderer had told his story with perfect truth and yet in a
way which entirely concealed the very important part Unorna's passion
for him had played in the sequence of events. Seeing that Keyork
asked no further questions he felt satisfied that he had accomplished
his purpose as he had intended, and that the sage suspected nothing.
He would have been very much disconcerted had he known that the
latter had long been aware of Unorna's love, and was quite able to
guess at the cause of Kafka's sudden appearance and extreme
excitement. Indeed, so soon as he had finished the short narrative,
his mind reverted with curiosity to Keyork himself, and he wondered
what the little man had meant by his amazing outburst of gratitude on
hearing of Unorna's safety. Perhaps he loved her. More impossible
things than that had occurred in the Wanderer's experience. Or,
possibly, he had an object to gain in exaggerating his thankfulness
to Unorna's preserver. He knew that Keyork rarely did anything
without an object, and that, although he was occasionally very odd
and excitable, he was always in reality perfectly well aware of what
he was doing. He was roused from his speculations by Keyork's
voice.

"There will be no difficulty in securing Kafka," he said. "The
real question is, what shall we do with him? He is very much in the
way at present, and he must be disposed of at once, or we shall have
more trouble. How infinitely more to the purpose it would have been
if he had wisely determined to cut his own throat instead of
Unorna's! But young men are so thoughtless!"

"I will only say one thing," said the Wanderer, "and then I will
leave the direction to you. The poor fellow has been driven mad by
Unorna's caprice and cruelty. I am determined that he shall not be
made to suffer gratuitously anything more."

"Do you think that Unorna was intentionally cruel to him?"
inquired Keyork. "I can hardly believe that. She has not a cruel
nature."

"You would have changed your mind, if you had seen her this
afternoon. But that is not the question. I will not allow him to be
ill-treated."

"No, no! of course not!" Keyork answered with eager assent. "But
of course you will understand that we have to deal with a dangerous
lunatic, and that it may be necessary to use whatever means are most
sure and certain."

"I shall not quarrel with your means," the Wanderer said
quietly, "provided that there is no unnecessary brutality. If I see
anything of the kind I will take the matter into my own hands."

"Certainly, certainly!" said the other, eyeing with curiosity
the man who spoke so confidently of taking out of Keyork Arabian's
grasp whatever had once found its way into it.

"He shall be treated with every consideration," the Wanderer
continued. "Of course, if he is very violent, we shall have to use
force."

"We will take the Individual with us," said Keyork. "He is very
strong. He has a trick of breaking silver florins with his thumbs and
fingers which is very pretty."

"I fancy that you and I could manage him. It is a pity that
neither of us has the faculty of hypnotising. This would be the
proper time to use it."

"A great pity. But there are other things that will do almost as
well."

"What, for instance?"

"A little ether in a sponge. He would only struggle a moment,
and then he would be much more really unconscious than if he had been
hypnotised."

"Is it quite painless?"

"Quite, if you give it gradually. If you hurry the thing, the
man feels as though he were being smothered. But the real difficulty
is what to do with him, as I said before."

"Take him home and get a keeper from the lunatic asylum," the
Wanderer suggested.

"Then comes the whole question of an inquiry into his sanity,"
objected Keyork. "We come back to the starting-point. We must settle
all this before we go to him. A lunatic asylum is not a club in this
country. There is a great deal of formality connected with getting
into it, and a great deal more connected with getting out. Now, I
could not get a keeper for Kafka without going to the physician in
charge and making a statement, and demanding an examination, and all
the rest of it. And Israel Kafka is a person of importance among his
own people. He comes of great Jews in Moravia, and we should have the
whole Jews' quarter--which means nearly the whole of Prague, in a
broad sense--about our ears in twenty-four hours. No, no, my friend.
To avoid an enormous scandal things must be done very quietly
indeed."

"I cannot see anything to be done, then, unless we bring him
here," said the Wanderer, falling into the trap from sheer
perplexity. Everything that Keyork had said was undeniably true.

"He would be a nuisance in the house," answered the sage, not
wishing, for reasons of his own, to appear to accept the proposition
too eagerly. "Not but that the Individual would make a capital
keeper. He is as gentle as he is strong, and as quick as a
tiger-cat."

"So far as that is concerned," said the Wanderer coolly, "I
could take charge of him myself, if you did not object to my
presence."

"You do not trust me," said the other, with a sharp glance.

"My dear Keyork, we are old acquaintances, and I trust you
implicitly to do whatever you have predetermined to do for the
advantage of your studies, unless some one interferes with you. You
have no more respect for human life or sympathy for human suffering
than you have belief in the importance of anything not conducive to
your researches. I am perfectly well aware that if you thought you
could learn something by making experiments upon the body of Israel
Kafka, you would not scruple to make a living mummy of him, you would
do it without the least hesitation. I should expect to find him with
his head cut off, living by means of a glass heart and thinking
through a rabbit's brain. That is the reason why I do not trust you.
Before I could deliver him into your hands, I would require of you a
contract to give him back unhurt--and a contract of the kind you
would consider binding."

Keyork Arabian wondered whether Unorna, in the recklessness of
her passion, had betrayed the nature of the experiment they had been
making together, but a moment's reflection told him that he need have
no anxiety on this score. He understood the Wanderer's nature too
well to suspect him of wishing to convey a covert hint instead of
saying openly what was in his mind.

"Taste one of these oranges," he said, by way of avoiding an
answer. "they have just come from Smyrna." The Wanderer smiled as he
took the proffered fruit.

"So that unless you have a serious objection to my presence," he
said, continuing his former speech, "you will have me as a guest so
long as Israel Kafka is here."

Keyork Arabian saw no immediate escape.

"My dear friend!" he exclaimed with alacrity. "If you are really
in earnest, I am as really delighted. So far from taking your
distrust ill, I regard it as a providentially fortunate bias of your
mind, since it will keep us together for a time. You will be the only
loser. You see how simply I live."

"There is a simplicity which is the extremest development of
refined sybarism," the Wanderer said, smiling again. "I know your
simplicity of old. It consists of getting precisely what you want,
and in producing local earthquakes and revolutions when you cannot
get it. Moreover you want what is good--to the taste, at least."

"There is something in that," answered Keyork with a merry
twinkle in his eye. "Happiness is a matter of speculation. Comfort is
a matter of fact. Most men are uncomfortable, because they do not
know what they want. If you have tastes, study them. If you have
intelligence, apply it to the question of gratifying your tastes.
Consult yourself first-- and nobody second. Consider this orange--I
am fond of oranges and they suit my constitution admirably. Consider
the difficulty I have had in procuring it at this time of year--not
in the wretched condition in which they are sold in the market,
plucked half green in Spain or Italy and ripened on the voyage in the
fermenting heat of the decay of those which are already rotten--but
ripe from the tree and brought to me directly by the shortest and
quickest means possible. Consider this orange, I say. Do you vainly
imagine that if I had but two or three like it I would offer you
one?"

"I would not be so rash as to imagine anything of the kind, my
dear Keyork. I know you very well. If you offer me one it is because
you have a week's supply at least."

"Exactly," said Keyork. "And a few to spare, because they will
only keep a week as I like them, and because I would no more run the
risk of missing my orange a week hence for your sake, than I would
deprive myself of it to-day."

"And that is your simplicity."

"That is my simplicity. It is indeed a perfectly simple matter,
for there is only one idea in it, and in all things I carry that one
idea out to its ultimate expression. That one idea, as you very well
put it, is to have exactly what I want in this world."

"And will you be getting what you want in having me quartered
upon you as poor Israel Kafka's keeper?" asked the Wanderer, with an
expression of amusement. But Keyork did not wince.

"Precisely," he answered without hesitation. "In the first place
you will relieve me of much trouble and responsibility, and the
Individual will not be so often called away from his manifold and
important household duties. In the second place I shall have a most
agreeable and intelligent companion with whom I can talk as long as I
like. In the third place I shall undoubtedly satisfy my
curiosity."

"In what respect, if you please?"

"I shall discover the secret of your wonderful interest in
Israel Kafka's welfare. I always like to follow the workings of a
brain essentially different from my own, philanthropic, of course.
How could it be anything else? Philanthropy deals with a class of
ideas wholly unfamiliar to me. I shall learn much in your
society."

"And possibly I shall learn something from you," the Wanderer
answered. "There is certainly much to be learnt. I wonder whether
your ideas upon all subjects are as simple as those you hold about
oranges."

"Absolutely. I make no secret of my principles. Everything I do
is for my own advantage."

"Then," observed the Wanderer, "the advantage of Unorna's life
must be an enormous one to you, to judge by your satisfaction at her
safety."

Keyork stared at him a moment and then laughed, but less
heartily and loudly than usual his companion fancied.

"Very good!" he exclaimed. "Excellent! I fell into the trap like
a rat into a basin of water. You are indeed an interesting companion,
my dear friend--so interesting that I hope we shall never part
again." There was a rather savage intonation in the last words.

They looked at each other intently, neither wincing nor lowering
his gaze. The Wanderer saw that he had touched upon Keyork's greatest
and most important secret, and Keyork fancied that his companion knew
more than he actually did. But nothing further was said, for Keyork
was far too wise to enter into explanation, and the Wanderer knew
well enough that if he was to learn anything it must be by
observation and not by questioning. Keyork filled both glasses in
silence and both men drank before speaking again.

"And now that we have refreshed ourselves," he said, returning
naturally to his former manner, "we will go and find Israel Kafka. It
is as well that we should have given him a little time to himself. He
may have returned to his senses without any trouble on our part.
Shall we take the Individual?"

"As you please," the Wanderer answered indifferently as he rose
from his place.

"It is very well for you not to care," observed Keyork. "You are
big and strong and young, whereas I am a little man and very old at
that. I shall take him for my own protection. I confess that I value
my life very highly. It is a part of that simplicity which you
despise. That devil of a Jew is armed, you say?"

"I saw something like a knife in his hand, as we shut him in,"
said the Wanderer with the same indifference as before.

"Then I will take the Individual," Keyork answered promptly. "A
man's bare hands must be strong and clever to take a man's life in a
scuffle, and few men can use a pistol to any purpose. But a knife is
a weapon of precision. I will take the Individual, decidedly."

He made a few rapid signs, and the Individual disappeared,
coming back a moment later attired in a long coat not unlike his
master's except that the fur of the great collar was of common fox
instead of being of sable. Keyork drew his peaked cape comfortably
down over the tips of his ears.

"The ether!" he exclaimed. "How forgetful I am growing! Your
charming conversation had almost made me forget the object of our
visit!"

He went back and took the various things he needed. Then the
three men went out together.