The Witch of Prague

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"Leave you alone? Ah no--not that----"

They had reached the exit now. At the same instant both heard some one
enter at the other end and rapid footsteps on the marble pavement.

"Which is it to be?" asked the Wanderer, pale and calm. He had pushed
her through before him and seemed ready to go back alone.

With violent strength she drew him to her, closed the door and slipped
the strong steel bolt across below the lock. There was a dim light in
the passage.

"Together, then," she said. "I shall at least be with you--a little
longer."

"Is there another way out of the house?" asked the Wanderer anxiously.

"More than one. Come with me."

As they disappeared in the corridor, they heard behind them the noise of
the door-lock as some one tried to force it open. Then a heavy sound as
though a man's shoulder struck against the solid panel. Unorna led the
way through a narrow, winding passage, illuminated here and there by
small lamps with shades of soft colours, blown in Bohemian glass.

Pushing aside a curtain they came out into a small room. The Wanderer
uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise as he recognised the
vestibule and saw before him the door of the great conservatory, open
as Israel Kafka had left it. That the latter was still trying to pursue
them through the opposite exit was clear enough, for the blows he was
striking on the panel echoed loudly out into the hall. Swiftly and
silently Unorna closed the entrance and locked it securely.

"He is safe for a little while," she said. "Keyork will find him there
when he comes, an hour hence, and Keyork will perhaps bring him to his
senses."

She had regained control of herself, to all appearances, and she spoke
with perfect calm and self-possession. The Wanderer looked at her in
surprise and with some suspicion. Her hair was all falling about her
shoulders, but saving this sign, there was no trace of the recent storm,
nor the least indication of passion. If she had been acting a part
throughout before an audience, she would have seemed less indifferent
when the curtain fell. The Wanderer, having little cause to trust her,
found it hard to believe that she had not been counterfeiting. It seemed
impossible that she should be the same woman who but a moment earlier
had been dragging herself at his feet, in wild tears and wilder
protestations of her love.

"If you are sufficiently rested," he said with a touch of sarcasm which
he could not restrain, "I would suggest that we do not wait any longer
here."

She turned and faced him, and he saw now how very white she was.

"So you think that even now I have been deceiving you? That is what you
think. I see it in your face."

Before he could prevent her she had opened the door wide again and was
advancing calmly into the conservatory.

"Israel Kafka!" she cried in loud clear tones. "I am here--I am
waiting--come!"

The Wanderer ran forward. He caught sight in the distance of a pair of
fiery eyes and of something long and thin and sharp-gleaming under the
soft lamps. He knew then that all was deadly earnest. Swift as thought
he caught Unorna and bore her from the hall, locking the door again and
setting his broad shoulders against it, as he put her down. The daring
act she had done appealed to him, in spite of himself.

"I beg your pardon," he said almost deferentially. "I misjudged you."

"It is that," she answered. "Either I will be with you or I will die,
by his hand, by yours, by my own--it will matter little when it is done.
You need not lean against the door. It is very strong. Your furs are
hanging there, and here are mine. Let us be going."

Quietly, as though nothing unusual had happened, they descended the
stairs together. The porter came forward with all due ceremony, to open
the shut door. Unorna told him that if Keyork Arabian came while she was
out, he was to be shown directly into the conservatory. A moment later
she and her companion were standing together in the small irregular
square before the Clementinum.

"Where will you go?" asked the Wanderer.

"With you," she answered, laying her hand upon his arm and looking
into his face as though waiting to see what direction he would choose.
"Unless you send me back to him," she added, glancing quickly at the
house and making as though she would withdraw her hand once more. "If it
is to be that, I will go alone."

There seemed to be no way out of the terrible dilemma, and the Wanderer
stood still in deep thought. He knew that if he could but free himself
from her for half an hour, he could get help from the right quarter and
take Israel Kafka red-handed and armed as he was. For the man was caught
as in a trap and must stay there until he was released, and there would
be little doubt from his manner, when taken, that he was either mad or
consciously attempting some crime. There was no longer any necessity,
he thought, for Unorna to take refuge anywhere for more than an hour. In
that time Israel Kafka would be in safe custody, and she could re-enter
her house with nothing to fear. But he counted without Unorna's
unyielding obstinacy. She threatened if he left her for a moment to
go back to Israel Kafka. A few minutes earlier she had carried out her
threat and the consequence had been almost fatal.

"If you are in your right mind," he said at last, beginning to walk
towards the corner, "you will see that what you wish to do is utterly
against reason. I will not allow you to run the risk of meeting Israel
Kafka to-night, but I cannot take you with me. No--I will hold you,
if you try to escape me, and I will bring you to a place of safety by
force, if need be."

"And you will leave me there, and I shall never see you again. I will
not go, and you will find it hard to take me anywhere in the crowded
city by force. You are not Israel Kafka, with the whole Jews' quarter at
your command in which to hide me."

The Wanderer was perplexed. He saw, however, that if he would yield the
point and give his word to return to her, she might be induced to follow
his advice.

"If I promise to come back to you, will you do what I ask?" he inquired.

"Will you promise truly?"

"I have never broken a promise yet."

"Did you promise that other woman that you would never love again, I
wonder? If so, you are faithful indeed. But you have forgotten that.
Will you come back to me if I let you take me where I shall be safe
to-night?"

"I will come back whenever you send for me."

"If you fail, my blood is on your head."

"Yes--on my head be it."

"Very well. I will go to that house where I first stayed when I came
here. Take me there quickly--no--not quickly either--let it be very
long! I shall not see you until to-morrow."

A carriage was passing at a foot pace. The Wanderer stopped it, and
helped Unorna to get in. The place was very near, and neither spoke,
though he could feel her hand upon his arm. He made no attempt to shake
her off. At the gate they both got out, and he rang a bell that echoed
through vaulted passages far away in the interior.

"To-morrow," said Unorna, touching his hand.

He could see even in the dark the look of love she turned upon him.

"Good-night," he said, and in the next moment she had disappeared
within.



CHAPTER XVIII

Having made the necessary explanations to account for her sudden
appearance, Unorna found herself installed in two rooms of modest
dimensions, and very simply though comfortably furnished. It was quite a
common thing for ladies to seek retreat and quiet in the convent during
two or three weeks of the year, and there was plenty of available space
at the disposal of those who wished to do so. Such visits were indeed
most commonly made during the lenten season, and on the day when Unorna
sought refuge among the nuns it chanced that there was but one other
stranger within the walls. She was glad to find that this was the case.
Her peculiar position would have made it hard for her to bear with
equanimity the quiet observation of a number of woman, most of whom
would probably have been to some extent acquainted with the story of her
life, and some of whom would certainly have wished out of curiosity to
enter into nearer acquaintance with her while within the convent, while
not intending to prolong their intercourse with her any further. It
could not be expected, indeed, that in a city like Prague such a woman
as Unorna could escape notice, and the fact that little or nothing
was known of her true history had left a very wide field for the
imaginations of those who chose to invent one for her. The common story,
and the one which on the whole was nearest to the truth, told that she
was the daughter of a noble of eastern Bohemia who had died soon after
her birth, the last of his family, having converted his ancestral
possessions into money for Unorna's benefit, in order to destroy all
trace of her relationship to him. The secret must, of course, have
been confided to some one, but it had been kept faithfully, and Unorna
herself was no wiser than those who mused themselves with fruitless
speculations regarding her origin. If from the first, from the moment
when, as a young girl, she left the convent to enter into possession of
her fortune she had chosen to assert some right to a footing in the
most exclusive aristocracy in the world, it is not impossible that the
protection of the Abbess might have helped her to obtain it. The secret
of her birth would, however, have rendered a marriage with a man of that
class all but impossible, and would have entirely excluded her from
the only other position considered dignified for a well-born woman
of fortune, unmarried and wholly without living relations or
connections--that of a lady-canoness on the Crown foundation. Moreover,
her wild bringing-up, and the singular natural gifts she possessed, and
which she could not resist the impulse to exercise, had in a few months
placed her in a position from which no escape was possible so long as
she continued to live in Prague; and against those few--chiefly men--who
for her beauty's sake, or out of curiosity, would gladly have made her
acquaintance, she raised an impassable barrier of pride and reserve.
Nor was her reputation altogether an evil one. She lived in a strange
fashion, it is true, but the very fact of her extreme seclusion had kept
her name free from stain. If people spoke of her as the Witch, it
was more from habit and half in jest than in earnest. In strong
contradiction to the cruelty which she could exercise ruthlessly when
roused to anger, was her well-known kindness to the poor, and her
charities to institutions founded for their benefit were in reality
considerable, and were said to be boundless. These explanations seem
necessary in order to account for the readiness with which she turned
to the convent when she was in danger, and for the facilities which were
then at once offered her for a stay long or short, as she should please
to make it. Some of the more suspicious nuns looked grave when they
heard that she was under their roof; others, again, had been attached
to her during the time she had formerly spent among them; and there were
not lacking those who, disapproving of her presence, held their peace,
in the anticipation that the rich and eccentric lady would on departing
present a gift of value to their order.

The rooms which were kept at the disposal of ladies desiring to make a
religious retreat for a short time were situated on the first floor of
one wing of the convent overlooking a garden which was not within the
cloistered precincts, but which was cultivated for the convenience of
the nuns, who themselves never entered it. The windows on this side were
not latticed, and the ladies who occupied the apartments were at liberty
to look out upon the small square of land, their view of the street
beyond being cut off however by a wall in which there was one iron gate
for the convenience of the gardeners, who were thus not obliged to pass
through the main entrance of the convent in order to reach their work.
Within the rooms all opened out upon a broad vaulted corridor, lighted
in the day-time by a huge arched window looking upon an inner court, and
at night by a single lamp suspended in the middle of the passage by a
strong iron chain. The pavement of this passage was of broad stones,
once smooth and even but now worn and made irregular by long use. The
rooms for the guests were carpeted with sober colours and warmed by high
stoves built up of glazed white tiles. The furniture, as has been said,
was simple, but afforded all that was strictly necessary for ordinary
comfort, each apartment consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room, small
in lateral dimensions but relatively very high. The walls were thick
and not easily penetrated by any sounds from without, and, as in many
religious houses, the entrances from the corridor were all closed by
double doors, the outer one of strong oak with a lock and a solid bolt,
the inner one of lighter material, but thickly padded to exclude sound
as well as currents of cold air. Each sitting-room contained a table,
a sofa, three or four chairs, a small book-shelf, and a praying-stool
provided with a hard and well-worn cushion for the knees. Over this a
brown wooden crucifix was hung upon the gray wall.

In the majority of convents it is not usual, nor even permissible, for
ladies in retreat to descend to the nuns' refectory. When there are many
guests they are usually served by lay sisters in a hall set apart for
the purpose; when there are few, their simple meals are brought to them
in their rooms. Moreover they of course put on no religious robe, though
they dress themselves in black. In the church, or chapel, as the case
may be, they do not take places within the latticed choir with the
sisters, but either sit in the body of the building, or occupy a side
chapel reserved for their use, or else perform their devotions kneeling
at high windows above the choir, which communicate within with rooms
accessible from the convent. It is usual for them to attend Mass,
Vespers, the Benediction and Complines, but when there are midnight
services they are not expected to be present.

Unorna was familiar with convent life and was aware that the Benediction
was over, and that the hour for the evening meal was approaching. A fire
had been lighted in her sitting-room, but the air was still very cold
and she sat wrapped in her furs as when she had arrived, leaning back
in a corner of the sofa, her head inclined forward, and one white hand
resting on the green baize cloth which covered the table.

She was very tired, and the absolute stillness was refreshing and
restoring after the long-drawn-out emotions of the stormy day. Never, in
her short and passionate life, had so many events been crowded into the
space of a few hours. Since the morning she had felt almost everything
that her wild, high-strung nature was capable of feeling--love, triumph,
failure, humiliation--anger, hate, despair, and danger of sudden death.
She was amazed when, looking back, she remembered that at noon on that
day her life and all its interests had been stationary at the point
familiar to her during a whole month, the point that still lay within
the boundaries of hope's kingdom, the point at which the man she loved
had wounded her by speaking of brotherly affection and sisterly regard.
She could almost believe, when she thought of it all, that some one had
done to her as she had done to others, that she had been cast into a
state of sleep, and had been forced against her will to live through the
storms of years in the lethargy of an hour. And yet, despite all, her
memory was distinct, her faculties were awake, her intellect had lost
none of its clearness, even in the last and worst hour of all. She could
recall each look on the Wanderer's face, each tone of his cold speech,
each intonation of her own passionate outpourings. Her strong memory had
retained all, and there was not the slightest break in the continuity of
her recollections. But there was little comfort to be derived from the
certainty that she had not been dreaming, and that everything had really
taken place precisely as she remembered it. She would have given all she
possessed, which was much, to return to the hour of noon on that same
day.

In so far as a very unruly nature can understand itself, Unorna
understood the springs of the actions, she regretted and confessed that
in all likelihood she would do again as she had done at each successive
stage. Indeed, since the last great outbreak of her heart, she realised
more than ever the great proportions which her love had of late
assumed; and she saw that she was indeed ready, as she had said, to dare
everything and risk everything for the sake of obtaining the very least
show of passion in return. It was quite clear to her, since she had
failed so totally, that she should have had patience, that she ought
to have accepted gratefully the man's offer of brotherly devotion, and
trusted in time to bring about a further and less platonic development.
But she was equally sure that she could never have found the patience,
and that if she had restrained herself to-day she would have given way
to-morrow. She possessed all the blind indifference to consequences
which is a chief characteristic of the Slav nature when dominated by
passion. She had shone it in her rash readiness to face Israel Kafka
at the moment of leaving her own home. If she could not have what she
longed for, she cared as little what became of her as she cared for
Kafka's own fate. She had but one object, one passion, one desire, and
to all else her indifference was supreme. Life and death, in this world
or the next, were less weighty than feathers in a scale that measures
hundreds of tons. The very idea of balance was for the moment beyond
her imagination. For a while indeed the pride of a woman at once
young, beautiful, and accustomed to authority, had kept her firm in the
determination to be loved for herself, as she believed that she deserved
to be loved; and just so long as that remained, she had held her head
high, confidently expecting that the mask of indifference would soon be
shivered, that the eyes she adored would soften with warm light, that
the hand she worshipped would tremble suddenly, as though waking to
life within her own. But that pride was gone, and from its disappearance
there had been but one step to the most utter degradation of soul to
which a woman can descend, and from that again but one step more to a
resolution almost stupid in its hardened obstinacy. But as though to
show how completely she was dominated by the man whom she could not win
even her last determination had yielded under the slightest pressure
from his will. She had left her house beside him with the mad resolve
never again to be parted from him, cost what it might, reputation,
fortune, life itself. And yet ten minutes had not elapsed before she
found herself alone, trusting to a mere word of his for the hope of
ever seeing him again. She seemed to have no individuality left. He
had spoken and she had obeyed. He had commanded and she had done his
bidding. She was even more ashamed of this than of having wept, and
sobbed, and dragged herself at his feet. In the first moment she had
submitted, deluding herself with the idea she had expressed, that he
was consigning her to a prison and that her freedom was dependent on his
will. The foolish delusion vanished. She saw that she was free, when she
chose, to descend the steps she had just mounted, to go out through the
gate she had lately entered, and to go whithersoever she would, at the
mere risk of meeting Israel Kafka. And that risk she heartily despised,
being thoroughly brave by nature, and utterly indifferent to death by
force of circumstance.

She comforted herself with the thought that the Wanderer would come to
her, once at least, when she was pleased to send for him. She had that
loyal belief inseparable from true love until violently overthrown by
irrefutable evidence, and which sometimes has such power as to return
even then, overthrowing the evidence of the senses themselves. Are there
not men who trust women, and women who trust men, in spite of the vilest
betrayals? Love is indeed often the inspirer of subjective visions,
creating in the beloved object the qualities it admires and the virtues
it adores, powerless to accept what it is not willing to see, dwelling
in a fortress guarded by intangible, and therefore indestructible,
fiction and proof against the artillery of facts. Unorna's confidence
was, however, not misplaced. The man whose promise she had received had
told the truth when he had said that he had never broken any promise
whatsoever.

In this, at least, there was therefore comfort. On the morrow she would
see him again. The moment of complete despair had passed when she had
received that assurance from his lips, and as she thought of it, sitting
in the absolute stillness of her room, the proportions of the storm
grew less, and possible dimensions of a future hope greater--just as the
seafarer when his ship lies in a flat calm of the oily harbour thinks
half incredulously of the danger past, despises himself for the anxiety
he felt, and vows that on the morrow he will face the waves again,
though the winds blow ever so fiercely. In Unorna the master passion was
as strong as ever. In a dim vision the wreck of her pride floated still
in the stormy distance, but she turned her eyes away, for it was no
longer a part of her. The spectre of her humiliation rose up and tried
to taunt her with her shame--she almost smiled at the thought that she
could still remember it. He lived, she lived, and he should yet be hers.
As her physical weariness began to disappear in the absolute quiet and
rest, her determination revived. Her power was not all gone yet. On the
morrow she would see him again. She might still fix her eyes on his, and
in an unguarded moment cast him into a deep sleep. She remembered that
look on his face in the old cemetery. She had guessed rightly; it had
been for the faint memory of Beatrice. But she would bring it back
again, and it should be for her, for he should never wake again. Had she
not done as much with the ancient scholar who for long years had lain in
her home in that mysterious state, who obeyed when she commanded him to
rise, and walk, to eat, to speak? Why not the Wanderer, then? To outward
eyes he would be alive and awake, calm, natural, happy. And yet he would
be sleeping. In that condition, at least, she could command his actions,
his thoughts, and his words. How long could it be made to last? She did
not know. Nature might rebel in the end and throw off the yoke of the
heavily-imposed will. An interval might follow, full again of storm and
passion and despair; but it would pass, and he would again fall under
her influence. She had read, and Keyork Arabian had told her, of the
marvels done every day by physicians of common power in the great
hospitals and universities of the Empire, and elsewhere throughout
Europe. None of them appeared to be men of extraordinary natural gifts.
Their powers were but weakness compared with hers. Even with miserable,
hysteric women they often had to try again and again before they could
produce the hypnotic sleep for the first time. When they had got as far
as that, indeed, they could bring their learning, their science, and
their experience to bear--and they could make foolish experiments,
familiar to Unorna from her childhood as the sights and sounds of
her daily life. Few, if any of them, had even the power necessary to
hypnotise an ordinarily strong man in health. She, on the contrary,
had never failed in that, and at the first trial, except with Keyork
Arabian, a man of whom she said in her heart, half in jest and half
superstitiously, that he was not a man at all, but a devil or a monster
over whom earthly influences had no control.

All her energy returned. The colour came back to her face, her eyes
sparkled, her strong white hands contracted and opened, and closed
again, as though she would grasp something. The room, too, had become
warmer and she had forgotten to lay aside her furs. She longed for more
air and, rising, walked across the room. It occurred to her that the
great corridor would be deserted and as quiet as her own apartment, and
she went out and began to pace the stone flags, her head high, looking
straight before her.

She wished that she had him there now, and she was angry at the thought
that she had not seen earlier how easily it could all be done. However
strong he might be, having twice been under her influence before he
could not escape it again. In those moments when they had stood together
before the great dark buildings of the Clementinum, it might all have
been accomplished; and now, she must wait until the morning. But her
mind was determined. It mattered not how, it mattered not in what state,
he should be hers. No one would know what she had done. It was nothing
to her that he would be wholly unconscious of his past life--had she not
already made him forget the most important part of it? He would still be
himself, and yet he would love her, and speak lovingly to her, and act
as she would have him act. Everything could be done, and she would risk
nothing, for she would marry him and make him her lawful husband, and
they would spend their lives together, in peace, in the house wherein
she had so abased herself before him, foolishly believing that, as a
mere woman, she could win him.