“You have suffered enough to tire the strongest.”
“In what way?” asked Kafka. “I have forgotten what happened. I know that I followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house, and I saw you afterwards together. I had not spoken to her since I came back from my long journey this morning. Tell me what occurred. Did she make me sleep? I feel as I have felt before when I have fancied that she has hypnotised me.”
The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. The question was asked as naturally as though it referred to an everyday occurrence of little or no weight.
“Yes,” he answered. “She made you sleep.”
“Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have forgotten it.”
The Wanderer hesitated a moment.
“I cannot answer your question,” he said, at length.
“Ah—she told me that you hated her,” said Kafka, turning his dark eyes to his companion. “But, yet,” he added, “that is hardly a reason why you should not tell me what happened.”
“I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I have no right to say to a stranger—which I could not easily say to a friend.”
“You need not spare me—”