Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1891-03-01

And there was but little probability that
Israel Kafka would ever learn what had
actually been happening to him while he
fancied that he had been travelling swiftly
from place to place. BE could still wonder,
| indeed, that he should have yielded so easily
to Ksyork's pressing invitation to accom-
pany the latter upon such an extraordinary
flight, but he remembered then his last in
| terview with Unorna, and it seemed almost
natural that in his despair he should have
chosen to 90 away. Not that his passion
for the woman was dead. Intentionally,
or by an oversight, Unorna had not touched
upon the question of his love tor her, in the
course of her otherwise well-considered sug-
pestions. Possibly she had believed that
the statement she had forced from his
lips was enough, and that he would forget
her without anv further action on her part.
Possibly, too, Unorna was indifferent and
was content to let him suffer, believing that
his devotion might still be turned to some
practical use. However that may be, when
Israel Kafka opened bis eyes in the carriage
he still loved her, though he was conscious
that in his manner of loving a change had
taken place, of which he was destined to re-
ealize the consequence before another day
had passed.
When Keyork answered his first remark
he turned and looked at the old man.
81 suppose you are tougher than ], he
said, languidly. "You will hardly believe
it but have been doing already, here, in
the carriage, since We lett the station"
mo harm in that Sleep is q great re-
storative," laughed Keyork.
"Are you so glad to be in Prague again?"
asked Kafka. "It is a melancholy place.
But you laugh as though you actually liked
the sight of the black houses and the gray
snow and the silent people"
"How can a place be melancholy? The
seat of melancholy is the liver. Imagine a
city with liver-of brick and mortar, or
stone and cement, q huge mass of masonry
buried in its center like an enormous fetish,
exercising a mysterious influence over the
city's health-then you NAV imagine city
as suffering from melancholy"
"How absurd!'
"My dear boy, I rarely say absurd
things" answered Keyork imperturbably.
Besides, as a matter OF fact, there is nothing
absurd. But you suggested rather fantas-
tic idea to my Imagination. The brick liver
is not a bad conception. Far down in the
bowels of the earth, in black cavern hol-
lowed beneath the lowest foundations OF the
oldest church, the brick liver was built by
the cunning magicians of old, to last for
ever, to purify the cIty's blood, TO regulate
the city's life, and in measure to control
its destiuies by means of its passions. A
few wise men have handed down the knowl-
edge Of the brick liver to each other from
generation to generation, but the rest of the
Inhabitants are ignorant of its existence.
They alone. know that every vicissitude of
the city's condition is traceable to that
source-its sadness, its merriment, its carnl-
walls and its lents. its health and its disease.
Sc. nd fho wi xrh
at distant intervals kill one in ten of the
population. Is it not pretty thought"
II do not understand you" said Kafka,
wearily.
''It is a very practical idea," continued
Keyork, amused with his own fancies, "and
it will vet be carried out. The great cities
of the next century will have a liver of
brick aud mortar and iron and machinery,
huge mechanical purifier. You smilel
Ah, my dear boy, truth and fantasm are
very much the same to you! You are too
young. How can you be expected to care
for the problem of problems, for the mighty
question of prolonging life?"
keyork laughed again, with a meaning in
his laughter which escaped his companion
altogether.
"How can you be expected to eare?' he
repeated. "And yet men used to say that
the trembling weakness of feeble old age"
His eyes twinkled with a diabollcal
mirth.
NO." said Kafka. ST do not care. Life
is meant to be short. Life is meant to be
storm-broken with CLEANS of loves sun
shine. Why prolong it? If it is unhappy
you would only draw out the uuhappiness
to greater lengths. and such joy as it has is
joy only because it is quick, sudden, violent.
L would concentrate a lifetime into an
instant, if could, and then die content in
having suffered everything, enjoyed every
thing, dared everything in the fash of
great lightning between two total dark
nesses. But to drag on through slow sor-
rows, or to crawl through a century of con-
tentment-neverl Better be mad, or asleep,
and unconscious of the time" q
"You are very desperate personp' ex-
claimed Kevork. eff you had the manage
ment of this unstable world you would
make it q very convulsiYe and nervous
place. We should all turn into flaming
ephemerides, futtering about the crater of
perpetually active volcano. l prefes the
system of the brick liver. There is more
durability in it."
The carriage stopped before the door of
Kafka's dwelling. Keyork got out with
him and stood upon the pavement while the
porter took the slender luggage into the
house. He smiled as he glanced at the
leathern portmanteau which was supposed
to have made such a long journey while it
had In reality lain whole month in q cor
ner of Keyork's great room behind a group
of specimens. He had opened it once or
twice in that time, had distributed the con-
tents and had thrown in a few objects from
his heterogeneous collection, as "reminiscences
r -t-t& &@I
Kafka, and of the acquisition of which the
latter was only assured in his sleeping state.
They would constitute a tangible proof of
the journeys reality in case the suggestion
proved less thoroughly successful than was
hoped, and Keyork prided himself upon this
supreme touch.
"And now, he said, taxing Kafka's hand,
81 would advise you to rest as long as yo
can. suppose that it must have been a
fatiguing trip for you, though myself am
as fresh as May morning. There is nothing
wrong with you, but you are tired. Repose,
my dear boy, repose, and plenty of it. That
internal Sicilian doctorl shall never for
give HIM fot bleeding you as he did. There
is nothing so weakening. Goodby-I shall
hardly see you again to-day, l fancy"
II cannot tell" answered the young
man, absentIy. "But let ME thank vou,"
he added, with q sudden consciousness of
obligation, ''for your pleasant company, and
for making me 90 with you. 1 dare say it
has done me good, though feel unaccount-
ably tired-I feel almost old"
His tired eyes and haggard face showed
that this, at least, was no illusion. The
faucied journey had added ten years to his
age in 80 days, and those who knew him
best would have found it hard to recognize
the brilliantly vital personality of Israel
Kafka in the pale and exhausted youth who
painfully climbed the stairs with unsteady
stems naming for breath and clutchino OF