The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 3, 1904, Page 5

like a past dream. “Judaism is de- clining; reform Judaism s a sham and orthodoxy an absurdity; the Jews are hated by all, and the Russian Jews are prejudiced by the American and na- turalized German Jews. For shame! I should beg of Jews to tolerate me. Jews that entertain prejudice against ny of their brethren deserve no re- gard, mno respect. I should rather starve in the streets of the liberal me- tropolis than apply for aid to the vain, wealthy merchant who would perhaps ff and sneer at the despised Russian tudent before he would condescend to nsider his tale of woe One cold December evening I visited the nine-cent restaurant, as usual, and aited there rather long, with a hope that the missionary might appear. And suddenly he opened the door. He rubbed his hands as he came up J 1 resented his pious manner—I ed his appearance; but I was starving and expected help from him. / He shook my hand warmly and e plained that he had been out of town ever since he saw me last, trying to organize a Christian-Jewish mission in a small town in Connecticut. He fnvited me to go to a decent restayrant. I ac- cepted his invitation. When we had finished the meal, dur- ing which he drank heavily of wine, he Hebrew in his lowest possible Art thou for us or for our ad- versaries?” and smiled an insinuating My answer stuck in my throat. I hope you have by this time appre- ted the truth of my statement,” ,he d. He puffed out a thick volume ot oke and looked straight at me with iis little eves, that betrayed the effect T the wine he had drunk. “‘Come, let us go to some place where we can talk more freely,” he said after I had continued in my silence for a minute or two. “And where we can get good wine,” he added. What did Luther say?— Wer nicht Mebt W Der bleibt ein Narr sein Leben lang.’ Ha! ha! ha! It takes a poet to say that and a missionary to practice it. Ha: ha! ha; Come—we’ll have a chat.” , Weib, und Gesang, CHAPTER X. A THAT WITH THE MISSIONARY. We got on an elevated car at Grand street and rode uptown. We alighted at the Fifty-ninth street station and walked several blocks to a fashionable apartment-house, in which he said he lived. In the small corridor he pressed one of a number of buttons, and some- body ecalled thros the speaking tube. “Open, Martha!" the missionary an- swered. I heard a click, and he opened the oor of the hall One flight up,” he said to me as he ran up the stairs. He led me up the one flight and knocked at a door. It was opened by a tall, well-shaped woman, who smiled on Gavniack as we entered. It struck me that her smile was hardly the smile of a wife. We went through a room which I noted in passing was expensively fur- nished, and entered a room that was half-study, half-smoking-room. This, like the adjoining room, had been fur- nished at much expense. There was a long black leather couch and two arm- chairs; on the wall hung a good pic- ture of the woman who had opened the door for us, and opposite it hung a pic- ture of a beautiful litte girl, who looked like the miniature of the woman. There was also a smal, well-filled bookcase and a couple of well executed pieces of marble. He excused himself, but returned in a few minutes. He drew the two arm- chairs close together and placed a small round table between us. We had scarcely seated ourselves when the oman brought in some wine, oysters and cigars and placed them on the ta- ble. She looked at me keenly as she put the tray down, and a sudden warmth passed over my face. He did not introduce me to her, so I concluded she was not his wife She was decidedly handsome, about 30 vears old I judged, with full milky cheeks, slightly tinged with crimson, thick, light-brown hair and bluish eyes with an experienced look in them. Although I had always flattered myself upon being a good physiognomist, I could not at first tell her race or na- tionality. She looked like a charming young Bauerin, full of rustic fascina- tion. However, after close observation I discerned by her profile and medita- tive glance that she must have Jewish blood in her veins. She closed the door after her when she left, and Gavnaick glanced at me through the corner of his eye—a little suspiciously, I thought, though he feigned to be looking at the picture op- posite him. He filled both of our glasses and said: “Drink. “Wine makes glad the heart of man,”” quoting the psalm in the orig- inal. “The psalmist, like Luther, ap- preciated the mission of Bacchus— hey?” “Wine enters and secrets come out,” I thought, but I said nothing. “I could not do anything wita that idealist, Razovski” he went on. “Our profession needs young men lik: him and he is worth his weight In gold. But ‘no inducement could bribe him. (My heart throbbed with shames An idealist is the best tool for our pofes- sfon, for those idealists generall” run from one extreme to the other. We need new blood now. Our best patrons are now losing faith in us and I this keeps on much longer we may be slay- ed out. The iInfidels on one side and the poor on the other are liabk to wrest the food from our mouths. In ancient times baptism was looked 1pon with unspeakable horror by the J.ws, but of late it has become rather fish- jonable.” He smiled a self-adulaing grin. “Those Jews of greatest taent and genius have tried to wash tleir birth off with the sacred water of the font.” “Now, let us come to a clear und:r- standing as to what I ask of you in return for the assistance I offer.” e assumed & business-like ailr. “I know that you are well versed in Hebrew literature and you are able to dig oit some necessary information from tie Talmud, Kabbala, and so forth. B.. sides, your knowledge of the four prir- cipal Buropean languages will be f some help to me. In short, all T asc of you is a little elucidation on thec. Jogical topics. To be frank with you, i T have neither the time nor the requil site knowledge to_ investigate thes: subjects for myself. I have helpec many Russlan students and they are officiating in large Christian churches, But T have no more use for them—none whatever. But I got paid for them, all right.” This last he said to himself. He spoke in a cool, businesslike tone, just as if he were hiring me to keep a set of books. “I tell you,” he proceeded, “there will be a great future for you if you will give up your notion of finishing your medical course and become one of us. Your information will bring you a for- tune. You have the equipment to make a great success. Most of our mission- aries are ignoramuses, but the benevo- lent Christians don’t know the differ- ence. They are so glad to get a Jewish convert who will proselyte among the Jews that they trouble themselves very little about his knowledge. Some of the emigrants, however, have spoiled our business horribly. It was discov- ered that some recefved baptismal fees here in New York, seld their dead souls in several Western cities and finally returned to their old faith. That is outrageous—they are ruining us! “Well,’' it is then agreed between us: you will furnish us with some material for our Jewish-Christian periodical. I am one of the editorial staff. Your work will consist in making abstracts from Jewish books or papers. For in- stance, when a Jewish editor complains of Jewish indifference toward their re- ligion, make an abstract of this article and send it to us. It maks spicy stuff for our paper. We'll speak about this some other time. As to your payment. things will be fixed so you can pursue your study of medicine. I have a letter of recommendation for you from Dr. ™ to the dean of the Medi- cal College. It ig early in the term and you will be able to commence at once. You agree?"” 1 dropped my ey shame almost choked me. He laid down on the ta- ble the letter of, recommendation, $25 and the address of a family with whom T could get board; for he, certain of my acceptance, had made all arrange- ments. CHAPTER XI AN OLD FRIEND AGAIN. A year glided by without any inci- dents worth putting on paper. I re- viewed my medical studies, and, by work on my part and by con- erable leniency on the part of the college authorities, I was enabled to enter the senior class the following au- tumn. That year marked a change in me. Another resurrection, so to speak—a new spring after my long, dreary winter. My almost withered and insipid brain regained fresh vigor. 1 was filled with new hope, new energy, and happy visions came be- fore me. I was alive once more. And the thirst for study and reading as- sumed its power over me. During that year I came in contact very little with the missionary Gav- niack, nor did I see Razovs With the former I generally corresponded, enclosing my abstracts, and the latter 1 was ashamed to meet. I felt guiity, and a guilty conscience fears the look of the innocent. When my conscience rebuked me in the silence of night, when sentiments of truth and integrity stirred within me, when tears washed my cheeks because of the base hypo- critical means by which I was earning my liveliho I would try to excuse myself by saying that there was noth- ing wrong in my work itself—there would be no wrong in merely trans- lating and making abstracts from the Talmud, which was all I did. As I have said, I saw but little of Gavniack. . I had not met him for six months, when one afternoon in the spring, while I was out for a stroll, I met him by chance on Fifth avenue, accompanied by a tall, broad-shoul- dered, handsome young man. A glance—and this young man and I pounced on each other and began shaking hands. “Dolgoff!” I ejaculated. “Ivan Petrowitch!” he cried, ad- dressing me by the name in the pass- port he had furnished me in Vilno. Gavniack shrank back a step or two. It was evident he found no pleasure in the discovery of friendship between Dolgoff and me. “You seem to know one another?” he said. “We're old friends,” replied Dolgoff in his gay, resonant voice. While we were exchanging news about ourselves Gavniack interrupted to remind his companion that if they lingered any longer they would be late at the meeting of missionaries which was to take place that afternoon. Dolgoff excused himself, saying he would rather spend the time chatting with me. Gavnlack hesitated a min- ute or two, then bade us farewell, and Dolgoff-and I went to my lodging. He was a trifle changed, but was as handsome as ever. He was now better developed, with soft black hair and black eyes of the Jewish type, and in all his beaming countenance showed the same contentment as in former- days. His smooth-shaven face had that physical beauty which is rarely seen in the face of poets or thinkers. “So you have become a missionary?” I said, referring to his present occu- pation. “How did you come to that Gavniack?” “The same inducement that made you take the step,” he said; at which I felt my blood ascending to my face. “I was confined in prison about a year, but I finally succeeded in escaping. First I went to Holland, but I could mnot find any work to suit me. One was too hard, another too easy, and so forth. I was soon helpless and starving. But God has never forsaken me altogether.” He smiled. “I came in contact with a missionary who began to fish for my soul. It did not take me long to strike a bargain with him, and I got the best of it. For my soul was worth very lit- tle, and my body was the whole world to me. I lived six months in luxury and got some money to boot for my rthless soul. W?'But I soon tired of Amsterdam and went to Hamburg. I had a little expe- rience in the business, and thought I could speculate with my soul again. I had never before appreciated what a valuable soul I possessed.” He puffed out a volume of smoke and chuckled with some satisfaction. “In that God- fearing city the price of my soul trebled. I got several hundred for it from my godfather, who had a big bel- ly and a small brain, and I also got some money from the missionaries. It never rains but it pours. A nice Chris- tian girl fell in love with my black eyes and curly hair, and she was frank enough to tell me so. I did not object. Who would? A girl is a girl. She was so innocent, so girlish, that I could have taken her to the end of the world had I chosen. She believed in me as in the Savior. A short time afterward 1 got tired of her love and kisses and skipped to London, with the intention of taking up some honest trade. In fact, T wighed to repent. But the idling missionary life had got its hold on me, and I changed my mind. Well, specu- THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. lation with my soul is not bad, after all, I thought. I soon found another customer for it. He was very religious and charitable (the latter proved bere- ficial to me). At his home I met this Gavniack. His name was Gordon then, but I had known him by his former names; he had many. I had known him so well in the past that he thought it wise to give me a friendly reception. “‘One of his associates was a minister of a rich congregation, a Jew by birth. He was baptized at a very early age, and, unlike other Jewish converts, he was faithful to his adopted creed. He loved the people of his race, and be- lieved that their only salvation would come through Christ. A Jewish con- vert to Christianity was a precious be- ing to him. Gavniack, with his flat- tery, won the confidence of that nobie minister, but that sly fox did not care so much for the clergyman as for his beautiful daughter, Martha.” “Martha!” I interrupted. thinking of the woman I had seen in Gavniack’s apartment a year before. He read my thought. “Yes; she's with him here.” A look of pain came upon his face; and he was silent for a minute. He- paused and looked away from me. After a minute he continued, his voice somewhat husky: %o “To be frank with you, Israel, I loved Martha—even after she had disgraced herself by running away with Gav- niack. I made up my mind to handle him softly and find out about Martha myself. A few months passed by, and he was cunning enough to conceal her whereabouts fom me. In the meantime I thought it was foolish to refuse his money. He is a clever missionary— that we cannot deny. His “face, his low, musical voice, his shy look, his humble demeanor—everything about him shows qualifications for his pro- fession. He is a genius in that field. “Finally, hoWgver, I found her out. He keeps her in- a luxurious cage, and she Is afraid to fly away, though I discovered that she hates him dread- fully. He brings everything to the house, but he is careful not to give her any money. She is his slave and fears him. About three months after she had left London she gave birth to a child, and he got rid of it, I don't know how. What a change there is in that woman! She is about twenty- three years old, and she looks as if she were thirty.” I could clearly see, from the expres- sion of his face and the tone of his volce as he spoke of Martha, that he was deeply moved. “He certainly is a dastardly villain!” 1 exclaimed, partly as an expression of my loathing of Gavniack, partly as an expression of my sympathy for Dol- goff. “The devil's even blacker than I have painted him,” Dolgoff added somewhat bitterly. “He was a Russian spy for a while, and he has sent hundreds of honorable people to Siberia. AndI've heard it rumored that he killed his own father.” I started like one bitten by an asp. I recalled what Dolgoff had said in Kieff regarding my resemblance to an old friend of his. A horrible sus- picion had flashed into my mind. I dared not follow it farther. I quivered with fear at this suggestive thought. Fortunately, Dolgoff’s face was turned away, so he did not see how his words had affected me; and when he left, a few minutes later, he was so engrossed with his own unhappy thoughts that he evidently noticed nothing unusual in my appearance. CHAPTER XIL THE WORLD IS QUITE SMALL, AFTER ALL. The evening of the next day Gav- niack called upon me. His visit at first surprised me, for he had not been in my room for a year. However, [ soon divined from his desultory talk that he had come to sound me, to find out if Dolgoff had not spoken to me regarding him. But I kept close guard upon myself and evaded all his dexterous questions. He had risen to leave, when he re- marked very casually: “By the by, I met an old friend recently that I never expected to see in this country. I hap- pened to speak of him to Dolgoff last night, and he saild you knew him, too.” “Who is he?” I asked mechanically, hardly having heard what he said, for within I was a chaos of fear and sick- ening suspicion. “I think you knew him in Kieff— Bialnick’s his name.” ““What!” I cried. And suspicion and fear for the time left me and I had but one thought—Katia! Gavniack’s look was suddenly fast- ened upon me. “It seems you are very much interested in this aristocratic fu- gitive.” I controlled myself with a great ef- fort. “I was very much interested in him before the massacre of the Jews in ’81. He showed himself a great friend of the Jews, and he supported the Jewish emancipation movement with all his might.” A peculiar smile played about Gav- niack’s lips. “I knew him long before that,” he rejoined, and with an iron- ical chuckle he added: “He was no friend of the Jews then—far from it.”” “I think I'll look him up,” I said, assuming an air of indifference. “Where's he living?” Gavniack gave me Judge Bialnick's address. He continued to chat for a few minutes, but I had no interest in his talk—my mind was with Katia. I had almost forgotten his presence, when I became aware that he had picked up from the table the Hebrew Bible my mother had given me on her death-bed. “I see you are still a good Jew,” he sald jovially. “The book js an heirloom,” swered. “H'm! The book does look rather old.” And so saying he began to turn the leaves to the first part of the book, where our family history was written. My heart began to beat violently—I could feel it throb in my ears, in my * throat; my brain was whirling. I turned and tottered to the window and stood there, trembling, all in a daze. I vaguely heard some words in a strange, hoarse voice; saw, as if through'a mist, a pair of ghastly eyes staring in my direction; then the door clicked. When I turned about he had gone. 1 an- CHAPTER XIIL “THE VOICE OF MY BELOVED."” 1 spent a long, sleepless night. Strange thoughts haunted my brain. As soon as I would begin to think of Katia hor- rible incidents would crowd my mind. “Perhaps it was Providence that sepa- rated me from the daughter of my father’s slayer? Perhaps it was Prov- idence that put us asunder because I am a Jew and she a Christian?” I brooded superstitiously. But instantly my deep love for Katia filled me with different thoughts. ‘“What do the terms Christian and Jew denote, after all? I love nature; I love art; I love humanity. What can any religion teach me in addition to these principles? Thus'I mused til} the cheerful morn- ing sun dispersed the misty shroud that hovered about me. I then put on my best clothes and repaired to Judge Bial- nick, whose address Gavniack had given me. I found it to be a fashion- able residence on Madison avenue. I rang the bell and a servant ap- peared almost instantly. “Is Judge Bialnick in?" I asked. “Yes. Who shall I say wants to see him?” A gentleman from Kieff,” I replied evasively. The servant’ disappeared, and a mo- ment later returned and showed me into a small library. In a large leather arm chair sat a feeble-looking, white- haired man, with a bloodless face. He rose to greet me, but he evidently did not recognize me. As I came close to him, however, he stretched out both his hands, and a flood of cheer -seemed to spread over his pallid countenance. “Russakoff!” he cried. “‘Where have you kept yourself?” I asked when the first gathering was over, anxious for some reference to Katia. “I searched with torches through every country in Europe and could not find a trace of you.” “We 'stayed in Switzerland and France most of the time,” he answered in a very weak volice, ‘but I finally de- cided to end my days in this great land of freedom.” “And Katia?" I asked with a throb- bing, heart. “What an old rascal I am to keep you from Katia!” he exclaimed, smil- ing broadly. _He summoned a servant. “Tell Katia a gentleman from Kieff is here.” Then turning to me, he said with the joy of a child playing a prank upon another: “You hide yourself be- hind that curtain. Let me break the news to her.” 1 secreted myself as he desired be- hind a curtain that hung in the door- way connecting the library with an- other room and waited her coming with my eyes at the curtain’s edge. Presently she appeared. She was dressed all in black. As I gazed at * through eyes blinded with warm s I thought she looked like a Queen in exile. She was the same Katia—a trifle thinner, a trifle paler, but even more sweetly beautiful than when fate swept us apart several vears before. “A gentleman from Kieff was here a while #go,” the Judge said in answer to her questioning glance about the room. “He will be back soon. Guess who he is!” y She shook her head, sadly, answered: father? Kieff,” “The gentleman,” the old man con- tinued playfully, “told me he had met Dr. Russakoff—he is a doctor now."” I clenched the curtain feverishly. She started, trembled, and her color began to come and go. “A-—what—a- * she quavered. ‘‘Come, my soul’ He slipped his arm about her and drew her down upon the arm of his chair. “What would you give if I should bring him here—at once?” he asked softly, mov- ing his weak eyes in the direction of my concealment. Katla caught her father around the neck, and leaned her face against his cheek. “Oh, father, don’t trifle with me! Do you know anything?” “Would it not be great,” he con- tinued, “if, as in Arabian tales, I could produce him here by the mere men- tioning of his name? Let me raise my wand and- o, I could not stand this fairy tale nonsense longer, and throwing the curtain aside, I strode to the middle of the room. “Katia!” I cried. She sprang to her feet and turned about. Judge Bailnick slipped out of the room. “Katia!” I cried again, the longing of four years in my voice. She opened her arms wide to me. “Ts- rael! Oh, Israel!” she murmured, as I clasped her to my breast. CHAPTER XIV. THE END OF TWO LIVES. The following few weeks Katia and 1 were the happiest people in the world. My college work was practically fin- ished, so I was free to be with her morning, afternoon and evening, and her presence made me forget all else. During the period I had heen away from the tragic life of the East Bide I had begun to appreclate the spirit of this country, and this appreciation soon ripened to that love and admira- tion which surpass all native patriot- ism. I now cherished only one ideal— to settle with my beloved Katia in a purely American atmosphere. After a great deal of discussion between our- selves and a long consultation with friends, we decided to locate in some Southern town where there was promise of my building up a lucrative practice. And with this purpose in view I made an extensive trip through the South and discovered just the place of our desire. On my return to New York I found among the letters awaiting me the fol- lowing note in a nervous, scrawling hand: “Dear Doctor ‘Russakoff: I am sick in bed at B— Hospital. T am mis- erable, wretched, and suffer beyond en- durance. I am afraid this will be my end. Come as soon as you get this note. I must tell you something se- rious. GAVNIACK."” The letter was dated several days before. I wondered what might have happened to him since then, and with- out firgt going to see my beloved Katia 1 hastened to B—— Hospital. There I was told that he had attempted to take his life, and before he recovered from his illness he fell sick with ty- phoid fever complicated by pneu- monia, and that there was a slim chance of his lasting through the night. 1 was ushered to a private room and given a chair beside Gavniack's bed. He lay stretched out on his back, his mouth open, breathing heavily. The Jow-burning light in the room added grimness to the patient's emaciated face and dark-bluish arteries on his forehead. ‘There is such a close affinity between human beings that, no matter how much we hate one in good health, our sympathies are aroused on finding him on his death-bed. T had loathed this man, but now, at sight of his slipping and, smiling “How can I guess, We had so many friends in into eternity, I was moved to compas- sion. He began to roll about restlessly and to talk incoherently. Suddenly he opened his eyes and fixed them glar- ingly upon me, and he gave utterance to his raving in a flesh-creeping voice: “‘Oh, Martha! Martha! Martha! look at me—look—I did not murder your father—did you not love me?—ah, that Doigoff—he told \vou everything—car- ried you away—oh, Dolgoff—my money —everything—but give me back—Mar- tha—look at her eyes, her milky cheeks, her—Martha—Mar—" He raved and talked in frightful tones that made me stir in my seat. Then he broke off and his raving took another turn: “I felt it all the time— the very image of mother—(some in- distinct babbling here). Don’t, Israel— don’t marry her—there hangs our father—look how he stares at us—those eyes drive me crazy—I killed him— Bialnick did it—Bialnick—oh, take that cross away—abh, that cross, that—cross —Israel—throw away that cross—fath- er is nailed to it—ah, that cross—that M His words became indistinct again, then ceased. His breath was now com- ing with difficulty. I was damp with sweat; my brain was whirling with the tragedies of life. Half an hour later he opened his eyes. There was consciousness in them. A tremor passed through his body and Wwith an effort he moved one emaciated hand over the counterpane toward me. “'Isroelke,” he murmured feebly. “Joseph,” I answered, taking his hand. My eves began to overflow with hot tears. 2 That was his only lucid moment. The next instant his hand tightened con- vulsively upon mine and he began to rave again. “Don’t you see fathr's face there— nailed to the cross? The Christians did {t—they crucified father—they'll crucify you—Bialnick did it—you’ll not marry her—I am a villain—I fooled the whole world—everybody—every- body—but I am a Jew—you are a Jew —once a Jew always—a Jew—don't marry her—" He struggled up on one elbow. and stared wiidly in front of him. “Look—look—father—mother —on the cross—Shma—Isroel—adenoi— Elo—heinu—adenoichod-d-d—' He fell back in my arms, gasping. An hour later he lay motionless, quiet —dead. . . . It was a little before daybreak when I left the hospital. The scene I had Just witnessed stupefied my brain for a while; then recollections of the remote past began to come back to my mind as I walked home, thinking and breath- ing deeply, with a vague hope of wak- ing and finding that I had only dreamed. But I soon realized that I had had no dream; my brother's cut- ting words still rang in my ears. 1 opened my room quietly; I feared my own footsteps. A silvery glance of the fading, vanishing moon fell upon my desk. There lay the dog-eared Bible. My thoughts again traveled to my brother’s delirious talk; I shud- dered at his suggestion. Gradually my mind came back to Katia, and the cld battle of creed and race and vengeance raged in my breast. “Why did fate bring us together?” I wondered why I put myself this question. “ Don't marry her—don’'t marry her.” My brother’s words passed through my mind. “The blood of your father's murderer runs in her veins,” a weird voice seemed to whisper. And in- stantly a new feeling was sprouting within me. That feeling of affinity which binds the Jew to his race, to his creed when all other hopes forsake him, was waking in my heart. “Once a Jew always a Jew.” My brother's words again haunted me. I arose and walked across the room. All around was dead silence; only at intervals the clattering of the elevated trains was heard, and then silence again. I felt weary, and the burden of life weighed heavily upon me. In a moment the structure of my happiness seemed to be razed to the ground and buried me under its debris. My heart was emblttered, wretched, crushed. Then I noticed on the floor a letter which had evidently been thrust under my door after I had left for the hospi- tal. I picked it up with a fretful heart. It was a note from Katia. She said that her father was dying, and asked me to come as scon as I reached town. And forgetting all else, I hur- ried to my beloved. ‘When I knocked at Judge Blalnick's apartment Katia herself opened the door. “Bosje moi! papa is dying!” she cried, and fell into my arms. Vhat's the matter with him, dear- est?” I asked. ““His heart. It's been weak for years, you know."” “Has he been sick long?"” “He was quite well last night. But a man came in to see papa last night. Papa knew him in Kieff. He left a letter which he said a friend in a hos- pital had asked him to deliver and then went away. I was not in the room when papa read the letter, but when I came in a little later he was uncon- scious in his chair. The letter was from a man who says he's your brother. Do you think that would have affected him so?? I shook my head. I saw clearly the hand that struck this blow. Katia led me into the chamber where her father lay struggling for life. The attending physician rose to leave. As he was going out he whispered to me: *‘His minutes are numbered. I have been staying here for her sake.” A glance at the aged patient con- vinced me of the truth of the physi- cian’s statement. He was unconscious, his long, thin, silvery hair was scat- tered over the pillows; his face was wan and calm and his breath came fast and short. Katia fell on her knees at his bedside, took one of his hands in both hers and sobbed brokenly. Shortly after daybreak the patient opened his eyes and turned them to- ward me. I leaned over the bed and felt his pulse. His eyes opened, closed, and opened again. Something like a shudder passed over his wrinkled coun- tenance: his wrist trembled in my hand. He glanced from me to Katia and stirred as if he wished to rise and utter something. A flush of scarlet tinged his bloodless cheeks as he glanced at me. He stirred again. His arm trembled, his whole body quivered, a gleam like that of sunshine lightened his deadly looking eyes. With a sudden effort, half rising, he clasped my hand and placing it upon Katia's he gasped: “Jsrael—forgive!” o et et m Our hands remained clasped together long after he had drawn his last breath. Katia, with her face down, did not *Hear, 6 Israel! God is our Lord— God is one. geem to realize that the end had come. 1 sat motionless, fearing to arouse her. Suddenly something like an electric shock passed through my mind. It only lasted a few seconds, but in that brief space of time my whole life flit- ted through my mind. The tragedy of the ¢wo lives that had passed away on this night added color to my mystic imagination. The last words of my brother rang clamorously in my ears; the terrible episodes of my life stood out vividly before my mind's eye; many fragments of recollections came in a common flood—the lives of Blalnick and Joseph stood before me side by side —and in them I saw the weak- mess, the mortality, the littleness of man. The errors of these men seemed to me like links of a great chain—the endless chain of faith, of nature, of God. All history unrolled itself before me, and it, too, was a part of that great chain. Then like a flash of lightning a revelation flashed upon me—the revelation of my people, the revelation of my father and of his father, and the revelation of my own life. This revelation came to me almost as a dream, as a vision; it interpreted to me the mystery of my people. Side by side the life of the crucified and the life of My race among nations and the life of my father and my own strange life— in a vision they all presented them- selves before me. And this vision, this revelation, showed me the symbolism of my race, the symbolism of the Christ. It showed me that the crucified was the symbol of his people, as my father was of his generation and as I am of mine. It showed me that not the Pilgrims, not the Crusaders, not the followers of him whom they called Sa- vier—none but the fugitive race are the eternal bearers of the cross. The next instant, when this mystic vision had vanisked, I became con- scious of the clasp of Katia's hand, I beheld her pure soul in the innocent look of her luminous eyes, and again the past flashed through my mind with lightning rapidity. But the past now revealed to me a different symbol—the symbolism of the. innocent blood—the symbolism of Katia's life and mine. “Katla,” 1 whispered softly, glancing at the corpse before us, “let the dead past bury the dead. We are the inno- cent blood."” She gazed at me meaninglessly; she knew nothing of the tragedy of her father’s life—she was innocent. CHAPTER XV. THE LAST GLIMP Before turning over the last leaf of my history I read over this narrative, and I have been struck with its bro- kenness, its lack of ord its coinci- dences. At first I thought this was a fault in my narrative, but after a little scrutiny I know it is a fault in life; for life is not a logical procession of events, as novelists present it. It is sometimes, brol , incoherent, and at other times chance makes ev s fit, coincide. In real life people come and g0; acquaintances meet and sepdrate; the friends of to-day are not seen to- morrow. In this record of my experi- ences friends have appeared only to disappear. Such is life. PeWhaps during their brief stay in these pages my friends have aroused enough interest to warrant at least a few words concerning their after life. My friends, like myself, fugitives from the land of bondage, now enjoy the liberty of our giorious country; they, too, have thriven in the great land of freedom. In place of the “sweat- shop” has arisen the prosperous cloth- ing factory of Levando & Son, who are of the most prominent in one of the Western States. The father's hair has turned gray, but there is still the twin- kle of hopeful youth in his bluish ey and even Gittele smiles when her hus- band sings the praises of the stars and stripes. Daniel has become a well- known lawyer, and chiefly through him Mark Fetter was forced into bank- ruptcy a few years ago. Dolgoff mar- ried Martha, and this change in his life has developed a certain amount of sta- bility in his character; he is now at the head of a branch of a life insurance company in Chicago. As for Ephraim Razovskl, If you are a reader of popu- lar magazines you have undoubtedly noticed many articles and short stories bearing his name—all characteristic of his restless, flery spirit. And Malke— she is a happy mother in a large and happy family, and her last child was named Nathan, after her father, who had died a year before. Now for a few last words about my- self. Since my life has been united with that of my beloved Katia nothing has occurred to mar our happy existence. I have been successful in my profes- sion, and also in gaining the respect and friendship of my good American neighbors. We live in harmony with God and man. . I still have my literary aspirations, and still frequently scribble verses, which my sweet Katia values as high- ly as those of Pushkin and of Lermon- toff. But she Is a biased critic; and to judge from public recognition my ef- forts have been attended with only meager success. Not infrequently, however, a bit of cloud darkens the sky of my happi- ness. Recollections of the bitter past recur to my mind; the groans of my peonle from tyrannical Russia, from Morocco, from France, occasionally reach my ears. Then I suffer with the down-trodden race as if I still lived among them In some barricaded Ghetto. The other day my eldest son, whose seventh birthday we soon hape to cele- brate, came crying into the house be- cause the boy of a neighbor called him Jew. Katia adjusted his cap and said: “Hush, sweetheart. not quarrel with Robert.” calls me a Jew even if I don't quarrel with him,” the innocent little martyr Justified himself. ¢ When the child was out of the room Katia turned to me with a sorrowful look. As our eyes met one common thought flitted through our brains. I bowed my head in pain. Pretending not to be hurt by the injustice our boy had suffered, she came up to me, and, throwing her arm around me, whis- pered in a very low, consoling tone: “Israel, what troubles you?" 1 pressed her to my breast, and pushing back her luxuriant hair from her forehead I impressed a kiss upon her brow and answered: “The cross, my love—the cross I bear weighs heavily upon me."” She divined my thought, and with tears gathering in her beautiful eyes locked my neck in a tight embrace, and putting her cheek against mine, muttered: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” (THE END)