*ma
 
 The Fugitive
 
 The Fugitive 
 
 "Being" Memoirs of a W^anderer 
 in Search of a Home 
 
 'Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast. 
 How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! " 
 
 BYRON 
 
 BY 
 
 EZRA S. BRUDNO 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 Doubleday, Page & Company 
 1904
 
 Copyright, 1904, by 
 Doubleday, Page & Company 
 Published, February 15, 1904
 
 TO 
 
 SDc. Cmil 9 
 
 THIS BOOK IS 
 
 MOST AFFECTIONATELY 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 S134453
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST DARKNESS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. I Lose My Father .... 
 
 II. I Am Left Alone in the World . 
 
 III. The School for the Poor 
 
 IV. The Ways of the Talmud-Torah . 
 V. "The Lithuanian Era" 
 
 VI. A Night in a Forest . 
 
 VII. I Fall Among Gentiles 
 
 VIII. I Am Happy .... 
 
 IX. The End of Happiness 
 
 X. I Bid Farewell to Zamok 
 
 XL The Mystery Revealed 
 
 XII. Back to My Own 
 
 XIII. The Yeshiva .... 
 
 XIV. My New Home .... 
 XV. The "Sha" 
 
 XVI. The Reawakening 
 
 XVII. I Begin to Doubt 
 
 XVIII. I Am Betrayed . 
 
 XIX. I Wander Again .... 
 
 XX. I Become a Teacher 
 
 XXI. I Find My Duties Very Agreeable 
 
 vii
 
 viii Contents Continued 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXII. A Proposal of Marriage . . . 149 
 
 XXIII. The Bridegroom 156 
 
 XXIV. Father Against Child . .160 
 XXV. "Yom Kippur" 163 
 
 XXVI. A Tragedy Without Bloodshed . .172 
 
 BOOK THE SECOND LIGHT 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. "Lithuanian Jerusalem" . . 183 
 
 II. My Second Birth . . . . .191 
 
 III. A Rose With a Thorn . . . 197 
 
 IV. " Russian Jerusalem " .... 203 
 V. I See Without Being Seen . . . 209 
 
 VI. Cupid's Arrows . . . . .213 
 
 VII. A Great Event 222 
 
 VIII. Love Conquers Discretion . . .229 
 
 IX. I Bend to the Cross .... 236 
 
 X. The Burden of the Cross . . .239 
 
 XI. On My Way to Nazareth . . . 247 
 
 XII. A Reaction 256 
 
 XIII. I Bid Farewell to My Fatherland . . 266 
 
 BOOK THE THIRD LIBERTY 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. In the Land of Liberty . . . -273 
 
 II. Shmunke Menke Shmunke's . . . 290 
 
 III. I Look for a Job ..... 298 
 
 IV. In a "Sweat-Shop" . . . .307
 
 Contents Continued ix 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 V. The End of the Sweat-Shop . . .318 
 
 VI. I Apply for Aid and Get Something Else 321 
 
 VII. An Old Friend 334 
 
 VIII. Assistance Comes Unexpectedly . .342 
 
 IX. The Missionary Again . . , -350 
 
 X. A Chat With the Missionary . . 356 
 
 XI. An Old Friend Again . . . .363 
 
 XII. The World is Quite Small, After All 372 
 
 XIII. "The Voice of My Beloved" . . 375 
 
 XIV. The End of Two Lives . . .380 
 XV. The Last Glimpse .... 389
 
 SCENES 
 
 Book I. LITHUANIA 
 
 Book II. SOUTHERN RUSSIA 
 
 Book III. NEW YORK 
 
 PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS 
 
 YUDEL ABRAMOWITCH, a Jew accused of having mur- 
 dered a Christian child for ritual purposes 
 
 ISRAEL, his son, a vagrant orphan, the "Fugitive" 
 
 GORGLE and GAZLEN, schoolmasters of the school for 
 the poor 
 
 ALEXIS BIALNICK, a judge 
 
 KATIA, the judge's daughter, with whom Israel is in 
 love 
 
 SHMUNKE MENKE SHMUNKE'S, a fanatic student of 
 theology 
 
 MENKE and GROONE, Shmunke Menke Shmunke's 
 parents 
 
 RABBI BRILL, principal of Javolin Seminary 
 
 MIRIAM, his young wife 
 
 EPHRAIM RAZOVSKI, an idealist and revolutionary 
 student 
 
 NOSEN TARIFF, an innkeeper 
 
 MALKE, his daughter 
 
 xi
 
 xii Principal Characters Continued 
 
 COUNT LOSJINSKI, owner of the inn 
 
 ADOLPH DOLGOFF, a forger of Russian pamphlets 
 
 DAVID LEVANDO, owner of a "sweat-shop" 
 
 DANIEL, his son 
 
 MARK FETTER, an unscrupulous New York merchant 
 
 DOCTOR FUCHS, a reform rabbi 
 
 JOSEPH GAVNIACK, a hypocritical missionary 
 
 MARTHA, his mistress
 
 BOOK THE FIRST 
 DARKNESS 
 
 " He hath set me in dark places, as they 
 that be dead of old." 
 
 LAMENTATIONS.
 
 THE FUGITIVE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 I LOSE MY FATHER 
 
 AS I dip my pen to begin the narrative of 
 my life, the heavy curtain of time rises 
 and scenes of early childhood crowd my 
 memory. I am back again in far-away Lithuania; 
 and I see, as clearly as the paper before me, 
 my native town with all its rural squalor. It is 
 one of the commonplace, insignificant Lithuanian 
 towns: with thatched log-houses set along unpaved 
 muddy streets and stenchy alleys; with a weather- 
 worn brick synagogue and a high-peaked old Greek 
 church; with a ruinous public bath-house and a 
 well-fortified jail; with a pond in which boys and 
 cows alternately bathe in summer and on which 
 the former skate in winter; with a tall black cross 
 standing somberly in the centre of the market- 
 place ; with a hissing water-mill (which is regularly 
 flooded every spring) at one end of the town, and 
 a long-armed windmill (which almost as regularly 
 burns down every winter) at the other end; with 
 encompassing bluish-green forests, waving wheat- 
 fields, and blossoming orchards in short, but for 
 the last, old, dirty, lethargic, typically Lithuanian. 
 
 3
 
 4 The Fugitive 
 
 However, as a hint to lovers of chronological 
 research, I shall state that in the place where I first 
 saw light, the famous Corsican, in his escape from 
 cold Russia, is said to have changed horses. So, 
 after all, my native town deserves a place in the 
 world's history almost as important as that accorded 
 to Austerlitz. For if chance had ordained other- 
 wise and the great conqueror had not found speedy 
 trotters in my birthplace, think what a change in 
 the nineteenth century ! 
 
 But enough of the Corsican. Let me return to 
 the Lithuanian, however disparaging to the warrior. 
 As the reader will presently learn, my name, Yisroel 
 (the Hebrew for Israel), had many variations. Its 
 diminutive was Ishrolke, which for convenience 
 sake was shortened to Shrolke. This my school- 
 mates thought still too long, so my name among 
 them was Shroll. Frequently I was endearingly 
 called Yisroltchikle, Isroltchick, or Isrolkele. 
 
 Recalling this little old town and the names by 
 which I was known there, the past bursts before 
 me like a shell, and my mind fills with memorable 
 events of my early life. Some of these events are 
 vague and fragmentary, like half -forgotten dreams, 
 and others stand out most vividly, as if they had 
 occurred but yesterday. How I remember the 
 Passover of my fifth year ! It appears to me like 
 a cloud with a silvery seam. 
 
 The day before this Passover was the happiest of 
 my childhood. I see myself standing on the long,
 
 I Lose My Father 5 
 
 balustered porch, watching a bird that skipped from 
 poplar to poplar in front of my father's house. 
 The thick ice that had covered the earth for more 
 than five months had almost entirely melted, and 
 was flowing in broad crystal streams and bubbling 
 beneath a fine glacial sheet which was not as yet 
 washed away. Here and there the bits of bare 
 earth, like so many tiny islands, looked black and 
 spongy, and were slowly drying under the piercing 
 glances of the sun. But I was soon lured into the 
 house: the rattling of dishes fell on my ears like 
 sweet music. I ran into the kitchen. All the dishes 
 and cooking utensils that had been used during the 
 year were carried to the attic, and new plates, pots, 
 and pans, which had laid packed in hay since the 
 preceding Passover, were cleansed and polished. 
 While these preparations were being made I was 
 running about the house in boisterous mirth, and 
 in my repeated efforts to make myself useful I 
 broke sundry articles. My mother scolded softly, 
 and, smiling all the while, gently removed me from 
 the servants' way. To hide my embarrassment I 
 dipped the new tumbler into the "Passover tank" 
 and swallowed a mouthful of the delicious "Pass- 
 over water." Then my father appeared in the door- 
 way and said: "Come, my child; I have something 
 nice for you." I followed him to the adjoining 
 room, where I was presented with an Arba-Kanfas, 
 the fringes of which my father had taken great 
 delight in tying in the traditional knots and twists.
 
 6 The Fugitive 
 
 As he handed me this "four-corner" garment he 
 said in Hebrew: "Wear it that ye may remember, 
 and do all my commandments and be holy unto 
 your God." 
 
 Then came the Seder the ceremony of the 
 first evening of Passover. Our dining-room was 
 illuminated by scores of candles stuck in antique 
 chandeliers hung from the ceiling. At the head 
 of the table sat my father, robed in a white shroud- 
 like garment, leaning on his left arm and reading 
 from a book. An embroidered skull-cap was tilted 
 on the back of his head, leaving bare his high and 
 broad, smooth forehead; and his genial counte- 
 nance was beaming with good-humour and happi- 
 ness as he glanced at his small family. As I now 
 think of it, it seems to me that I could read his 
 very thoughts as he passed his fingers through his 
 black beard: "Behold, thus shall man be blessed 
 that feareth the Lord." 
 
 My mother, with diamonds twinkling at her ears, 
 read the Hagodo (the tale of Israel's bondage and 
 exodus) as fast as she could in order to catch up 
 with father, pausing only now and then to point 
 out to me the illustrations of the ten plagues and 
 that of Pharaoh sinking into the sea. At the sight 
 of these pictures I clapped my hands in gleeful 
 satisfaction over the punishment this tyrant, the 
 oppressor of my forefathers, had received from the 
 mighty hand of Jehovah. 
 
 But the happiness we felt was not unmixed;
 
 I Lose My Father 7 
 
 with it there was some hidden sorrow. My brother 
 Joseph, who was about twelve years my senior, 
 was absent from the table. There had always 
 been some differences between my father and him, 
 and of late the breach widened on account of my 
 brother's intimacy with the Sledevatel,* against 
 whom my father held a number of overdue prom- 
 issory notes. However, despite the rupture, my 
 mother entertained an unspoken hope that he come 
 home this night to join in the Passover feast; and 
 when, later in the evening, there came a sound of 
 steps without, she rose eagerly and whispered: 
 "Joseph is coming." 
 
 "It is not Joseph's step," my father answered 
 gloomily. 
 
 A moment later the door opened and two officers 
 entered. My father rose and saluted them in 
 a courteous though hesitating manner. "What 
 brings you to my house at this hour, Feodor 
 Ivanowitch?" my father asked of the superior 
 officer. 
 
 My mother trembled perceptibly, and said to my 
 father in an undertone: "Something must have 
 happened to Joseph." 
 
 "I am on a bad errand this evening," was the 
 short reply of the gendarme, given with a look 
 which made plain that it was not my brother who 
 was the occasion of the visit. 
 
 * A Russian officer filling the position of our grand jury and 
 that of the coroner.
 
 8 The Fugitive 
 
 My father paled at the glance. Now as I write 
 I can see him before me, robed in a loose white 
 shroud, a fearful stare in his shrewd blue eyes, 
 his right hand clutching the girdle around his loins 
 as he staggered back a step or two. I clung to my 
 mother's skirt and looked at the gendarmes in 
 trembling fright. 
 
 "Really, Yudel Abramowitch," said the superior 
 of the two gendarmes, "it is the most unpleasant 
 duty of my life to be compelled to read an indict- 
 ment to you." And he turned his eyes away from 
 my father's. 
 
 "An indictment! Against me?" my father 
 cried. 
 
 My mother burst into tears and wrung her hands 
 hysterically; and I, though comprehending no real 
 cause for grief, joined in her wailing. 
 
 The officer drew a writ from his upturned sleeve, 
 and after reading the caption and legal rigmarole 
 he recited in a firm voice: "You, Yudel Abramo- 
 witch, are hereby accused and must answer to the 
 charge of being complicated in the ritual murder of 
 Andrew, a Christian child." 
 
 My father did not say a word; he raised his hand 
 to his forehead and emitted a deep groan. A 
 minute or more of silence ensued, during which 
 my father looked as if he were struggling to regain 
 his wits. He cast a dazed, helpless glance at 
 mother, then at me. 
 
 The gendarmes interchanged communicative signs ;
 
 I Lose My Father 9 
 
 then one of them said gruffly: "Come, you'll have 
 to hurry!" 
 
 My father fell on my mother's neck and wept 
 bitterly, and after pressing me to his breast and 
 wetting my cheeks with his tearful kisses, he raised 
 his hands heavenward and cried: "My enemies 
 have set a trap for me, but the Infallible Judge 
 knows my heart knows my innocence. He will 
 not see justice perverted." 
 
 The officers made no reply, but led him away 
 bowed and sobbing. And all that night, I remem- 
 ber, we sat there beside the richly spread table, I 
 held closely in my mother's arms and she moaning 
 convulsively all the while. 
 
 My father was not the only one arrested that night. 
 Nine of the oldest and most prominent members 
 of the Jewish community were also thrown into 
 jail on the same charge. And the following morn- 
 ing the startling fact was learned that my brother 
 Joseph and a peasant who had once been my 
 father's coachman were the prosecuting witnesses. 
 The prima facie evidence was strong enough with- 
 out their testimony, as the body of the murdered 
 child had been found hidden in the ark among the 
 Scrolls of the Law. Special mass was held a number 
 of times, and fasts were proclaimed, but even the 
 most hopeful could see no relief for my father, 
 since his own flesh and blood testified against him. 
 
 Little of consequence happened immediately after 
 my father's imprisonment. My brother never came
 
 io The Fugitive 
 
 back to us, and I learned from our servants that 
 he was living with the Sledevatel and that he was 
 going to be baptised and marry his niece, who was 
 reputed one of the handsomest girls in our vicinity. 
 In our house everything looked dreary and for- 
 saken: my mother went about with a grief -stricken 
 face, the servants walked on tiptoe, and every- 
 body who visited us seemed but to enhance our 
 sadness. Our most frequent visitor was Mr. Nicho- 
 laieff, a lawyer, to whom my mother occasionally 
 gave a roll of money, which he would pocket 
 without counting, and always with the remark that 
 he hoped to be able to " grease the officials' paws." 
 
 Months rolled by, and still no definite time was 
 set for the trial of the prisoners. The prospects 
 of their release brightened, however, when a rumour 
 started that my brother had run away to parts 
 unknown. A fast was proclaimed, and the lawyer, 
 Nicholaieff, got another big roll of money with 
 which to "grease the officials' paws." Then, when 
 everything looked promising, we were stricken 
 down with the report that my father had been 
 found hanging in his cell, and, what was still more 
 terrible, that he had left a written confession of 
 his sole guilt. 
 
 The other prisoners were instantly released. To 
 us who still believed in my father's innocence the 
 mystery of the ritual murder became darker and 
 darker; and the bitterest gloom settled closer and 
 closer about my mother and me.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 I AM LEFT ALONE IN THE WORLD 
 
 AFTER this tragic end of my father a great and 
 rapid change took place in my mother. Her noble 
 Semitic face became shrunken and sallow and 
 wrinkled, and her soft bright eyes, dimmed with 
 weeping, lost their gentle luster. All our money 
 and valuables had gone to "grease the officials' 
 paws," so at my father's death we were literally 
 penniless. With the exception of our large house, 
 which was heavily encumbered, every possible 
 means to maintain our previous comfortable style 
 of living was exhausted. It is true, the community 
 was kind enough to offer her some assistance, but 
 she cried many days thereafter, and said she would 
 rather starve than become an object of charity. 
 So she bought a cow and sold its milk, and in order 
 to make both ends meet, from time to time my 
 mother sold pieces of furniture from our home. 
 
 Thus autumn and winter passed and spring came 
 again. I was kept in a private school, at the cost 
 of how much self-denial on the part of my mother 
 I did not then understand. However, I noticed 
 that my mother grew weaker and weaker during 
 this time, and at length she took to her bed. Then 
 
 ii
 
 12 The Fugitive 
 
 there came an evening which is as memorable to 
 me as the evening on which my father was torn 
 away from us. The sun had already dipped into 
 the forest that encircled the town; the stroke of 
 the sexton's mallet had just sounded the signal 
 for "sunset service"; and the shades were begin- 
 ning to fall. I stood by the window looking out into 
 our bit of a garden; from behind me there came 
 frequently the coughs and groans of my mother. 
 
 "Yisroelke, my child," sounded the feeble voice 
 of my mother. 
 
 I turned and hurried to her bed. There was 
 scarcely a tinge of blood in her emaciated cheeks; 
 her dim eyes were overrun with tears. I wondered 
 why she shed tears; our neighbours had been so 
 good to us had brought us every morning boiled 
 chicken, fresh milk and flowers, and the beautiful 
 boxes and vials that stood on the window-sill 
 and yet she wept ! 
 
 "Kiss me, my darling," she whispered. 
 
 I kissed her hand first, then rising on tiptoe I 
 pressed my lips to her chin, which was moist from 
 her weeping. 
 
 "I may soon go away," she said with an effort, 
 "and you will be left alone alone." Her spas- 
 modic cough checked her words. 
 
 I could not clearly see how she could go away 
 when she was scarcely strong enough to move 
 about. 
 
 Here, my child," she resumed painfully a
 
 I Am Left Alone in the World 13 
 
 moment later, handing me our Old Testament, 
 dog-eared and yellow with age, "keep this always 
 with you. This is all I can leave you. When you 
 get older, my child, you will read it; and when 
 despair conies to you, you will also read it and 
 gain courage. This is all your father had when he 
 started in life; this is all you can leave to your 
 children, and this is all they will leave to their off- 
 spring, to the end of the race." 
 . A peculiar look spread over my mother's counte- 
 nance as she spoke these enigmatic words ; a magic 
 luster seemed to brighten her dim eyes. 
 
 After resting a little while she continued more 
 easily, as if the words she had just spoken had 
 greatly relieved her, "Yisroelke, if you ever meet 
 your brother" there was a painful pause 
 "remind him of this book. Let him read these 
 pages. He will learn that there is nothing to be 
 ashamed of in his lineage, and will come back to 
 our fold." 
 
 Early the next morning I was wakened by sob- 
 bing and wailing. I raised my head and glanced 
 at my mother's bed. It was empty. I dressed 
 in haste and hurried to the dining-room. In the 
 middle of the floor lay a figure, covered with my 
 mother's quilt. Two flaring candles stuck in our 
 silver candlesticks stood at one end of it. Sitting 
 on the floor around the figure were several women, 
 who constantly raised their voices in lamentation; 
 a number of elderly women were measuring long
 
 14 The Fugitive 
 
 strips of linen and stitching them together; and a 
 score of boys chanted psalms in a monotonous 
 minor key. 
 
 I looked bewilderingly about the room. Then, 
 affected rather by the general grief than by any 
 definite realisation of its cause, I burst into tears 
 and wept bitterly. 
 
 At first no one tried to console me, but when 
 the women had finished the white garment an 
 old man came up to me and said: "Stop crying, 
 Isroelchickle [this was his version of my name], 
 and come outside." 
 
 Outside there was also a crowd of people. A 
 little man moved through the crowd crying " Zdoko ! 
 Zdoko !" at the highest pitch of his cracked mezzo- 
 soprano voice, at the same time shaking a tin can 
 that contained a few rattling coppers. "Zdoko! 
 Zdoko!" he shrieked persistently; and the by- 
 standers, as he passed them, dropped coins of small 
 value into the contribution box that he shook 
 beneath their faces. 
 
 In response to a cry at the door, those who stood 
 nearest the porch crowded back, and the figure I 
 had seen lying on the floor was carried out. But 
 as the pall-bearers were going to lift the bier, one 
 of the elders of the community raised his hand to 
 command attention, and said in a grave tone, 
 "Rabaci [my superiors], now is the time to do 
 something for the orphan." 
 
 All eyes were turned upon me. I tried to control
 
 I Am Left Alone in the World 15 
 
 myself, but the tears continued to flow against 
 my will. 
 
 "To the best of my knowledge," the venerable 
 man continued, "the boy has no relatives in whose 
 care we can place him. It is incumbent upon the 
 community to do all it can for him until he is old 
 enough to provide for himself. As there is not a 
 penny left by his mother, I suggest that the orphan 
 be right now supplied with 'days.' At my house 
 he will have Fridays and Saturdays." 
 
 Within a few minutes Sundays, Mondays, Tues- 
 days, Wednesdays, and Thursdays had been 
 offered, and they were one week. 
 
 The pall-bearers lifted their burden and the 
 procession started. A long train of men and 
 women followed the bier with bowed heads, and a 
 great number of boys chanted mournfully: "Right- 
 eousness walks before her." Before now I had 
 vaguely understood on what journey my mother 
 had gone, but now I realised that she had gone 
 never to return, and that I was left all alone in 
 the world.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 THE SCHOOL FOR THE POOR 
 
 MY people were very ingenious in naming things ; 
 they would rarely permit themselves to call a spade 
 a spade. For instance, the custom of poor boys 
 getting certain meals regularly in certain well-to-do 
 homes was called "eating days"; an invitation of 
 a poor man to dine with his rich co-religionist on 
 the holy Sabbath was disguisedly entitled "plat" 
 (a corruption of "billet"); the graveyard was, 
 perhaps cynically, spoken of as the "house of the 
 living"; and a charitable house for the poor was 
 commonly designated as the Hekdesh (sanctuary). 
 So when "Jacob the Beadle" came up to me a few 
 days after my mother's death and told me to go 
 with him to the Talmud-Torah, I understood with- 
 out a moment's hesitation that I was going to be 
 enrolled, not in a theological seminary, as the name 
 might indicate, but in the school for the poor. 
 
 The Beadle had a quick step, and I toddled along 
 as fast as I could. At the sight of the ancient- 
 looking, weather-worn, red-brick synagogue, with 
 a rickety outside staircase that led to the women's 
 chapel, my heart began to throb with premonitory 
 fear, for I knew that the women's chapel was 
 
 16
 
 The School for the Poor 17 
 
 also the Talmud-Torah. We pushed our way 
 through scores of ragged, barefoot boys who were 
 rolling in the sandy yard below the stairs, and 
 struggled up the stairway through dozens of other 
 little wretches who laughed and shouted as they 
 wrestled, fought, and played pranks upon each 
 other. 
 
 I remained standing gloomily just within the 
 door while the Beadle carried on a whispered con- 
 versation with one of the teachers, who all the time 
 was blinking his watery-blue eyes and stretching 
 his neck, like a goose after taking a mouthful of 
 water. The room in which I found myself was 
 high and spacious, but was most slovenly kept. At 
 each end stood two tallow-smeared tables placed at 
 right angles, and upon crippled benches beside these 
 sat boys of all ages and sizes, their heads covered. 
 Dog-eared prayer-books and tattered Bibles were 
 promiscuously scattered over the dirty floor. Coal- 
 drawn caricatures and sketches disfigured the once 
 whitewashed walls, now brown from age where not 
 black from charcoal; and wheels of spider-webs 
 slightly oscillated around the corners. The odour 
 of mildew was almost suffocating. 
 
 His talk with the teacher ended, the Beadle 
 turned to me. "This will be your school, Isroel- 
 chickle," he said kindly; and then he bade me 
 be good and departed, leaving me to begin my 
 new life. 
 
 I did not leave my place by the door where he
 
 1 8 The Fugitive 
 
 had left me. I was naturally very shy, and the 
 appearance of this schoolmaster filled me with fore- 
 boding. So, fearing to move, I stood nervously 
 against the wall, waiting till I was told to take a 
 seat. 
 
 " Zalmen, what do you call the letter with a head 
 and neck of a goose standing on one leg?" asked 
 the teacher, continuing with the lesson which our 
 entry had interrupted. His name was Getzel, but 
 he was better known as Gorgle on account of his 
 habit of constantly craning his "gorgle," which is 
 Yiddish for larynx. 
 
 "A lamed [Hebrew "1" ]," the boy nearest him 
 answered in a small piping, tremulous voice. 
 
 "Find one!" ordered Gorgle, stretching his neck 
 awkwardly and rolling his bulging eyes with impa- 
 tience. 
 
 The youngster hesitated, and his searching eyes 
 and ringers wandered over the book before him. 
 Finally he pointed at the similitude of a goose 
 standing on one leg. 
 
 "And what do you call the one like a worm with 
 little wings?" 
 
 "An aleph," returned the boy. 
 
 "Silence! Silence!" Gorgle shouted, aroused by 
 the general din, and rolled his eyes threateningly. 
 
 For an instant my attention left the teacher and 
 fastened upon the boys around the nearest table, 
 who were showing a peculiar interest in me. Some 
 were rolling their eyes and projecting their lips,
 
 The School for the Poor 19 
 
 others were thrusting out their tongues, and still 
 others were twisting their faces into all sorts of 
 wry designs. 
 
 One of those who sat farthest away from the 
 instructor, taking advantage of a moment when 
 the schoolmaster's back was turned, put his thumb 
 to the point of his snub nose, and spreading his 
 fingers in the shape of a turkey's tail made big eyes 
 at me. This welcome caught the notice of the 
 class, and all joined in a sniffling, mocking chuckle. 
 
 "Who started this laughter?" thundered the 
 stoop-shouldered, red-bearded schoolmaster, turn- 
 ing around quickly. He looked with fierce inquiry 
 into each poverty-stamped face. 
 
 A sudden hush fell upon the pupils. 
 
 "Who started this giggling, I ask you?" repeated 
 Gorgle, picking up the leather thongs that lay at 
 his elbow. 
 
 The silence became even more intense. 
 
 "Who laughed first, I demand of you?" he 
 shouted with more vehemence. 
 
 The little wretches turned pale and trembled with 
 fright. A long-drawn snore broke the dreadful 
 silence. All faces turned in the direction of the 
 slumberer. The snub-nosed boy who had made 
 fun of me a little while before sat with his head 
 thrown back, the visor of his torn cap dangling 
 loosely alongside his right ear, his hands resting on 
 the table before him, and snored as naturally as if 
 he were dreaming of Jacob's ladder.
 
 20 The Fugitive 
 
 The teacher descended upon the offender and 
 furiously swung the pliant thongs about the head, 
 face, and hands of the little jester. When he had 
 so exhausted himself that he could flog no longer, 
 he threw the thongs upon the table and collapsed 
 in his chair, ghastly pale, and out of breath. 
 
 His stormy eyes lighted upon me. "Why are 
 you standing there like a clay dummy?" 
 
 Terrified by his fierce voice, I quickly sat down 
 upon the edge of a long bench. My tears once 
 more nearly overflowed. 
 
 Notwithstanding the severity of Gorgle's punish- 
 ment, the snub-nosed jester was not yet subdued. 
 As I sank trembling upon the bench he looked at 
 me and bleated like a young sheep. The class, 
 having recovered from its fright, again roared with 
 laughter. The schoolmaster turned white; a cloud 
 seemed to overspread his hollowed cheeks and fur- 
 rowed forehead. Like an enraged cat he started 
 for the wag, but as he raised the thongs his velvet 
 skull-cap, which (as I was afterward informed) had 
 been given to him as a wedding-present a score of 
 years before, slipped off his head and fell to the floor. 
 Another laugh broke out at sight of the glossy pate 
 of the master, which was exposed in all its fullness 
 as he stooped to recover the cap. As he arose the 
 greasy head-gear dropped from his nervous hand, 
 and the laughter grew more uproarious. "Snub- 
 nose" bleated again, another pupil mewed like a 
 cat, another lowed like an ox, and several more
 
 The School for the Poor 21 
 
 whistled in chorus and stamped their feet while 
 Gorgle's head was moving about under the table in 
 search of his wedding-present. 
 
 The schoolmaster placed his recovered cap on his 
 head, and without saying a word he motioned the 
 boys on one of the benches to get off it and move 
 it aside. The miserable culprit divined his fate 
 and began scratching his head and crying. Still 
 silent, Gorgle soaked the thongs in water for a few 
 minutes, all the while casting revengeful glances at 
 the whining little fellow. When he thought the 
 heavy straps soft enough, he took the handle of the 
 thongs between his teeth, and seizing the screech- 
 ing victim by the loose part of his tattered breeches 
 he clasped him between his bony knees and stripped 
 him half-naked, gasping as he was struggling with 
 his pupil : " I'll show you how to mock your teacher ! " 
 Then Gorgle threw the screaming urchin upon the 
 bench, and motioning to me said: "Hold his feet." 
 
 I felt helpless and tears rushed to my eyes; the 
 boys looked at me threateningly; I shivered with 
 fear and fingered a buttonhole of my coat. 
 
 "You hold his feet, I say!" commanded Gorgle. 
 
 My reply was a flood of tears. 
 
 "Will you do what I tell you or " He made 
 
 a threatening gesture. 
 
 I did not budge and my tears flowed faster. 
 
 The schoolmaster released his victim and seized 
 me. My hands were twisted behind me. I shrieked ; 
 I struggled ; I shouted for help ; my face went down,
 
 22 The Fugitive 
 
 up, and again down; one button of my breeches 
 burst, another rolled down into my sock; I was 
 overpowered ; I felt my back bare ; I protected with 
 my hands then cut ! cut ! cut ! the thongs came 
 down upon my bare skin at the rate of two a second, 
 and thank God ! Gorgle was again exhausted. 
 "Now you'll know how to mind your teacher!" 
 he panted, and released me. 
 
 "Take your seats!" he ordered in a tremulous 
 voice, turning upon the class. "I'll flay the hides off 
 your carcasses, you rascals, villains, you worthless 
 creatures ! Your benefactors pay their hard-earned 
 money for your tuition and bread, and in the end, 
 you leeches, you" he paused for want of an 
 appropriate word "you don't care who pays me 
 to drum God's words into your blockheads. He ! 
 [This to himself.] I'll teach them how to behave in 
 Talmud-Torah." 
 
 He wiped the perspiration off his face with a 
 large coloured handkerchief, all the while panting 
 audibly. "And all on account of this snot," he 
 burst out again, with his eyes fixed on me. "You 
 go there." He pointed to the other end of the 
 room. "You belong to the other class." 
 
 Arranging my disordered clothes, and sobbing 
 brokenly, I dragged myself to the other end of the 
 room. 
 
 The class to which I was assigned was known as 
 the Gemoro (Talmud) section. The Gemoro school- 
 master took in my tear-stained face with a single
 
 The School for the Poor 23 
 
 stern glance and ordered me to a seat opposite 
 him at the foot of the long table. I shivered as my 
 eyes caught his. Gorgle was a harmless fly as 
 compared with this instructor. His name was 
 Shlomka, but he, like his associate, was known by 
 his habits, so he was called Gazlen, whose colloquial 
 significance was murderer. 
 
 "Motke!" roared Gazlen, gnashing his teeth and 
 clenching his fists. This exclamation was an admon- 
 ishment to one of the twenty-two boys of his class 
 who had whispered something to his neighbour. 
 
 "Go on!" Shlomka ground his teeth furiously 
 at the one who had been interrupted in his recita- 
 tion. 
 
 The poor boy, much confused, could not find 
 the place where he had left off. 
 
 "Would that I had waited for your funeral, 
 Rebenu-shel-Olam [Creator of the universe] ! Why 
 don't you go ahead with your lesson, you little 
 imp?" 
 
 Gazlen's cold gray eyes moved about wrathfully 
 as the poor little fellow was endeavouring to find 
 the right place. Then they came back to the boy, 
 and he clenched his teeth and seized the knotty 
 stick that lay handy for use. "You go on, little 
 devil, or I'll drive you like a nail into the wall a 
 get !" He burst out anew, brandishing the stick 
 over the boy's head. 
 
 The embarrassed pupil searched in vain for the 
 desired spot; his eyes, I surmised, were dancing
 
 24 The Fugitive 
 
 over the page without seeing a word before 
 him. 
 
 "Would that I had waited for your last breath, 
 Heavenly Father!" And with this Gazlen gave 
 the student a box on his ear. The pupil, however, 
 did not betray a sign of pain ; his beautiful express- 
 ive face grew scarlet, but a faint smile parted his 
 well-shaped lips. 
 
 Gazlen raised the stick and made as if to strike 
 the boy. "Ephraim, you will proceed or I'll break 
 this stick on your head." 
 
 One of the pupils made an effort to point the 
 place to the unfortunate Ephraim, but the ever- 
 watchful Shlomka caught him in the act, and rising 
 impetuously he rewarded the sympathiser unspar- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Nu, Ephraim," Shlomka resumed, when he had 
 given the other his due meed, "how long will I 
 wait for you, dummy ? What is Rav Shases's [one 
 of the Talmudic jurists] decision tender discharges 
 the debt or not?" 
 
 I thought the teacher was trying to help him 
 out. 
 
 "It does not discharge the debt," answered 
 Ephraim. 
 
 Bang ! bang ! bang ! The knotted stick rose and 
 fell on the head of the boy jurist, and Gazlen empha- 
 sised each stroke: "It is about time for 
 you to know that according to Rabbi 
 Chiye the debt is not discharged and
 
 The School for the Poor 25 
 
 according to Rav Shases the debt is 
 discharged." 
 
 The rest of the day I spent in fearful thought as 
 to what would become of me. At about eight in 
 the evening school was out, and we went into the 
 synagogue below for prayers. The boys ran down 
 the stairs pell-mell, pushing and kicking one another, 
 pulling the ears of the passersby, and seemed per- 
 fectly happy in their misery. 
 
 When prayers were over I recited the Kaddish (a 
 prayer for the dead), which reminded me of my 
 mother, and again the tears began to come. I can 
 now hear my ringing voice in the echoing synagogue 
 proclaiming Yisgadal V'Yiskadash so that I drew 
 the eyes of the congregation to me. But I broke 
 down in the middle and my clear notes were changed 
 to sobs. The boys laughed; some even sneered at 
 me. But one came up after Kaddish and made 
 friends. And it was no other than Ephraim, on 
 whose head Shlomka's stick had fallen with such 
 energy in the morning. 
 
 After prayers some of the boys ran home, and 
 those who had no homes went to their "days," 
 but Ephraim and I remained in the synagogue. 
 He told me of his sordid childhood and no less 
 miserable youth; he also was an orphan without 
 kith or kin. Yet despite his present misery he did 
 not complain; he even spoke jestingly of Shlomka's 
 blows. He was about three years my senior and 
 possessed more self-reliance than I, and he had what
 
 a6 The Fugitive 
 
 seemed to me an extensive knowledge of the world. 
 He was a ruddy, cheery boy, tall for his age, with 
 a large crop of curly hair and a very prominent 
 white forehead. In this institution of swarthy, 
 sickly, ill-formed, ill-dressed boys Ephraim looked 
 exotic. 
 
 When the evening advanced and the sexton began 
 to put out the lights in the synagogue Ephraim 
 asked me where I had my Tuesdays. 
 
 I told him. 
 
 "You are pretty lucky," he said somewhat 
 enviously, with a smack of his lips. " Only the very 
 best boys in the class or the Gabbai's [President's] 
 favourites get .such ' days' [here he smacked his lips 
 again] meat for dinner, eggs for supper, and fre- 
 quently five copecks extra." He looked wistful 
 a few seconds, then he added: "And where do you 
 get your Wednesdays and Thursdays?" 
 
 I mentioned the names of my benefactors. 
 
 " Oh, my ! A fellow could get rich on * days ' like 
 these. They often give ten copecks instead of 
 supper, and you could easily save nine." 
 
 We let the synagogue door bang behind us, and 
 before we parted he said: "This is my worst 'day': 
 potatoes in the morning, black bread and barley 
 for dinner, loke [the gravy of herring] and bread 
 for supper. They don't even give a glass of tea as 
 dessert. Regular pigs, and they are very rich 
 Baril, the money-loaner." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and started for his
 
 The School for the Poor 27 
 
 supper, but turned once to call: "Shrolke, you can 
 sleep with me on the oven; there is plenty of room 
 there. I like you. You are a good fellow." 
 
 My heart suddenly warmed over these words, 
 and tears of joy rose to my eyes. I loved Ephraim 
 dearly from that instant. It may be because he 
 said I was a good fellow, but I am sure that I loved 
 him with that pure, unselfish love which a homeless 
 orphan gives to his first friend.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 THE WAYS OF THE TALMUD-TOR AH 
 
 As I have previously intimated, I was in those 
 early days of a very diffident disposition. The boys 
 at school disliked me for my reserve, mistaking my 
 melancholy shyness for pride. If it had not been 
 for Ephraim, the only friend I had, the boys would 
 have pilfered all my belongings and would probably 
 have resorted to physical torture. But everybody 
 feared him. He was the biggest and strongest of 
 the boys, so naturally his word was law to them. 
 
 Time slowly healed the wound made by the 
 death of my mother, and little by little I became 
 accustomed to my new life of poverty nay, more, 
 I even began to be almost happy. Perhaps if it 
 had not been my fortune to gain the friendship of 
 Ephraim life would not have run so smoothly, but 
 with him everything else was forgotten. Although 
 we were quite different in mind and disposition, 
 yet our souls seemed to cleave to one another. 
 Hand in hand we would leave the town limits and 
 lose ourselves in the far-stretching fields of bloom- 
 ing rye, waving wheat and oats, and hear the 
 swishing of the supple stalks above our heads as 
 we would run breathlessly through the swaying 
 
 28
 
 The Ways of the Talmud-Torah 29 
 
 crops, or sitting upon some promontory we would 
 look miles away over endless expanses of growing 
 grain, ridged by the tickling winds in wavelike 
 folds, when everything seemed floating and swim- 
 ming the grass, the bushy leaves, the ears of 
 grain, the flowery bloom when everything swam 
 in never-ending tides. Ephraim could imitate 
 almost any voice, and he would often echo the 
 cuckoo, whistle with flawless purity of the canary, 
 or chirp as none but birds and Ephraim could do. 
 Like little kittens we would roll over one another, 
 wrestle, vie in throwing stones (of course Ephraim 
 beat me every time), and yell in order to hear our 
 echoes. I would shout myself hoarse in order to 
 hear the resounding answer in the distant forest 
 until Ephraim would put his hand over my mouth 
 and hush me to silence. What did I not imagine 
 those voices were ! Echoes from another world, 
 angelic voices, voices that descended from heaven 
 like rolls of thunder. 
 
 My oriental imagination found infinite pleasure 
 in the fanciful Prophets, and their inexpressible 
 charm completely captivated my mystic mind. 
 For though I began the study of Talmud that sum- 
 mer, I did not neglect the Bible. I applied myself 
 zealously to the Prophets until I had committed 
 to memory Isaiah, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, the Song 
 of Songs, Lamentations, and nearly all of the 
 Psalms. My proficiency was soon rumoured about 
 and I became an object of curiosity. People would
 
 30 The Fugitive 
 
 surround me in the synagogue and test my knowl- 
 edge by reading a verse and asking me to give the 
 next one, which I did without hesitation. Ephraim 
 was proud of me, and the other boys hated me the 
 more. 
 
 Dreaming and mystic by nature, I was made 
 more so by my devotion to the Prophets. My 
 mind had become so imbued with the historical 
 scenes of the Bible that when I read a passage a 
 vision of the event described would arise before 
 me with all the vividness of reality. I would see 
 the celestial, peerless poet and prophet, Isaiah, his 
 flowing Asiatic garb thrown loosely over his shoul- 
 ders, his dark bearded face and wandering eyes 
 lifted heavenward, fearlessly pouring forth his 
 fiery eloquence and foretelling the doom of nations ; 
 I would see the weeping prophet Jeremiah, his 
 head bent down, supported by both his hands, sit- 
 ting by the ruins of the Holy City and bewailing 
 the downfall of his people and their sanctuaries 
 I would even fancy that I heard the Prophet's 
 groans; I would see Ezekiel the cabalistic 
 dreamer and mystic standing by the river of 
 Chebar and beholding visions in the open heavens. 
 
 During this period I almost lived in the Books of 
 the Prophets; their words were ever in my mind, 
 their visions always reflected vividly in my imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 The summer passed and the Russian winter, 
 with its hoary frosts and long nights, arrived. The
 
 The Ways of the Talmud-Torah 31 
 
 winter school hours were- from nine in the morning 
 till ten at night. Fragmentary scenes of the school 
 arise in my mind. I see the schoolroom, sometimes 
 overheated and sometimes shivering cold, but 
 always close and reeking, with its lamps suspended 
 on long wires from the ceiling, the windows thickly 
 covered with ice and snow so it is scarcely possible 
 to look through them, the floor thick with dirt, 
 which keeps on accumulating and scarcely ever 
 feeling the stroke of a broom; fifty or more boys 
 cudgelling their brains over their obsolete studies, 
 with their torn caps, through which their hair 
 protrudes, and with torn boots, through which toes 
 peep out, and which have been mended so often 
 that there is almost nothing left to patch upon ; and 
 I see them munching crusts of bread, which they 
 receive from the institution on the days when they 
 have no "days," and saying parrotlike grace after 
 swallowing the last mouthful, and wishing there 
 had been a few bites more. And then I see the 
 school at night. It is midnight. Outside, the 
 winds are howling and chasing the drifting snow. 
 I hear the gruesome noise in the flue. I am stretched 
 on the warm Dutch oven, with Ephraim by my side, 
 snoring complacently; the other boys lie on the 
 narrow benches which stand against the walls of 
 the Talmud-Torah, using their fists as pillows. I 
 am sleepless. I raise myself on my elbows and 
 glance about me. To my right is the erstwhile 
 noisy synagogue gloomy, awe-inspiring. The Ner-
 
 32 The Fugitive 
 
 Tomid (the perpetual light) is glimmering before 
 the Oren-Kodesh (ark), casting its great shadow 
 upon the wall. To my left is the large schoolroom, 
 in which a small light is burning; the shadows 
 of the suspended, slightly oscillating lamps appear 
 like so many colossal spiders on the walls. What a 
 babel of voices ! Some of the children on the 
 benches snore and groan and unconsciously make 
 broken complaint against the world. There is a 
 sudden shrieking and screeching. I know whose 
 voice it is that of ''Yankle Snub-nose," as we 
 call him ; he is a little, hammered-down, small-faced 
 skinny boy whose size has been diminished by the 
 constant pounding of the teacher. He has just 
 moved this semester from Gorgle's class to Gazlen's, 
 or rather from the former's thongs to the latter's 
 cane. Nobody in the class knows as much about 
 the inflexibility of Shlomka's cane as does Yankle; 
 only the other day it broke on his back. He is now 
 probably dreaming that Gazlen is pulling his ears 
 or that he is being flogged. Suddenly he stops; 
 the snoring of the slumberers becomes louder and 
 louder. Another sleepy voice is heard. "Zemach, 
 give me one bite a bite a little bite. Hold it 
 between your hands and see if I don't take a little 
 bite." I hear the boy kick the bench; perhaps 
 because he cannot get a "bite." I hear several 
 voices at once: "Hit him hit him, you pig's 
 snout!" "I'll knock the stuffing out of you!" 
 "I only had one slice of bread and onion !" "Abii
 
 The Ways of the Talmud-lotah 33 
 
 [one of the Talmudic authorities] says it must be 
 divided in halves !" " Ha ! ha ! ha ! Catch him 
 catch him ha [he rolled off the bench]!" And 
 so I lie and think until I decide to pull the 
 blanket over my head and wander away also to 
 dreamland. 
 
 Another summer and another winter glided by, 
 with the same monotonous " day-eating," sleeping 
 on the comfortable Dutch oven, receiving of occa- 
 sional raps from Shlomka's stick, diving in the 
 Talmudic ocean, and soaring high, high into the 
 spheres whither Isaiah, Ezekiel, and King David 
 transported me. Although my physical being was 
 confined within the narrow walls of the dirty 
 Talmud-Torah, my fancy took flight to Mount 
 Lebanon, Mount Meriah, to the realm of Judea, 
 and sometimes descended to the Valley of Sharon, 
 where I plucked the sweetest of roses. In our leisure 
 hours Ephraim and I would read the "Menoras- 
 Hamoer," a book abounding in legends and 
 mystic tales, and other cabalistic books that told 
 of devils and flying angels and seraphs. 
 
 The following summer Ephraim decided to leave 
 the Talmud-Torah and go to some other town. 
 
 "Listen, Shrolke," he said to me one summer 
 evening. " I am already a big boy, and I can read 
 a page of Talmud without any assistance. Why 
 should I stay here when I can go to any town and 
 get 'days' and see the world?" 
 
 His words filled me with dismay. But I sym-
 
 34 The Fugitive 
 
 pathised with his desire to leave this place, so I 
 agreed that his plan was a good one. 
 
 "But before I leave I must take revenge on 
 Shlomka." 
 
 I hated the idea of vengeance. Besides, Shlomka 
 was our teacher, and I thought he had a right to 
 beat us. I begged Ephraim not to do any harm to 
 the schoolmaster. 
 
 "Oh, you are like a girl always afraid of every- 
 body," he answered almost contemptuously. " Why 
 did he pull your ears yesterday? Couldn't he 
 tell you to sit down without slapping your face 
 first?" 
 
 I was silenced. 
 
 The following morning, when Shlomka came to 
 school, he found on the wall a coal-drawn cartoon 
 of himself in the act of spanking a pupil. 
 
 The class was silent from fear, but satisfaction 
 could be read in their countenances. The teacher 
 glanced at the wall and then looked threateningly 
 at his pupils. He was puzzled as to who was the 
 perpetrator of this atrocious deed, but he did not 
 hesitate. He began with the pupil nearest him 
 and caned each in order until he had finished the 
 round, and the whole class was screaming and 
 writhing with pain. But as he was going to lay 
 the stick aside he heard one whisper: "Shrolke did 
 the work and everybody gets paid for it." 
 
 " Ha ! You you " he burst out, bearing down 
 upon me, with the stick raised ready to strike.
 
 The Ways of the Talmud-Torah 35 
 
 "You you you you think you are like your 
 brother, who betrayed his father for the smile of a 
 Shikse [gentile girl], hey? You think you will also 
 throw me into prison, hey? You think you will 
 denounce me that I use Christian blood for the 
 Passover, hey? You think you will get the Slede- 
 vatel against me, hey? You think I'll tip my hat 
 
 for you, hey ? You think you will on my head 
 
 and I'll say 'thank you,' hey?" 
 
 With each "hey" there came a blow. But sud- 
 denly the stick was arrested; Ephraim had jumped 
 behind Shlomka and seized his hand. "Stop 
 beating him!" shouted Ephraim in a commanding 
 voice. "He did not draw your picture on the 
 wall. I did it." 
 
 Shlomka stood astounded; then the arteries on 
 his forehead swelled till they looked like blue cords, 
 and his face began to work ominously. We expected 
 to see him fall upon this revolutionist and rend 
 him. 
 
 But Ephraim was undaunted. "I am not your 
 wife or any of these little cowards," he went on. 
 "If you raise your hand on me I'll break your fat 
 nose." 
 
 Shlomka made a move for the stick, which was 
 trembling in Ephraim' s hand. But he instantly 
 reversed his apparent decision and sat down, 
 shaking his ringer at his pupil. "I'll not soil my 
 hands on you, you rascal," Shlomka Gazlen said, 
 panting and quivering. "The Gaboim [officers]
 
 36 The Fugitive 
 
 of the Talmud-Torah will settle my account 
 with you." 
 
 Without saying a word, Ephraim broke Shlomka s 
 stick on his knee and left the class. 
 
 He did not return until after evening service, 
 when he came up to me and said in a whisper: 
 "I am not done with him yet. To-morrow is 
 my last day here, and I'll leave him a token of 
 friendship." 
 
 On summer afternoons at about three o'clock 
 Shlomka and Gorgle would grant their classes a 
 recess of about half an hour, during which Shlomka 
 would take a nap with his arms folded upon the 
 table and Gorgle would go home to feed his goat. 
 The next day Ephraim did not appear at school 
 until this recess period. The boys were all out in 
 the yard, and Shlomka was peacefully snoring, his 
 beard spread out on the cracked, worm-eaten table. 
 
 "Hold this," Ephraim said to me in apparent 
 haste, pulling a candle from his pocket. 
 
 I could not divine what was in his mind, but I did 
 as he bade me. 
 
 He lighted the candle in my hand and said: 
 "Come, quick." 
 
 I hesitated. 
 
 "Oh, you coward! Come!" he ordered angrily. 
 
 I followed with a leaping heart to where Shlomka 
 sat asleep. Ephraim produced a piece of sealing- 
 wax, melted it, and sealed Shlomka's beard to the 
 table.
 
 The Ways of the Talmtid-Tofah 37 
 
 "To the 'Bloody Hill,' " he whispered as he ran 
 out of the Talmud-Torah. 
 
 The picture of the teacher awakening and trying 
 to raise his sealed beard from the table I leave to 
 the reader's imagination. 
 
 At about the time Shlomka was probably arousing 
 from his nap two boys stood on the "high hill" 
 which overtowered my birthplace, clasped in each 
 other's arms. The taller one smiled humorously, 
 his face bright with the satisfaction of victory; 
 the eyes of the smaller were filled with tears. 
 
 "We'll soon meet again," said the taller of the 
 two hopefully, as he took up his little bundle. 
 
 "We'll soon meet again," echoed the smaller 
 one weakly; and he watched the disappearing form 
 of his only friend through tears that came faster 
 than they could be wiped away.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 "THE LITHUANIAN ERA" 
 
 AFTER Ephraim had left me I remained absolutely 
 solitary in the midst of my wretched schoolmates. 
 I hoped Ephraim would write to me, but weeks 
 passed by without bringing me word. Then mis- 
 fortune fell again, and I was again thrown out upon 
 the world. 
 
 It was on the first day of the Jewish month of 
 Allul, toward the end of the summer. It was a 
 half -holiday and all the boys were out. I sat alone 
 in the class-room before a big folio of the Talmud, 
 my whole attention concentrated on a case in which 
 "the defendant's ox gored the cow of the plaintiff, 
 and it was found that the plaintiff's cow gave 
 premature birth to its offspring; it being unknown 
 whether the premature birth had occurred before 
 or after the defendant's ox gored the plaintiff's cow. 
 Defendant claims that it occurred before, and the 
 plaintiff alleges that the birth was given after the 
 goring and by reason thereof." Bright little jurist 
 as I had become, it was quite a puzzle for me to 
 extricate myself from the hair-splitting reasoning 
 for and against the parties to this action. 
 
 38
 
 "The Lithuanian Era" 39 
 
 Suddenly wild shrieks reached my ears: "Fire! 
 Fire!" 
 
 Nothing is more terrifying to Lithuanians 
 than fire. To these poverty-stricken inhabitants 
 it means absolute destitution. Few have their 
 property insured; most of them have nothing to 
 insure but their decayed "four corners," as they 
 call their hovels, for which they can scarcely spare 
 the premium. 
 
 Every Lithuanian town is visited at least every 
 twenty years by a destructive fire which literally 
 wipes it out of existence, so that these disasters 
 have become distinct epochs of each town's history. 
 The Lithuanian calendar dates back to the first 
 fire, the second, or the third. 
 
 At the terrifying cry, followed by the tolling of 
 the sonorous fire-bell, I seized the Old Testament 
 which my mother had left me, stowed it safely in 
 my inside coat-pocket, and rushed in fright out of 
 the Talmud-Torah. A vast volume of smoke swept 
 over the school-yard. Before I was half-way to the 
 original fire a score of houses were burning, and in an 
 incredibly short time half the town was in flames. 
 
 I ran toward the market-place a large open 
 square which the fire could not reach. The streets 
 were filled with frantic people. Men were groaning 
 and shouting; women were wringing their hands 
 and weeping bitterly; children, holding on to their 
 mothers' skirts, cried and screamed; cattle roamed 
 about, lowing and bellowing. Mothers rushed with
 
 40 The Fugitive 
 
 their children in their arms ; men staggered under the 
 heavy loads, which they carried to places of safety. 
 Collisions were frequent and disastrous. Every 
 one was trying to save his family and his own belong- 
 ings. No one made any effort to put out the flames. 
 The conflagration soared higher and higher; 
 flickering streaks flashed from every side ; broad 
 blazes swept right and left, devouring as they went 
 the straw-thatched log houses. 
 
 I reached the market-place. It was already 
 crowded with heaps of furniture and other household 
 goods, on top of which their owners sat on guard. 
 By this time all the houses in town were ablaze, 
 and a violent wind fanned the fire into embracing 
 sheets of flame. Burning wisps of straw from the 
 thatched roofs, and firebrands driven by the fierce 
 wind, flew in the air meteorlike. The heavy 
 timbers of the well-constructed houses fell with 
 roars into the flaring debris beneath. Here and 
 there a man tried to save his home by throwing on 
 it pails of water, but all in vain. The town was 
 doomed. So, shielding my face with my cap from 
 the scorching heat, I ran toward the outskirts of 
 the town. 
 
 The town was surrounded with a chain of hills, 
 among which "Bloody Hill" was the most promi- 
 nent. I ran diagonally across the fields, now laid 
 waste by hundreds of trampling feet and by house- 
 hold goods scattered upon them, and I climbed to 
 the top of " Bloody Hill." I seated myself upon a
 
 "The Lithuanian Era" 41 
 
 huge rock which crowned the hill, and looked down 
 upon my burning birthplace. The sky was clouded 
 with heavy curtains of black smoke that overhung 
 the whole region, and myriads of sparks and cinders 
 flying around in this floating vault tinged it with 
 burnished gold and crimson and dotted its zenith 
 with constellationlike groups. All the people about 
 me were weeping poor mothers who foresaw starva- 
 tion for the babies in their arms; marriageable 
 maidens whose dowries were now gone and who 
 were doomed to spinsterhood ; fathers who had 
 always been penned in the "pale" by Russian bar- 
 barity and could not clearly see by what miracle 
 they would be able to rebuild their "four corners." 
 I joined in the general grief. More than all of them 
 I had occasion to mourn; for those poor people had 
 friends and kindred to console one another. But 
 whom had I? The Talmud-Torah burned down, 
 my benefactors and "day" givers ruined whither 
 could I turn? I had no friend, no kindred, as if I 
 were borji of the rock I sat upon. My head fell 
 between both my hands, and I wept until I could 
 weep no more. In my fancy I compared this fire 
 to that which reduced the Holy City to ashes, and 
 like a little Jeremiah I sat by the ruins of my town 
 and bewailed the loss of my people. 
 
 A few hours later the whole town, with the excep- 
 tion of a few houses in the outskirts, was trans- 
 formed to an expanse of glowing ashes. Here and 
 there mounds and hillocks of charcoal and ashes
 
 42 The Fugitive 
 
 belched forth spurts of flame. How small my 
 birthplace looked like a private graveyard ! 
 
 But misfortunes never come singly, they say. 
 It was not enough that we had lost our homes by 
 fire; as darkness began to settle about our misery, 
 soft rolls of thunder were heard. Soon drops of 
 rain began to fall, and blinding flashes of lightning 
 ripped across the black sky. In another minute 
 the sky seemed to break open, and it rained as though 
 another deluge had come upon us. What little had 
 been saved from the fire was ruined by water. 
 The people about me covered their heads with pails, 
 pans, or boards, or sought shelter under tables and 
 bedding they had saved. But I was so utterly 
 despairing that I was indifferent to the downpour. 
 Drawing myself together, I let the rain wash me 
 clean.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 A NIGHT IN A FOREST 
 
 AFTER a time the rain ceased, the clouds broke, and 
 the stars began to appear one by one, slowly, as if they 
 shrank from looking down upon the misery below. 
 I arose, but I was so stiff and numb that I could 
 hardly stretch a limb. I began to walk, painfully 
 at first, without the least knowledge where my feet 
 were taking me. The darkness about me added 
 gloom to my despair. I now felt more than ever 
 that I was an orphan a lonely child in the great 
 egotistic world. Now and then, however, a star 
 twinkled hope to me, and not infrequently a shrill 
 cricket, leaping in the wet grass, seemed to offer 
 me courage. Presently I found myself in the 
 skirts of a forest ; it was dense and deep a genuine 
 Russian forest. I recalled a little open space a few 
 hundred yards within this forest, which had been 
 my favourite resort on pleasant Sabbath afternoons. 
 I had always loved the mighty solitude of the 
 forest; there seemed to be a certain kinship to my 
 weary melancholy. But now I remained standing 
 with trembling fear. The moaning of the fire 
 victims still rang in my ears ; all the horrible stories 
 of beasts and robbers I had heard in my childhood 
 
 43
 
 44 The Fugitive 
 
 haunted my brain. The least noise made my flesh 
 creep. I advanced a step and stopped again. A 
 wind swayed the boughs of a sapling and emitted 
 something like a sigh, as if it were pitying the poor 
 orphan standing near it. Then silence again. The 
 large forest slept : all nature rested. I held my breath. 
 I put my feet down softly and took the path that 
 led to my favourite retreat. The clear moon, 
 peeping through the thick foliage, escorted me step 
 by step. On my way I annoyed a number of birds 
 in their nests in bushes; their flutter of wings and 
 twitter were perhaps complaints against me, but 
 I also complained, and nobody heeded my grumbling. 
 
 At last I reached my favourite spot, and being 
 utterly fatigued I stretched myself upon the long, 
 soft grass and forgot all my troubles in dreamland. 
 
 I found myself on the peak of a high mountain, 
 very high, almost reaching the clouds, with a staff, 
 budding leaves and blossoming, in one hand, and 
 in the other I had a musty-looking little book, like 
 the one my mother had left me. Enchanting 
 melodies reached my ears. I glanced down. At the 
 foot of the height I stood upon there ran a broad 
 stream, in which people rowed about in small 
 barges; and across this flowing water stood a mag- 
 nificent structure, the lower part of which resembled 
 our synagogue and the upper looked like an ancient 
 Grecian temple. A number of people stood in the 
 doorway of this singular edifice and motioned to 
 me to drop my burdens the staff and the little
 
 A Night in a Forest 45 
 
 book for they became heavy, yet they were 
 dear to me, so I hesitated. The multitude 
 below renewed their invitation, and the longer 
 I hesitated the more demonstrative became the 
 crowd. They began to threaten me that unless I 
 drop my staff and book and come down willingly 
 they would pull me down. But their threats gave 
 me courage and lent warmth to my blood. Then 
 the vociferous throng began climbing the slope of 
 the mountain, yet I did not budge ; I feared them not. 
 They soon reached me and showered crushing blows 
 upon me, but I did not care ; I did not even attempt 
 to return a blow. The staff and the book now 
 became precious to me, and I pressed them to my 
 breast with all my might. Hard as they pulled at 
 the leaves of the book, they could not tear a leaf. 
 The only injury it sustained was a little dirt from 
 my perspiring hands in clasping it tightly. Then 
 a hundred hands seized me and began pulling me 
 down, but I suddenly felt my strength becoming 
 herculean and I forced them all back, remaining in 
 my lofty position and laughing them all to scorn. 
 
 In another instant the sun appeared resplen- 
 dently. My bleeding wounds, which the mob had 
 inflicted upon me, began to heal, and the blood 
 in my veins now coursed warmer and swifter. I 
 was feeling young again. I erected my stooped 
 shoulders, straightened my bowed head, washed 
 my bespattered face. Suddenly the crowd below 
 reappeared; again the flowing stream at the foot of
 
 46 The Fugitive 
 
 the mountain ; again the curious structure ; but now 
 the crowd below sent friendly greetings to me. 
 Without hesitation I flung the staff and the book 
 aside and began to descend the precipitous slope, 
 when I lost my balance and rolled down, down, 
 down, until I awoke. 
 
 I sat down in the soft, moist grass and sleepily 
 glanced about me. The day was just breaking. A 
 gauzelike bluish mist hung over the forest, and the 
 moisture of the night dripped, tip, tip, tip, from 
 bough to bough, from leaf to leaf. Here and there 
 pearl-like beads of dew, hanging on grass-blades, 
 twinkled like diamond studs in green fleece. From 
 the heart of the woods there echoed early morning 
 sounds the horn of a distant shepherd; the faint 
 lowing of a cow ; the bleating of a sheep ; the lash of a 
 whip like a ringing pistol-shot. Silence for a moment. 
 I languidly rested on my elbow. A rustle above my 
 head drew my eyes thither: a canary-finch skipped 
 around restlessly, gently swinging the boughs of a 
 tree. Then she began to sing. First her crisp 
 sweet notes came in short warbles, but soon, as if 
 heated by her own enthusiasm, her song swelled to a 
 thrilling string of purling, quivering melodies. 
 " Tchi tchi tchi tchiruck tchiruck tchi 
 tchi tchi," another forest singer struck in; then 
 followed the notes of the cuckoo, the bobolink, the 
 chaffinch, as well as the chirping and whistling and 
 humming and buzzing of all other birds and flying 
 and creeping insects that help awaken the mighty
 
 A Night in a Forest 47 
 
 forest. This weird concert stirred all my senses and 
 made me forget all else in the world. Every thrill 
 jerked and tugged at my heart as if those dwellers 
 of the woods had invisible strings attached to it. 
 
 But soon the disaster of the preceding day flashed 
 through my mind. I realised anew that I was a 
 friendless wanderer. Again I asked myself, Whither 
 should I go? My native town was no more, and 
 what did I know of the rest of the world ? I thought 
 of Ephraim but where was he? At length I 
 arose, washed my face in a little brook near by, 
 dried it with my Arba-Kanfas, and started through 
 the forest, giving myself blindly over to chance. 
 
 After a long walk, which almost exhausted me 
 for I had had nothing to eat since the previous 
 morning I faintly heard hilarious shouts. I turned 
 into the direction from which the voices came, and 
 soon found myself nearing the edge of the forest. 
 Now the cries sounded very distinctly, " Tu-ha! 
 tu-ha! tu-ha!" and I knew I was approaching a 
 group of swineherds. My heart began to throb 
 fretfully. I crept forward cautiously and peered 
 from behind a bush. There were five of them, 
 lying on their stomachs in the grass, with several 
 lean and shaggy dogs stretched beside them. As I 
 watched them they took up their pipes, made of 
 willow bark, and in turn played their peasant 
 melodies sweet, eloquent, wild, yet how simple ! 
 One could read in their rustic airs their people's 
 history, their character, their manners, their hopes
 
 48 The Fugitive 
 
 and aspirations. As they played they knocked 
 their heels together as if beating time to their 
 music, and their dogs, as if in a kind of ecstasy, 
 rolled their tails and leaped about restlessly, opening 
 and snapping their jaws, or barked at nothing in 
 particular. 
 
 Envy filled my heart. I wished I, too, were a 
 swineherd rolling over deep grass in the shade of 
 trees and piping melodies. I wished I had never 
 been born a Jew, but a gentile like these boys. 
 " Is it not enough to bear the burden of man, that 
 I must in addition bear the burden of the Jew?" I 
 said to myself bitterly. 
 
 Despite the innocent happiness of these boys, I 
 feared them as possible enemies. I was going to 
 slip away unobserved, when I happened to think of 
 Ephraim. "He is right I am a coward," I said to 
 myself. This reproachful thought lent courage 
 to my nerves, and I stepped into the open and 
 walked toward the swineherds. 
 
 They beheld me approaching them a slim boy 
 of fifteen, my untrimmed dark-brown hair hanging 
 down my neck, the four fringes of my Arba-Kanfas 
 dangling about me, hatless, coatless, my breeches 
 tattered and patched, my boots so mended that the 
 patches needed patches ragged, hungry, exhausted. 
 They beheld all this, yet they saw but one thing 
 the Jew. 
 
 "This is a Sjid [a slanderous name for Jew]," I 
 heard one remark.
 
 A Night hi a Forest 40 
 
 I was immediately surrounded by the peasant 
 boys, among whom I stood half-paralysed with 
 fear. They were dressed in unbleached linen shirts 
 and in trousers of the same material. Their feet 
 were bare, and their flaxen hair hung around their 
 shoulders like fringes of raw hemp. 
 
 "Certainly a Sjid," said the biggest of them. 
 "Can't you see his black breeches?" 
 
 "Give us cigarettes, you parasitical Sjid !" one of 
 the swineherds ordered, and the rest joined in the 
 demand, brandishing their whips in my face. I 
 begged for mercy in the softest, most supplicating 
 tone I could command. I had no cigarettes, I 
 told them, and added that I was almost fainting 
 from starvation. 
 
 "Then give us money for cigarettes, you devil 
 of a Jew, Christ-killer, Judas, parasite!" all burst 
 out at once, pressing closer about me and punching 
 me with their whips. 
 
 I declared piteously that I had only a few coppers, 
 which I would willingly give them for a piece of 
 bread. 
 
 "Cigarettes or money!" all exclaimed. Several 
 struck me with the butts of their whips, and I heard 
 their whole vocabulary of vituperation against my 
 race. 
 
 " Let me go !" I begged of them, feeling so weak 
 that I could scarcely talk or cry. 
 
 The biggest of them tore off my Arba-Kanfas 
 and kicked my shins, felling me to the ground, and
 
 50 The Fugitive 
 
 the others laid their whips over my body and face. 
 "Give us money or cigarettes !" they shouted. 
 
 I put my hand in my pocket to pull out my last 
 few coppers. But they were gone. I must have 
 lost them in the woods. 
 
 They thought I was trying to deceive them and 
 went through my pockets themselves. On finding 
 nothing, the biggest one struck me in the jaw with 
 his fist and said: "Give us cigarettes, anyhow, you 
 Christ-killer!" 
 
 I could make no answer. My sight grew dimmer 
 and dimmer and my head whirled. The last I 
 remember of that incident are sharp cuts of whips, 
 furious dogs jumping upon me, tearing at my already 
 torn clothes, and the shrieking and whistling and 
 laughing of the swineherds.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 I FALL AMONG GENTILES 
 
 I WAS in a stupor, half-waking, half-dozing, 
 when my ear caught the sound of a voice. I 
 wished to open my eyes, but I felt so fatigued and 
 rested so pleasantly that I did not care to open 
 them, as we often feel on a cool morning when the 
 alarm-clock strikes to waken us. The faint sound 
 became clearer and clearer it seemed to me that 
 the owner of the voice was drawing nearer to me 
 until I could hear distinct words. 
 
 "He is stirring." 
 
 This was not in a peasant's dialect, but in pure 
 Russian, which I was not accustomed to hear. 
 
 " Sh sh !" another voice cautioned. 
 
 I opened my eyes, turning them one way, then 
 another, and stared about me in amazement. 
 "I must be dreaming," I said to myself incredu- 
 lously, as I glanced at the fine bed on which I lay and 
 at the soft pillows and snow-white sheets, the like 
 of which I had not seen since my mother died. I 
 rubbed my eyes again and surveyed the room. It 
 was spacious, with large windows on two sides, and 
 its walls were hung with paintings and etchings. 
 " How did I come here ?" I asked myself. I recalled
 
 52 The Fugitive 
 
 my adventure with the swineherds, and I realised, 
 though half-consciously, that a long period had 
 intervened between that incident and the present, 
 but I could not remember anything that took place 
 during the lapse. 
 
 "How do you feel?" was asked of me in a soft 
 feminine voice. 
 
 I only smiled in reply. I could not understand 
 the meaning of all this ; it recurred to my mind that 
 perhaps I was dreaming, after all. 
 
 I said something in Yiddish, my mother tongue, 
 but the people about me seemed not to understand 
 it. Then a sickly looking woman asked me in 
 Russian whether I wished for anything. 
 
 " I should like to know what happened to me and 
 where I am," I responded in the peasant's dialect. 
 
 She smoothed my forehead and said gently: 
 "Lie still. The doctor says you must have rest." 
 
 I closed my eyes again. Gradually my memory 
 strengthened, and I began to trace back step by step 
 to the time when I lost consciousness. I had a dim 
 recollection of being taken in a carriage, of giving 
 my name, and having suffered great pain, but the 
 rest was a mist. 
 
 A few days later I was strong enough to sit up in 
 bed propped up with pillows. How I had come here 
 was now clear to me, thanks to the information of 
 my good nurse. 
 
 Morovoyi Sudya (Justice of the Peace) Alexis 
 Bialnick, the owner of the big forest in which I
 
 I Fall Among 7 Gentiles 53 
 
 spent the night after the fire, found me lying in 
 the outskirts of the woods, half-naked and un- 
 conscious. Finding his own efforts to revive me 
 of no avail, he ordered me to be taken to his 
 home. As feeble as I was, I had a strong in- 
 clination to rise and leave the house. My bene- 
 factor was a gentile, his food was trief (ritually 
 unclean), and I feared lest he should force me to 
 baptism in compensation for his kindness. I had 
 heard of such crafty proselytism, and besides, who 
 had ever heard of a gentile showing disinterested 
 kindness to a Jew? I remembered the warning 
 written by my grandfather on the fly-leaf of the 
 Testament my mother had left me, that we should 
 shun gentile favours, because they would be invari- 
 ably followed by loss or injury. 
 
 However, these prejudices weakened the longer 
 I stayed in the house of the Sudya. He appeared 
 to me like an angel coming to my rescue; and who 
 could tell but that he was Elijah metamorphosed 
 to the form of a goy (gentile) ? My brain, always 
 full of superstitions and trusting in miracles, easily 
 credited the thought, and for a moment I held my 
 breath. 
 
 One morning, after I had become able to move 
 about the room, I was asked to step into the Sudya's 
 study. He was seated in a large arm-chair and 
 was in the act of tossing a rubber ball to a girl 
 who had occasionally come into my room to ask 
 after my health. My appearance interrupted her
 
 54 The Fugitive 
 
 from flinging it back, and faintly colouring she 
 remained standing with hand uplifted. 
 
 "Good morning, my good little fellow," the 
 Sudya said, turning his nervous soft gray eyes upon 
 me. "I hope you are feeling better now"; and he 
 smiled graciously. 
 
 I faltered some words of thanks. 
 
 The girl, standing with the ball in her hand, 
 looked at me with curiosity. My eyes met hers 
 and my embarrassment increased. 
 
 "Come nearer," and the Sudya pointed at a 
 chair by his side. ' ' What is your name ? " 
 
 "Israel Abramowitch." 
 
 The Judge's long, blond-bearded face grew 
 slightly pale, and he turned it from me just a trifle. 
 "Yes so you told me before." 
 
 "Who is your father?" he asked after a short 
 silence. 
 
 "I have no father." 
 
 "Your mother?" 
 
 "I have none." 
 
 "Where is your home?" 
 
 "My home burned down." 
 
 "Where do you come from?" 
 
 I mentioned my native place. 
 
 Again he was silent for so long a time that I 
 thought he was displeased with me. But when he 
 spoke his voice reassured me. 
 
 "I lived in your town for some time perhaps 
 you do not remember me. I was Sledevatel.
 
 I Fall Among Gentiles 55 
 
 I must have known all your people. Who was 
 your father?" 
 
 "Yudel Abramowitch." 
 
 The Sudya leaned back in his chair and for a few 
 seconds covered his eyes and high forehead, which 
 action I thought was by way of straining his mem- 
 ory to recall my father; and clearing his throat he 
 said: "Yes, I remember your father well. Er he 
 used to come to my house quite often and I also 
 called at his a number of times." 
 
 Pride filled my heart. This illustrious personage 
 in my father's house ! 
 
 The Judge again passed his hand over his eyes 
 and forehead, and throwing one leg over the other 
 and nibbling at his long, pink finger-nails he 
 added: "That's right. Your father died eight or 
 nine years ago. What has become of your 
 mother?" 
 
 Again tears rushed to my eyes. "My mother 
 died," I responded lugubriously; but just then my 
 eyes fell upon the girl, who was still regarding me 
 with absorbed interest, and with a throbbing heart 
 I added: "Yes, she died in misery and poverty, 
 and as I had no relatives or friends to take care 
 of me I was sent to a charity school and procured 
 my meals every day in a different family." 
 
 He asked some more questions about the fire 
 and my escape. Then he resumed absent-mind- 
 edly: "Where do you expect to go from here?" 
 
 " Why, I'll go to a Jewish community and resume
 
 56 The Fugitive 
 
 my 'day-eating' and study the Talmud"; and I 
 added gloomily: " I have no other place to go to." 
 
 The little girl came up to her father and slipped 
 her arms around his neck; her blond curls fell softly 
 about his shoulders. I thought I detected tears 
 in her eyes. 
 
 After my last answer the Judge seemed to be 
 lost in thought. I stood with bowed head waiting 
 for him to speak again. 
 
 "How would you like to stay in this house, 
 Israel?" he asked after a while. "You will have 
 the same teacher who gives instructions to my 
 Katia. Isn't Feodor Maximowitch a good teacher, 
 golubtchick?" His daughter answered by tighten- 
 ing her arms. " You will be clothed and taken care 
 of as my own child until you grow old enough to 
 choose for yourself." 
 
 Could I remain in the house of a goi, even though 
 he offered me all these things and asked nothing 
 in return? I hesitated. Instantly the Talmud- 
 Torah appeared before my imagination, and I 
 recalled the tattered clothes which I had hitherto 
 worn, the humiliating system of "day-eating," the 
 grim poverty of the people about me. In contrast, 
 there was the kind gentleman who now spoke 
 to me as if I were his equal, the beautiful house 
 and the richly furnished rooms, fine clothes and 
 the best of food, a teacher to instruct me in Rus- 
 sian literature and perhaps even French which I 
 then imagined to be the language of angels. Rais-
 
 I Fall Among Gentiles 57 
 
 ing my eyes, I found Katia's gaze fixed at me as 
 if she were asking me to accept her father's offer. 
 Could I do anything but stay?
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 I AM HAPPY 
 
 WHEN I fully recovered, autumn, Russian autumn, 
 had fairly set in. Zamok, as my benefactor's estate 
 was called, stood isolated from the rest of the world 
 by vast stretches of snow-covered plains, like a 
 single ship on the ocean. The nearest village was 
 three-quarters of a mile away, and the nearest town, 
 which had no more than four hundred inhabitants, 
 was a distance of about twenty miles. Had it not 
 been for the peasants and Jews who came to attend 
 trials or settle their disputes before the Sudya (for 
 his residence was also his court-house), Zamok would 
 have been as secluded and unfrequented as an undis- 
 covered island. Mr. Bialnick seemed to be averse 
 to society, and appeared to enjoy nothing except 
 his child's company. My teacher accounted for 
 the Judge's excessive melancholy by his grief for 
 his wife, who had died about a year and a half 
 before. However, I did not feel lonesome. For 
 besides Katia with whom I would not have felt 
 lonesome had we been the only beings on a deserted 
 island there was Feodor Maximo witch Kremlin, 
 our teacher; Olga Ossipovna Shtchedrin, Katia's 
 
 58
 
 I Am Happy 59 
 
 governess; Vinitzki, the court clerk; and a number 
 of good jolly servants. 
 
 Katia had come to be like a loving younger 
 sister to me. The kindness, the simplicity, the 
 sympathy of this mere child of thirteen awoke all 
 that was best in me my emotions, imagination, 
 energy, ambition. Whether in the house or out, 
 throwing snowballs or skating, I had to be at her 
 side. The first few months she would sometimes, 
 though innocently, make fun of my pronunciation, 
 which lacked the sonorous Russian ring. She 
 would slap and scold me and mock my talk, and 
 all this gave me delight. Both of us seemed to 
 feel instinctively that her father would not have 
 us too intimate ; and so in her father's presence she 
 gave no signs of the friendship which existed between 
 us, and I likewise assumed a distant manner. 
 
 Continued happiness is stagnation: a life of suf- 
 fering is adventurous and interesting. The winter 
 glided by quietly, with no special event to break its 
 monotony. Mr. Kremlin was a good teacher, and 
 I, though frequently hampered by my natural 
 tendency to do my lessons superficially, made rapid 
 progress in the Russian language. Though I 
 learned little of the technical rules of grammar, I 
 acquired an extensive vocabulary, which enabled 
 me to turn my awakening sentiments into verse; 
 all of which, of course, were dedicated to Katia. 
 
 That spring my feelings budded and blossomed. 
 I did not stop to analyse my new sensations. I
 
 6o The Fugitive 
 
 was merely aware that my imagination, my thoughts, 
 my every-day existence was brighter, and that my 
 blood ran warmer and faster. All nature seemed 
 to share in my gladness; the birds seemed to have 
 more cheerful notes, and the fields, the meadows, 
 the forest, the very blades of grass never before 
 wore such a green as they put on that spring. 
 Scarcely a year from " day-eating" and the wretched 
 Talmud-Torah, and everything connected with the 
 past seemed to be effaced from my memory. 
 
 Occasionally I would think of Ephraim. Where 
 was he? What was he doing? What would he 
 think of my living in a gentile family and casting 
 our Holy Law aside? And what would he say to 
 my being fond of a girl, and a gentile girl at that ? 
 
 Sometimes I would tremble at the thought that 
 I was gradually drifting away from Judaism. 
 What would my mother have said to this ? At the 
 thought of her I would shudder for shame; and 
 often I decided to steal away at night and never 
 come back. But Katia ! Katia, with those long, 
 blond curls, which she began to wear in a braid this 
 spring with those smiling, sparkling eyes with 
 those tender, teasing ways Katia ! How could I go 
 and leave her behind me ? I knew that she was a 
 Shikselke (a little gentile girl) and I a poor wander- 
 ing Jewish orphan, but I was so happy when she 
 teased me or ordered me about that I forgot my 
 race and my faith. Besides, I was enjoying my 
 studies immensely, and new-born thoughts began
 
 I Am Happy 61 
 
 to sprout in my brain. I began to have aspira- 
 tions; my ambition stirred me to more activity; I 
 began to compare conditions and situations; I 
 appreciated the beauty of Japhet and loathed the 
 tents of Shem. 
 
 The Sudya treated me as kindly and generously 
 as ever. It is true, I observed him frown when he 
 found Katia leaning on my arm as we read one of 
 Krilloff 's fables ; but otherwise he showed me almost 
 paternal affection. There was a benign expression 
 on his face, and his soft gray eyes seemed to have 
 smiles concealed in them, despite the depressing 
 gloom that always hovered over him. He smiled 
 very often he very rarely laughed; but what 
 sadness in his smile ! 
 
 That spring I also noticed that the delicate skin 
 of his fair cheeks was becoming marred here and 
 there by fine lines, and that his nose was turning 
 purple. And one time, as I was about to pass 
 through the dining-room, I found him standing 
 by the sideboard with a decanter of rum in his 
 hand. I started to turn back, but he noticed me, 
 and replacing the decanter he stammered con- 
 fusedly: "You may stay here, Israel." On another 
 occasion I found him reclining unconscious in his 
 large arm-chair and the same decanter of rum on 
 a little round table at his elbow. At first, fright 
 seized me. I thought he was dead. But I soon 
 discovered differently. He was drunk. I locked 
 the door and, moving on tiptoe, adjusted him
 
 62 The Fugitive 
 
 comfortably without arousing him. I shivered lest 
 Katia, who had gone with her governess to visit 
 a neighbouring hamlet, should find her father in 
 this state. Leaving the door locked on the inside, 
 I crept out through a window. 
 
 After this incident I noticed that he rode horse- 
 back, which was one of his favourite sports, less 
 frequently than usual, and he would sleep more 
 often in the daytime. I watched him, not from 
 curiosity, but in order to hide his drunkenness from 
 his child; and to do this I had recourse to all sorts 
 of devices. Innocence is easily deceived. Katia 
 little suspected the truth about her father. 
 
 During the summer Katia took a vacation from 
 her books, but I studied even more assiduously 
 than before. My ambition was rising every day. 
 Katia had once told me, when we were chatting 
 all alone in the garden in the rear of the house, 
 that she would marry no one but a great man as 
 great as Nekrasoff or Pushkin or Lermontoff. I 
 remember distinctly that I felt dizzy for a while 
 after she had said this, and that, in spite of my 
 repeated efforts to speak, my words remained stuck 
 in my throat. However, when a little later she 
 told me I was to be a great poet like Lermontoff, 
 I felt my blood rushing to my face and a peculiar 
 thrill shot through all my frame. I sat opposite 
 her and gazed and gazed into her translucent eyes, 
 frank in their childish innocence. Then I was 
 seized with the consciousness of my own insignifi-
 
 I Am Happy 63 
 
 cance, and I felt so hopelessly untalented that I 
 abruptly ran away to my room and locked the 
 door. How could I become a poet like Nekrasoff 
 or Pushkin or Lermontoff ? And how could I ever 
 marry Katia without being like one of them ? And 
 that night, when Katia was long in bed and every- 
 body else at Zamok slept peacefully, when even the 
 frogs had long ceased their disagreeable croaking 
 and the stillness was so intense that I heard my 
 lamp burning, I sat over my books until the early 
 blushes of morning turned the window-panes ash- 
 colour.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 THE END OF HAPPINESS 
 
 I DID not swerve from my purpose to become a 
 great man, and pored over my books arduously. 
 My instructor was highly pleased with my progress. 
 I could see his face beaming with genuine delight 
 as I recited my lessons. "Excellent," "splendid," 
 " very good, " he would remark, pacing up and down 
 the room as I was reading a composition or reciting 
 a page of Cicero. Only half a year before Katia 
 had been far ahead of me in composition, but now 
 I was reading the masterpieces of Russian literature, 
 while she still used a Khrestomatia a book of 
 selections. Mr. Kremlin told me that if I would 
 study assiduously till the following summer I could 
 easily take the examinations of the fourth and 
 perhaps of the fifth he referred to gymnasium 
 grades. Of course I wished to go to the gymnasium 
 and there study harder and harder, that I might 
 become a great man like Nekrasoff or Pushkin or 
 Lermontoff and marry Katia. 
 
 And Katia would listen to Mr. Kremlin's praises 
 of me without the least jealousy. When the 
 teacher was gone she would put her hand on my 
 shoulder in her childish way and, looking into my 
 
 64
 
 The End of Happiness 65 
 
 eyes, would say: "Israel, you will go to the gym- 
 nasium the coming year and take away all the 
 prizes. I am sure you will get a gold medal on 
 graduation. My Cousin Mishka got one, and he is 
 not half as bright as you. Oh, what a great man 
 you will be some day ! Your picture will be in 
 the Novosti and in the Sviet and in the Novi 
 Vremia, and you will be so proud, with your head 
 erect you will not want to talk to me." Here I 
 shut her mouth with the palm of my hand. "You 
 mean you will be proud," I would retort enviously, 
 with no little rancour in my heart, " and go away to 
 your relatives in Moscow or Kieff and mix with 
 colonels and generals, and you will be ashamed 
 to talk to me." I really meant every word I said, 
 because Judge Biamick talked of being promoted 
 or installed either in Kieff or Moscow, where most 
 of his near relatives lived. 
 
 And so life passed till fall had come again. 
 Again the sky was constantly overcast with heavy 
 dark clouds that dripped cold drops; again drizzly 
 showers dismally washed the window-panes; again 
 heaps of withered leaves lay around trunks of 
 trees; again flower-stalks stood like gravestones 
 where once was glory; again the sighing winds 
 howled and moaned drearily. 
 
 One gloomy afternoon, while the Sudya was in 
 the court-room administering justice to peasants, 
 Katia and I sat in her father's study reading together 
 and engaging in such chat as made me at the same
 
 66 The Fugitive 
 
 time jealous and happy. We were on a couch near 
 a window. Katia sat with one foot under her and 
 the other hanging down, her lesson-book in her 
 lap. We ceased talking for a minute or two, while 
 we gazed at the rain, which was becoming mixed 
 with melting snow. 
 
 "Papa said he is sure to be promoted and will 
 get an appointment in Kieff. You will go with us, 
 won't you, Israel?" She said this abstractedly 
 as she looked through the window at the snow, 
 which was becoming more and more noticeable in 
 the falling rain. 
 
 I swallowed a lump; my emotions almost throt- 
 tled me. How innocently she asked me this ! 
 She could see no difference in our stations: to her 
 we were equals. I began to realise now more than 
 ever that I was a vagabond, a mere beggar. Will 
 I go with them? My tears rushed to my eyes. 
 Will I go with them? as if I belonged to their 
 circle, a member of her family. 
 
 It was all I could do to refrain from putting these 
 incoherent thoughts into words. She looked greatly 
 surprised at my silence. My emotions suddenly 
 found expression in tears I ever cried as readily 
 as a girl. I turned and covered my face with both 
 hands. 
 
 "Israel," she implored, attempting to remove 
 my hands, " why do you cry ? What did I say that 
 hurt you?" And she clung to my hands, removing 
 finger by finger.
 
 The End of Happiness 67 
 
 "Listen, Katia," I blurted out passionately. 
 " I shall study day and night until I become a great 
 man as great a man as you like; and then then 
 
 ah, then " I became conscious of what 
 
 I was about to say and dropped my head in despair. 
 
 "Oh, you foolish Israel," she said, raising my 
 head by the chin, "then I'll marry you." 
 
 How candidly and naively she uttered these 
 words ! Without the faintest blush, without the 
 least excitement, with the simplest understanding 
 of what she said. 
 
 Impulsively, without being fully conscious of 
 what I was doing, I threw my arm around her neck 
 and kissed her on the mouth again and again. 
 
 "Katia! Katia!" 
 
 It was Judge Bialnick's voice that called me to 
 my senses; it sounded stern and harsh almost 
 cruel. 
 
 I raised my eyes frightfully and beheld Katia's 
 father standing in the doorway, with a relentless 
 expression on his countenance. 
 
 "Katia !" he called again; and he stood cold and 
 erect until Katia, with downcast eyes, walked past 
 him into the adjoining room. Then he also turned 
 around and walked out, leaving me alone with my 
 head drooped over my chest, and tears large, 
 boiling tears burning my cheeks as they rolled 
 down and dropped upon my shirt and vest.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 I BID FAREWELL TO ZAMOK 
 
 I IMMEDIATELY repaired to my room and locked 
 myself in. My present happiness was gone, and 
 the magnificent castles I had built in the air were 
 all shattered. The dreary weather outside added 
 gloom to my misery. The rain was now completely 
 changed to large flakes of snow that disappeared as 
 they fell upon the muddy ground. The Sudya's 
 stern countenance stood before my mind's eye; 
 his harsh voice was still ringing in my ears. I 
 brooded and reflected, though nothing definite 
 shaped itself in my mind. I thought of Katia, of 
 how the Sudya glanced at her as she walked across 
 the room and past him with downcast eyes, and I 
 shivered. I had made her suffer on my account. 
 This thought lacerated my heart and I writhed 
 with shame. 
 
 I sat brooding till it grew dark, but could not 
 shape any definite plan. A knock interrupted my 
 sad deliberation. I opened the door, and Katia's 
 governess entered with a little parcel in her hand 
 and placed it on the table before me. 
 
 "The Sudya sends this to you," she said briefly; 
 
 68
 
 I Bid Farewell to Zamok 69 
 
 and bidding me a cold "good evening" left the 
 room. 
 
 I regarded the parcel for several minutes before I 
 could summon the courage to open it ; I knew abso- 
 lutely what message it brought to me. I opened 
 it with trembling hands, and found a roll of ten- 
 rouble bills and the following note in the Sudya's 
 pointed handwriting: 
 
 " My Dear Israel Abramowitch: I hope the amount 
 I herewith send you will enable you to make a start 
 in life. Should you wish to continue with your 
 studies at some school, keep me informed as to 
 where you are, and I shall amply assist you. 
 "With sincere kindness, 
 
 "I remain ever helpful to you, 
 "ALEXIS M. BIALNICK." 
 
 I glanced contemptuously at the ten-rouble bills, 
 and then for the time forgot them. Up to this 
 minute I had been able to reach no decision. The 
 Sudya's note left but one course open to me I 
 must leave and leave at once. My frame shook as I 
 thought of going away. Never again see Katia's 
 face ! Never again hear her voice ! Never again 
 feel her arm on my shoulder ! 
 
 I stayed up late that night, pondering and pon- 
 dering upon my recklessness and folly. When at 
 length I decided to lie down, all of the household 
 had long been asleep. I opened the door of my 
 room and glanced at that of Katia's. A glimmering
 
 70 The Fugitive 
 
 light, which always burned at night in her chamber, 
 peeped in a thin line from under the door. My 
 heart beat like a thousand hammers as my thoughts 
 travelled back to the scene in the afternoon. I 
 thought of her father, and a fierce desire for revenge 
 arose in my heart. For a moment I had forgotten 
 the gratitude I owed him for his kindness and wished 
 only I could do him harm. But another moment 
 brought me to my normal senses. I shuddered at 
 the atrocity of my momentary thought, and I 
 hated myself for my ingratitude. I quickly un- 
 dressed and threw myself upon the bed. 
 
 But late as it was, sleep would not come. My 
 sordid childhood haunted my brain the Talmud- 
 Torah, the cruel teachers, the miserable boys, and 
 then a picture of my mother on her death-bed. My 
 thoughts took a different turn. What would my 
 mother say to my staying with gentiles and aban- 
 doning the commandments of my faith? What 
 does the Talmud say ? Ah, the Talmud ! I had 
 so distinguished myself in the study of Hebrew 
 and the Talmud, and now I had flung them aside ! 
 My teachers had predicted a great future for me 
 the mantle of the rabbis and now I had strayed 
 off toward a different goal ! The vague remem- 
 brance of my runaway brother came back to me. 
 Where could he be? Would I ever find him? I 
 tried to recall his features, but I could not see 
 them distinctly. The flimsy threads that held my 
 mind to the past strengthened; one thought sug-
 
 I Bid Farewell to Zamofc 71 
 
 gested another; each strand was intertwisted with 
 another. Was it not this same Alexis Bialnick 
 who had been Sledevatel in our town, and in whose 
 house my brother had taken refuge for a while ? I 
 pressed my forehead, hoping to wring out all that 
 my brain contained regarding my brother. Yes. 
 What was the rumour that circulated through the 
 town when my father was arrested? Ah, now I 
 recalled it clearly: my brother was in love with 
 Mr. Bialnick's niece and was going to marry her at 
 the time my father was imprisoned. And I? I? 
 I pressed my temples harder, harder; I wished to 
 grasp the situation more fully. I? Why, I was 
 following in my brother's footsteps. I also was 
 forgetting my mother's wishes and the laws of my 
 people. 
 
 Thus I tormented my brain for an hour or more, 
 trembling feverishly all the while, till my present 
 situation recurred to my mind. Since I must leave 
 the house, why not do so surreptitiously, and thus 
 save myself much pain and degradation? 
 
 I sat up in bed and listened. Next to my room 
 was that of the governess; steady snores came from 
 it. A thought began to shape itself in my brain; 
 my pulse quickened; my heart throbbed violently. 
 Another sound reached me the flat, barefoot steps 
 of a servant-girl in a distant room. Except for 
 these two sounds, the house was in dead silence. 
 
 After I had waited a while I dressed quickly 
 without making the least noise. I opened the door
 
 72 The Fugitive 
 
 of my room quietly ; the reflection of the faint light 
 from the room into which mine opened fell upon 
 the roll of money on my table. I turned around 
 and looked at it a moment thoughtlessly. I went 
 to the table, took the bills in my hand, remained 
 standing a few seconds abstractedly, and then, as 
 if automatically, flung the money back upon the 
 table. I was leaving the room, when I chanced to 
 thrust my hand into my pocket. I did not have a 
 single copper not even a copeck. I went back 
 to the table, took a few bills from the roll, and 
 pocketed them. 
 
 I cast a last glance at my room and came out 
 into the next one. I remained standing in hesi- 
 tation. The glimmering light from under Katia's 
 door it made me quiver in every nerve; my 
 blood rushed fiercely through my veins. A thought 
 flashed into my feverish brain. I held my breath 
 and listened again; loud snoring came from the 
 governess's room. How my heart throbbed and 
 beat and hammered ! I turned the knob of Katia's 
 door, and the next instant I was inside her room. 
 
 There before me lay sweet Katia, with her face 
 ceilingward, faintly illumined by the light of the 
 small lamp; her beautiful lips were slightly parted, 
 and one bare hand and arm lay on the coverlet. 
 She slept quietly and peacefully. Her head slightly 
 turned and her crimsoned lips moved, as if she 
 smacked them. I gazed at her eagerly, rapturously. 
 A sound in the governess's room, which was con-
 
 I Bid Farewell to Zamok 73 
 
 nected with Katia's and the door of which stood 
 ajar, made my flesh creep. Soon stillness was 
 again restored; only the heavy breathing of the 
 governess and the swishing of the snow and sleet 
 against the walls and window-panes were heard. 
 "I must go I must go," I said to myself. But 
 Katia's white face, her mass of dishevelled hair 
 over the pillow, almost persuaded me to change 
 my plan and wait till morning, when I should be 
 able to hear Katia say "good-by." But I could 
 not wait. I had to go. 
 
 I knelt before her bed and gazed breathlessly at 
 the sweet face before me. I was almost dazed. I 
 leaned my head against the cold edge of her bed, 
 dumb in silent worship. She began to stir, and 
 the hand that rested upon the coverlet slipped down, 
 as if she offered it me to kiss. I pressed my lips upon 
 her fingers with all my boyish passion. Once more 
 I gazed at her faintly illumined face, and then on 
 tiptoe I stole out of the room.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 THE MYSTERY REVEALED 
 
 OUTSIDE it was dark, cold, dreary, with a bitter 
 wind-driven sleet. A dog growled in his kennel 
 as I passed him, but after springing out he seemed 
 to recognise me and quietly disappeared within his 
 shelter. I found the gate fastened, so I had to 
 climb over the high barbed- wire fence which enclosed 
 the yard, to the great injury of my clothes. On 
 reaching the road I was undecided which direction 
 to take. Darkness was all about me; a fearful 
 sadness possessed me; and as I advanced a few 
 steps an enigmatic power was pulling me back. 
 But I struck out on the slushy road east at my 
 fastest walk. Gusts of sleet lashed my face, and 
 my feet sank to the ankles at every step. I tramped 
 on and on whither ? My head was crammed with 
 fragmentary thoughts of my erstwhile happiness, 
 of my folly, of my ingratitude and my heart sank 
 with shame of myself. Instantly, however, reason 
 came to my defense : I had committed no sin ; I had 
 done harm to no one; I loved Katia as a sister, 
 and why should I not kiss her ? What harm is there 
 in a kiss, that because of one the Sudya should 
 notify me to leave ? I thought of the money I had 
 
 74
 
 The Mystery Revealed 75 
 
 taken; it seemed to burn in my pocket. I pulled 
 out the notes and flung them fiercely into the mud, 
 and plodded on my way with a quieter mind. 
 
 I tramped on through a seemingly endless stretch 
 of mud-and-slush-covered land till at length I 
 reached a small village, one of those entirely occu- 
 pied by muzhiks (peasants), with barnlike houses 
 and houselike barns. I would have sought shelter 
 in one of the hedged-in huts, but all the dogs of 
 this little community set up such a loud barking 
 that I was glad to get out of the village with my life. 
 After another half -hour of the heavy road I caught 
 the faint lights of another village. By this time 
 I was almost ready to drop from sheer exhaustion. 
 I was numb to my very bones from the damp cold, 
 my legs were so fagged that one would hardly 
 follow the other, and my face stung as if it had been 
 lashed with a bunch of nettles. But I struggled 
 desperately, blindly on till I reached the village, 
 which was one long and extremely narrow alley. 
 I stopped before the first hut, which stood behind 
 a broad rustic gate, and from which a glimmering 
 light shone forth, determined to beg a dry spot 
 for the rest of the night. As I came up to the gate 
 several dogs within began such a ferocious barking 
 that I paused, fearing to risk what little life remained 
 in me. Recalling a kind of exorcism I knew when 
 a child, I tried it on these raging animals. But 
 they seemed not to mind my incantations. One 
 jumped over the gate, and the rest made as if to
 
 76 The Fugitive 
 
 follow. In this critical situation I thought the 
 best exorcism would be to cry for help. I did so, 
 and a peasant, half-naked, opened the door of the 
 hut. 
 
 "Who's that?" he asked, as he quieted the dogs. 
 
 I told him that I was a wanderer and wished to 
 have lodging overnight. 
 
 "Bosje Moi [my God]," he said, crossing himself. 
 "On a night like this!" And after he had 
 scrutinised me he murmured to himself: "He's no 
 thief only a little Jew." 
 
 "I deny shelter to no one, be he Christian or 
 Jew," he said, as he opened the gate for me. 
 
 I entered his hut. It was of the same style as 
 those of most muzhiks: one square, earth-floored 
 room, the unplastered walls and low ceiling of which 
 were black with smoke. One-fourth of it occupied 
 by a large brick oven ; another fourth taken up by a 
 large bed which was commonly known as the " family 
 bed"; and the remaining space filled by a long, 
 unpainted table with a rough bench along each 
 side of it, a pail of water, a manger for the pigs, 
 and a wooden dish for the rabbits that were crowded 
 together in a corner. An oil-lamp burned before a 
 small image of Christ, placed beside the window, or 
 rather the small square hole which served as 
 one. 
 
 A suffocating stench pervaded the room ; however, 
 the warmth brought new life into my benumbed 
 body. Four or five of the occupants of the bed
 
 The Mystery Revealed 77 
 
 raised their heads, and I noticed by the light of the 
 oil-lamp that they were of both sexes. 
 
 The good muzhik set black bread, salt, and water 
 before me, and asked me whether or not I was 
 hungry. I thanked him gratefully, and said all I 
 cared for was a place to sleep. 
 
 "There, Sjidotchick [little Jew], is a warm spot," 
 he said, pointing with his finger at the top of the 
 oven. And he unceremoniously raised the large 
 blanket and crept under by the side of his family. 
 
 I climbed upon the high oven and was going to 
 lie down, when I noticed something stirring there. 
 And I was still more startled to find a partner a 
 girl. I was going to slip back to the floor, but she 
 said, "There is plenty of room here," and inno- 
 cently moved aside. The morality which had been 
 inculcated in me did not permit me to accept her 
 courtesy, and I offered as an excuse that it was too 
 warm. So I lay down on one of the benches. 
 
 The family soon fell asleep again, but, exhausted 
 though I was, sleep would not come to my eyes. 
 My mind followed a train of feverish thoughts 
 aroused by the events of the afternoon and night; 
 and besides, even had my mind not been active, I 
 would have been kept awake by the deep groans that 
 arose near me, which, however, did not seem to 
 disturb the other occupants of the hut. After my 
 eyes had become accustomed to the semidarkness I 
 discovered a man lying upon a truss of straw on 
 the ground but a few feet away from me. The
 
 78 The Fugitive 
 
 dim light before the image of Christ cast a yellowish 
 glow upon his emaciated countenance. He lay 
 covered with a tattered sheepskin coat; his head 
 rested upon a dirty straw cushion. His eyes were 
 closed, his mouth half open, and he was breath- 
 ing slowly, a groan coming forth with every 
 breath. 
 
 "Basil!" he cried out, after I had been in the 
 hut for perhaps a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Nobody answered ; loud snoring rang through the 
 stenchy room. I could now hear the man on the 
 ground breathing heavily and tossing about rest- 
 lessly. Several minutes passed. 
 
 "Basil!" he cried again in a hoarse, feeble voice. 
 
 The only answer was a chorus of snores from 
 the "family bed." 
 
 " Basil I am dying. " 
 
 "To the devil !" my host muttered, as he jumped 
 out of bed. "What do you want, Michael?" 
 
 "Brother" Michael made a hard effort to 
 speak "brother, bring the priest. I am dying." 
 
 Basil scratched his head as if undecided what to 
 do. He looked good-natured, but he appeared to 
 entertain some doubts as to whether his brother 
 had reached the point when a priest is necessary. 
 He uttered a curse good-naturedly, as if his brother's 
 request was merely an every-day jest, and said: 
 "Oh, Michael, you won't die yet, and I'll trouble the 
 Batiushka [little father] for nothing." 
 
 Michael emitted a deep groan. "God knows
 
 The Mystery Revealed 79 
 
 whether I'll live long enough to see the sun. 
 Call the Batiushka." 
 
 I shuddered. Basil scratched his head again, 
 muttered a few curses under his breath, and put 
 on his heavy fur coat and his sheepskin hat. "I 
 know you will trouble the Batiushka for nothing," 
 he said, and slammed the door behind him. 
 
 The rest of the family paid no heed to the dying 
 man. "My confession my confession," he mur- 
 mured feebly, as he tossed about convulsively in 
 the agonies of death. Once he rose by a sudden 
 impulse to a sitting posture and screamed: "Oh, 
 the priest ! Confession my confession !" Nobody 
 seemed to have heard him; the family was peace- 
 fully snoring; a few pigs under the family bed 
 grunted and squealed restlessly. 
 
 It must have been a little before daybreak when 
 I heard approaching footsteps. Soon the door 
 opened, and Basil entered with a corpulent old 
 man, whose long, white hair overhung his broad 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Here, Batiushka," Basil said reverentially, point- 
 ing a finger at his brother, writhing with pain on the 
 ground. 
 
 The Batiushka remained standing in the middle 
 of the room, leaning on his heavy gold-headed 
 walking-stick. The host produced a long, thin lath, 
 which he stuck between two uncemented bricks of 
 the oven and then lighted. The flaring torch cast a 
 mournful light over the whole room, and brought
 
 8o The Fugitive 
 
 out the cadaverous face of the dying man with 
 ghastly distinctness. 
 
 "Michael," Basil said to his brother, "here is the 
 Batiushka." 
 
 The dying peasant made an effort to raise his head, 
 but fell back upon the truss of straw. There was 
 a convulsive twitching of his emaciated counte- 
 nance, his unshaven chin trembled, his eyelids 
 fluttered, and his whole frame shivered. 
 
 The priest crossed himself and with eyes uplifted 
 murmured: "May the Father, Son, and Holy 
 Virgin bring you salvation." 
 
 "Batiushka," the patient began in a low, gut- 
 tural voice, his eyes moving wildly "Batiushka, 
 I wish to confess before I die. I sinned heavily 
 heavily heavily." Here he collapsed. 
 
 "Confess and bring salvation to your soul." 
 
 This word of encouragement from the priest 
 seemed to give strength to the dying man, and 
 though shivering violently he proceeded more 
 easily: "Oh, Batiushka, my great sins have preyed 
 upon my life for the last ten years ever since I 
 was seized in the devil's clutches !" 
 
 "Confess and lighten your burdened heart," the 
 priest encouraged him again, making the sign of 
 the cross. 
 
 The dying man seemed to be so agitated with 
 his forthcoming confession that for some time he 
 could not speak. Then he resumed, a gasp after 
 each choppy sentence:
 
 The Mystery Revealed 81 
 
 " Batiushka, I wish my soul to go up to God. I 
 want to tell you all before I die." Another long 
 pause. "About fifteen years ago I worked for a 
 Jew. His name was Yudel Abramo witch." 
 
 I sat up and gasped for breath at the mention 
 of my father's name. 
 
 "He treated me well, he did. But the devil got 
 me in his clutches, and I took to drink. My master 
 gave me many warnings, but the devil would not 
 let me stop. Yudel told me to leave I couldn't 
 blame him. I hung around the taverns, helped 
 them a little, got plenty of drink." He paused 
 again. "I drank more and more. I was kicked 
 out from every place. Then I got to be helper to 
 the sexton in the synagogue. 
 
 One day a burglary occurred next to the sexton's 
 house. I was arrested. I was innocent, Batiushka. 
 They brought me before Sledevatel Bialnick. He 
 cross-examined me. He could not get anything 
 out of me. I was innocent and knew nothing 
 of the burglary. We were alone in his office 
 Bialnick and I. 'Michael,' says he to me, 'I'll 
 have to indict you. Your record of the past 
 shows that you committed this crime.' And 
 then says he: 'But I'll help you and set you 
 free if you'll do a trifle for me!' 'Yes,' says I. 
 'Do you know Marianka, the washerwoman?' 
 says he. I knew her well; she was a pretty girl; 
 people talked about her being Bialnick' s mistress. 
 ' I want you to go to her house quite often, ' says
 
 82 The Fugitive 
 
 he, ' and tell the people she is your mistress.' ' Yes, ' 
 says I, and I was set free the same day." 
 
 He rested again and then went on: "A few 
 months later Marianka gave birth to a child. The 
 Sledevatel gave me money for Marianka; when I 
 gave it to her she took it and cried. Then one 
 day Bialnick called me to his office and asked me 
 to own the bastard as mine. I did not object. 
 What difference was it to me? So everybody said 
 the child was mine, and I laughed. Several years 
 passed. I had plenty to drink and plenty of money. 
 The Sledevatel was never stingy. The brat grew 
 like a sapling the very image of Bialnick." 
 
 For several minutes he struggled hard for his 
 breath. The priest was like a statue. My heart 
 was throbbing and my head was whirling. 
 
 "A few weeks before Easter Bialnick sent for me. 
 He asked me how I liked being called the father of 
 another man's child. 'Would it not be best to get 
 rid of this bastard,' says he 'better for me, 
 better for you ?' I said it would. ' Why should one 
 not make an end of it?' says he. I told him that 
 would be a risky business. 'We could transfer it 
 to the Jewish account,' says he. I did not under- 
 stand. He said that Passover was near, and didn't 
 I know that Jews kill Christian children for the 
 Passover. ' Some Jew would be blamed for it, ' says 
 he. 'Why not Yudel Abramowitch ? ' I said he 
 was a good man; he had been very good to me. 
 'Michael,' says he, 'you are a fool. Don't you
 
 The Mystery Revealed 83 
 
 know the Jews killed our Saviour and nailed Him 
 to the cross, and they are still sucking our blood? 
 Yudel Abramowitch is a bloodsucker,' says he. 
 'He's skinning the peasants alive, and he got all 
 his money by his Jew tricks and has a mortgage 
 on all my property.' All the time he had poured 
 out glass after glass of whisky and oh, Batiushka, 
 I promised !" 
 
 Michael fell back on the straw and tossed con- 
 vulsively. 
 
 "Goon goon," the Batiushka encouraged him. 
 "God will forgive you. You have only been the 
 instrument in the hands of a wicked man." 
 
 "Yes, yes, Batiushka, only an instrument, blessed 
 Batiushka," wept the dying peasant. " Our Saviour 
 knows that I did it in His name, as Bialnick told 
 me " 
 
 "Not in His name," struck in the pious priest. 
 "It was in Satan's name." And he made the sign 
 of the cross over his breast. 
 
 "Yes, Batiushka, in the devil's name. And 
 while I was in the devil's clutches I coaxed the 
 child out into the woods. I cut its throat and hid 
 the body in the synagogue." 
 
 He ended and lay fighting for his last breath. 
 "Oh, Batiushka !" he gasped, clutching the priest's 
 hand. But not another word. Incoherent bab- 
 bling was all I could hear. The priest took a cross 
 from his pocket and pressed it to the dying lips. 
 
 I arose unsteadily to my feet. The members of
 
 84 The Fugitive 
 
 the family were rising one by one; the rabbits, 
 crowded together in a corner, were munching 
 withered cabbage leaves; the pigs under the "family 
 bed" squealed and grunted; the chickens cackled 
 in the coop under the oven it was daybreak 
 already. 
 
 Without so much as a " thank you" I slipped out 
 of the hut, leaving the peasant in his last gasps 
 and the priest whispering words of absolution in 
 his ears. 
 
 Vaguely I marvelled that chance had brought me 
 to this hut on just this night; vaguely I thought of 
 life being a chain linked of chances; vaguely I re- 
 called the incidents of my life and the chances that 
 linked them together. Little by little new thoughts, 
 new sentiments took possession of me strange 
 thoughts, wild sentiments. This Bialnick this 
 supposed benefactor. A fierce, savage desire for 
 vengeance vengeance at any cost burned within 
 me. And suddenly, like a streak of lightning 
 ripping the clouds, the remembrance of a face 
 recurred to my mind. Ah, Katia ! Katia ! Honey 
 from a stinging bee.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 BACK TO MY O WN 
 
 MY first impulse as I left the hut was to go back 
 to the Sudya and tell him all I had discovered 
 tell him that I knew he was the cause of my father's 
 death, and that the innocent blood of my poor 
 mother was on him; tell him that I was not yet 
 strong enough to kill him, but some day, when I 
 was stronger, I should find vengeance for my parents' 
 blood. But after I had gone a few paces back over 
 the road that led to Zamok I realised how useless 
 such a step would be. With these thoughts still 
 torturing my brain I returned, and as if fearing my 
 own will I began to run. 
 
 The weather had slightly changed during the 
 night; the hail and snow had ceased falling, and 
 the warm caress of the rising sun turned the fur- 
 rowed fields into splashy mud and slush. At every 
 step I could scarcely free my foot from the limy 
 mud, and my boots squashed like croaking frogs. 
 
 I struggled along the mail road, melancholy, my 
 head bent over my chest. Gradually my fierce 
 sentiment against Bialnick gave place to a different 
 feeling, and my heart began to throb violently. 
 At first this feeling was vague, almost incompre- 
 
 '85
 
 86 The Fugitive 
 
 hensible, but I was soon conscious of a sweet and 
 alluring air chiming in my ears; a soothing sensa- 
 tion passed through my frame; a charming picture 
 presented itself before me Katia ! I felt the 
 thrill of hope as this vision flitted through my mind. 
 Again my heart was burning with a craving desire ; 
 again my blood was flowing warmer and swifter; 
 again an almost irresistible impulse was forcing 
 me back to Zamok go back and read of the same 
 book with her; feel the touch of her locks against 
 my burning cheeks; hear her say again, "Why, 
 you foolish Israel, then I'll marry you" and forget 
 forget my father and her father and everything 
 that embittered my heart ! 
 
 But I realised that to return was impossible; so 
 I tramped painfully, doggedly on, my legs growing 
 heavier and heavier. Presently the faint jingling 
 of a bell behind me broke in upon my hopeless 
 thoughts. Turning about, I beheld a long, mud- 
 covered Kibitka, the top of which was a quaint 
 combination of patches, drawn by two skinny, be- 
 spattered horses. I stopped and awaited its ap- 
 proach. But just before it reached me its front 
 wheels sank half-way to the hubs in a water-hidden 
 rut. 
 
 "Phmtz phmtz !" the driver encouraged his 
 animals. They pulled with all their strength, but 
 the wheels, evidently not well greased, creaked 
 without rolling. "Would that the black cholera 
 had you, you limping old mares !" This the driver
 
 Back to My Own 87 
 
 followed by a long string of oaths, jerking the reins 
 and whipping the poor beasts mercilessly. Several 
 passengers jumped out of their own accord, and 
 this so lightened the vehicle that the horses, by 
 a sudden pull, drew the Kibitka, creaking, out 
 of the rut. 
 
 "Nu, Pritzim [noblemen]," the driver accosted 
 his passengers half-sarcastically, "get a move on 
 you. You think my lions [tapping his horses with 
 his whip] can carry you a thousand miles without a 
 stop, hey?" 
 
 "We dragged slowly enough all night," com- 
 plained one of the passengers from within the 
 Kibitka, "and if we keep on moving at this rate 
 we'll scarcely get to Javolin at sunset." 
 
 "If you please," the driver rejoined with unsup- 
 pressed wrath, "I'll not drive my poor horses to 
 death on your account no, not for seventy-five 
 copecks. At this time of the year I should have 
 charged at least a ruble and a half, but all plagues 
 on the other coachmen ! competition is fierce. 
 Well [a little facetiously], you will become a rabbi 
 a day later." 
 
 Javolin ! Who had not heard of the Yeshiva 
 (seminary) of Javolin? What God-fearing mother 
 did not cherish the hope of having at least one son 
 at this Talmudic lyceum? What wealthy father 
 did not speculate of procuring a son-in-law from 
 this center of learning ? What Shadchan (marriage 
 broker) did not cast his bait in this pond of gold-
 
 88 The Fugitive 
 
 fish? The Yeshiva of Javolin the source of 
 prodigies ! 
 
 Javolin now appeared to me like a twinkling star 
 in a dense night. My way was pointed me. 
 
 I went up to the driver and asked him to take 
 me to Javolin. 
 
 "For how much?" he asked pointedly, beating 
 the butt of his whip against his long, muddy boots. 
 
 I stood abashed, with my fingers fumbling in my 
 pockets as if I were scraping my money together. 
 
 "We will not allow you to take another passen- 
 ger," remonstrated the one who had before shown 
 great anxiety to get to Javolin. "We hired you 
 for three of us, and already you have crowded in 
 seven more." 
 
 "How do you figure seven?" returned the driver. 
 "I agreed with you not to have more than three 
 men. Do you call this lady with children a man?" 
 He pointed his finger at a small family crouched 
 together in the Kibitka. "Do you call that poor 
 gentleman," he said in a lowered voice, pointing at 
 another passenger, "a man? Well, I am an igno- 
 ramus, but you ought to know that the Talmud 
 says: 'A poor man is regarded as a corpse.' Did 
 I ever promise you not to carry corpses? And 
 now as to that blind gentleman, don't you know 
 that the Talmud says that a blind man is exempt 
 from all religious obligations? Now as to this 
 youngster, he is no man, as you can see for your- 
 self."
 
 Back to My Own 89 
 
 These jesting excuses pacified the grumbling 
 passenger. Turning to me, the driver said: "Well, 
 how much will you give?" 
 
 " I I lost my money," I stammered, feeling the 
 blood spring to my cheeks from shame of the lie. 
 
 "Aha ! little fellow," the driver said humorously, 
 "you lost your money, hey? If you're as smart as 
 that you must have reached manhood, and I agreed 
 with these gentlemen to take no more than three." 
 He laughed heartily as he turned to his passengers 
 and winked. 
 
 I dropped my eyes and wished I might sink 
 through the ground ; his jests hurt me, and the pas- 
 sengers stared at me curiously. 
 
 After a short rest the driver asked the passengers 
 to take their seats, and he jumped upon the box. 
 My heart sank within me as I watched them crawl 
 into the long, narrow, closed wagon. I would give 
 anything to be taken to Javolin, but I did not have 
 a copeck. But as I started away on foot the driver 
 called after me: "Where do you live, young fellow?" 
 
 Tears filled my eyes. Where did I live? 
 
 He glanced at me pityingly. "Jump up," he 
 said, and moved aside to make room for me.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 THE YESHIVA 
 
 WHEN we reached Javolin the other passengers 
 had supper at the inn before which the Kibitka had 
 dropped us, but I, having no money, set out im- 
 mediately for the Yeshiva. Though night had 
 fallen, I needed no guide to it; brightly lighted, it 
 towered above the few hundred low-built, thatch- 
 roofed huts that composed Javolin . From a distance 
 it appeared like a lighthouse, and its reflection cast 
 a vast shadow over the sea of roofs. I followed 
 this light. The town was quiet; not a moving 
 team, not a pedestrian, not another light to cheer 
 the deserted alleys, not even the sound of my foot- 
 steps as I was treading the slush nothing but 
 dense darkness, gloom, isolation. Only once this 
 deathlike stillness was broken as the door of a 
 tavern opened. 
 
 But hark ! While still at some distance from the 
 Yeshiva a sound like that of water seething over 
 a great dam reached my ears. I held my breath; 
 I put my feet down softly; I strained my ears. 
 As I approached nearer the seminary the sound 
 grew louder and separated into distinct voices 
 the sum of hundreds of voices, each pitched in its 
 
 90
 
 The Yeshiva 91 
 
 own key. For a minute I stood in front of the 
 great white building and gazed through the long 
 arched windows at the swaying heads and shadows 
 of heads, of shoulders, of opening and closing 
 mouths, and at the waving arms, slightly oscillating 
 lamps suspended on long wires; and I watched the 
 young students, with cigarettes between their lips 
 and long books under their arms, hurry down the 
 score of cut-stone steps and disappear in the many 
 small side streets that branch off the Yeshiva 
 campus. 
 
 I climbed the stairs with awe in my heart, opened 
 the door, and tremblingly entered. A bewildering 
 spectacle was before my eyes. No less than five 
 hundred students were in the enormous class-room, 
 varying from striplings of sixteen to grown men with 
 long, untrimmed beards, sitting and standing on both 
 sides of the long "reclining desks." They swayed 
 their bodies backward and forward, from side to 
 side, like so many pendulums in a clockmaker's 
 shop, while they conned their lessons in as loud a 
 voice as each pleased, and in as many different 
 intonations as the voices that uttered them. Some 
 sang Talmudic rules in elastic barytones and modu- 
 lated alto voices ; some recited the intricate, never- 
 ending, hair-splitting arguments in plaintive, im- 
 ploring notes, and some piped Halachas (statutes) 
 in sweet soprano; some laughed and some groaned; 
 some shouted and some hummed in hushed voices; 
 some talked and some whispered; some winked
 
 92 The Fugitive 
 
 and some stared idiotically an uproar of Talmudic 
 learning ! The sight was purely oriental, unadorned 
 by Grecian art or modern European polish. 
 
 Among the clamorous rows of students there 
 were representatives of all climes and of all genera- 
 tions of the race: old-looking, swarthy Arabian 
 faces; delicately cut Grecian faces; faces with com- 
 manding Roman noses ; sandy-complexioned Russian 
 faces; and faces suggestive of Spain and Holland 
 and Germany and Poland and of nations unknown. 
 In their thoughtful countenances, their gestures, 
 their nervous actions in everything about these 
 children of a wandering people a physiognomist 
 might have read, as from an open book, the same 
 vivid imaginations and poetic minds that char- 
 acterised, in ages long past, their heroes, poets, 
 and brilliant sages. 
 
 In dress and physique the students varied as 
 much as in their faces. There were men in old- 
 fashioned long caftans, with corkscrew curls dan- 
 gling on both sides of their cheeks, and others in 
 clothes of the very latest style; not a few appeared 
 wealthy, their faces wearing the expression of the 
 spoiled child. Hale, robust lads with broad shoulders 
 and piercing eyes were promiscuously discernible 
 among flat-breasted, submissive-looking boys. 
 
 A short, heavy-set man with a small, iron-gray 
 beard and dull face walked between the rows of 
 desks, scrutinising everybody with his stupid eyes 
 and noting in his little book every vacant seat. He
 
 The Yeshiva. 93 
 
 was the Mashgiach (inspector). He frequently 
 stopped and spoke to those seated near, as if in- 
 quiring about the absent student. A tall man with 
 sottish eyes, purple nose, and curly peiis (ear-locks) 
 followed behind the Mashgiach, step by step. 
 
 A few students noticed me standing near the door, 
 but no attention was paid me until the man with 
 the sottish eyes who, I was told later, was the 
 Mashgiach's assistant came to me and asked whom 
 I wished to see. I told him I came to enroll in the 
 Yeshiva. He glanced me over with a satirical 
 smile on his face, and scratching his left peii said: 
 "Did you bring your wet-nurse and your cradle 
 along with you?" 
 
 This sarcasm cut me to the quick. He saw the 
 effect of his words and hastened to make amends. 
 "I mean no harm," he said, scratching the same 
 peii. "Go to the Rosh-H' Shiva [principal], and he 
 will do the right thing by you." 
 
 The Rosh-H 'Shiva lived in a luxurious home 
 next to the seminary. I ascended the high porch 
 and was admitted to a brightly lighted corridor. 
 
 A tall, handsome young lady, richly dressed, with 
 the dignity of a queen and the arrogance of a 
 servant-girl who marries her master, came up to 
 me and asked: 
 
 "Do you wish to see the Rabbi?" 
 
 "Yes," I murmured. 
 
 "You may see him in his study there," she 
 said a trifle haughtily, and pointed to a large
 
 94 The Fugitive 
 
 room across the hallway, the doors of which were 
 
 open. 
 
 I stopped at the threshold. A solidly built man 
 of about seventy years, with a calm, broad, square 
 forehead, was stooped over a long table, upon which 
 lay a number of open folios. His unspectacled 
 eyes skipped from book to book as he turned a few 
 leaves of one or scribbled a few words on the 
 margin of another. Every line in his face showed 
 complete absorption. I stood for some minutes 
 waiting for him to take notice of me, but he con- 
 tinued bent over the books, unconscious of my 
 presence. So I thought it wise to cough. 
 
 He raised his eyes. "What do you wish, my 
 child?" he asked in a benign, husky voice. 
 
 I told him that I desired to enter his institu- 
 tion. 
 
 He stretched out his little fat hand. "Sholam 
 Aleichem [peace be to you]," he said. "And 
 where do you come from?" 
 
 I knew the consequence if I told the truth. I 
 hesitated a moment and then gave the name of a 
 small town I had never seen. 
 
 He was proceeding to question me further, 
 showing a little rigour in his tone, when he was 
 interrupted by the young lady I had met in the 
 corridor. "Miriam, how is Teploffka?" he asked 
 of her. "Do we get anything from there?" 
 
 "The collectors scarcely make their expenses," 
 she replied authoritatively. "And besides, we have
 
 The Yeshiva 95 
 
 no trustees there, and I do not believe that we can 
 allow a Teploffka student any stipend." 
 
 I did not know what reply to make. I stood 
 dumb between the aged Rabbi and the beautiful 
 young lady (who I afterward learned was his third 
 wife), like a Daniel between two lions. 
 
 The Rosh-H'Shiva turned again to me : ' ' Perhaps 
 your father will be able to send you enough money, 
 so that you won't need any stipend," he suggested. 
 
 "I have no father," I murmured. 
 
 "A Yosem [orphan]?" he inquired in a sympa- 
 thising tone. 
 
 "Neither father nor mother," I replied. 
 
 The Rabbi looked at me thoughtfully, curling a 
 few hairs of his white beard about his forefinger. 
 His young wife regarded me with anything but 
 pleasure. 
 
 "Well," he said after a few moments, "present 
 yourself before the Mashgiach to-morrow, and if he 
 reports your examination satisfactory we'll see what 
 we can do for you." 
 
 " I don't believe we can give anything to a resi- 
 dent of Teploffka," struck in his wife, noticeably 
 irritated, as if her own money were in question. " I 
 looked at the books the other day, and I found 
 that Teploffka never contributed much to the 
 Yeshiva." 
 
 "A a my child" (he addressed his wife also 
 as "My child"), the Rabbi said softly, "we'll see 
 to-morrow a a we'll see to-morrow."
 
 96 The Fugitive 
 
 A few minutes later I was tramping back through 
 the muddy street to the tavern where the Kibitka 
 had dropped me.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 MY NEW H OME 
 
 THE following morning I presented myself before 
 the Mashgiach, who was also the examiner, and 
 upon his recommendation I was accepted and 
 granted a stipend of seventy-five copecks a week, 
 though Rabbi Brill's beautiful young wife insisted 
 that fifty copecks were plenty. 
 
 Before I was quite settled I sauntered diffidently 
 about the Yeshiva. A number of students, who 
 would sneak out as soon as the Rosh-H' Shiva 
 appeared, were always found lounging about the 
 lobby, with books under their arms and lighted 
 cigarettes between their lips. For some young 
 men came here for the sole purpose of being enrolled 
 as students in order that they might obtain a repu- 
 tation for scholarship and so have their dowries 
 increased. They would chat, crack jokes, play 
 pranks upon one another, criticise the Yeshiva 
 officials, make insinuating remarks about Rabbi 
 Brill's young wife, and were altogether bent on 
 mischief. 
 
 Seeing me, they began to make me the butt of 
 their jests. A tall, lean fellow, with glasses on his 
 nose, whispered to another, loud enough to be heard 
 
 97
 
 Q8 The Fugitive 
 
 by them all: "Did this baby [meaning me] bring 
 his mamma along?" A roar of laughter followed 
 this facetious remark. I blushed, dropped my 
 eyes, and bored my pocket painfully. Immediately 
 a coiled wet towel, thrown by one of the group, 
 struck me in the back of the neck and sent my cap 
 flying. I should have been furious at this insult, 
 but I had only a desire to sneak away. 
 
 "Shrolke!" exclaimed a voice as I was picking 
 up my cap. 
 
 I wheeled about joyfully. "Ephraim!" I cried; 
 and we were straightway clasped in each other's 
 arms. 
 
 "A mountain never meets a mountain, but one 
 person comes across another," he quoted in 
 Aramaic-Chaldaic . 
 
 He freed himself and turned to a group of loi- 
 terers. "See here, you fellows, you'll find it a 
 good plan to leave him alone." Without waiting 
 for their reply, he led me off to his room, and there 
 we told one another of our experiences. I confided 
 everything to him except my feeling for Katia, 
 a subject too sacred for me to lay bare even to my 
 dearest friend. In spite of my deadly hatred 
 against her father, she was sweeter than ever to me. 
 
 The same day I obtained lodgings at a poor 
 tailor's for the modest price of twenty-five copecks 
 a week, and I hoped to stretch the balance of my 
 stipend so that it would cover my board and other 
 necessaries.
 
 My New Home 99 
 
 I do not believe my landlord ever had a given 
 name, and if he had I am certain he was unac- 
 quainted with it. In the community he was known 
 as Menke Shmunke's that is, Menke the son of 
 Shmunke. And his wife, who through some blunder 
 of Providence was made a woman, was commonly 
 called Groone Menke Shmunke's. Notwithstand- 
 ing their humble station and names, Groone always 
 talked disdainfully of the " ordinary working classes," 
 and so influenced her husband as to make him 
 believe that he was a respectable Baal-H'bos 
 (bourgeois). 
 
 Menke was a small man who had probably ceased 
 to grow at the age of twelve, as is sometimes the 
 case with hard-working children. His bones were 
 large and broad, and the more prominent as the 
 Creator had neglected to cover them with enough 
 flesh; his cheek-bones were high and the cheeks 
 very hollow and overgrown with a tousled black 
 beard, over which hung his long, sticky peiis, which 
 frequently annoyed him when he bent forward to 
 thread a needle. A skull-cap invariably crowned 
 his head. The material of this cap was a puzzle 
 to me. At first I thought it was velvet because of 
 its gloss and blackness, but after closer observation 
 I found the gloss to have been chiefly due to the 
 pressure of his hat, under which he always wore 
 his cap, in order (as he once explained to me) 
 that he might not remain bareheaded when de- 
 livering clothes in places where the removal of
 
 too The Fugitive 
 
 his cap would be necessary, so I changed my 
 opinion. 
 
 Groone was Menke's second love, and by no 
 means had he been disappointed in his second 
 venture, for in a little over seven months he had 
 been blessed with a Kaddish (a male child to say 
 prayers after a dead parent). At first the con- 
 tinued existence of this Kaddish was gravely doubted ; 
 nevertheless, he grew tall and stooped, and had as 
 fine a pair of crooked shoulders as ever overtowered 
 a folio of Talmud. His name was Samuel, which 
 was fondly diminished by his mother to Shmulke, 
 which his father, who talked through his nose 
 because that organ was broken a little below the 
 Semitic bridge pronounced Shmunke; and as the 
 Kaddish likewise talked through his nose, he also 
 had difficulty in pronouncing his own name, and 
 therefore spoke of himself as Shmunke Menke 
 Shmunke' s. 
 
 Although Menke was very anxious to have a 
 daughter (for as Groone used to complain, she had 
 enough bedclothes for half a dozen daughters), the 
 "Lord had shut up her womb," and Shmunke 
 remained a ben-yochid (an only son). Naturally, 
 Shmunke "was given unto the Lord all the days 
 of his life," and he was destined by his parents to 
 become a rabbi. And in the manner of the prophet 
 there never came scissors upon his head, so that at 
 the time of my forming his acquaintance he could 
 knot his peiis under his chin. He was now about
 
 My New Home 101 
 
 eighteen years old, and his mind was constantly 
 rambling in the cul-de-sac of the Babylonian com- 
 pilation. 
 
 There were only two rooms in the house. One 
 served for the kitchen, for the bedroom of the 
 husband and wife, and also for the tailor shop, in 
 which Menke and Groone sat from sunrise till late 
 at night over their work. The other was Shmunke's 
 room; it was always clean and neat. I was sup- 
 posed to share this room with him, but it so happened 
 that it was practically mine alone, for Shmunke 
 stayed in the Yeshiva, to the extreme joy of his 
 poor parents, every day and the greater part of 
 every night, and shook himself and shouted as 
 loud as his lungs would allow over a large and 
 heavy volume of Talmud. 
 
 The second day after I had come to reside with 
 these people Groone came into my room, smooth- 
 ing her heavy wig, and a little awkwardly opened 
 conversation. "Teploffker [most of the students 
 were called by the name of the town they came 
 from], I hate to intrude upon people; you know, 
 it is not my nature. As I always say to my husband 
 (may he live a hundred and twenty years !), some 
 people like to impose, but our natures are quite the 
 other way. We know our station. Not like Beile 
 Yente Mollie Zippe's, who thinks because her second 
 cousin was a rabbi she is an aristocrat. I know 
 full well, if not for my Shmunke, who, Rabbi Brill 
 said with his own holy mouth, is going to be a
 
 102 The Fugitive 
 
 shining light in Israel, I would be no more than the 
 ordinary working people. I admit that I would be 
 no more that Yankle, Chaim, or Todres. But when 
 God blessed us with such a son well, you can't 
 help feeling a little proud, as the Talmud says 
 he ! he ! you will excuse me if I misquote it ; I am 
 only a woman [and her countenance assumed a 
 smiling grimace], but I think it says that good 
 children pull their parents out of the blazes of hell, 
 and of course a person can't help, you know, feel- 
 ing a trifle elated over such a blessing. As I say, 
 it is not in our nature, neither in mii^ nor in my 
 husband's (may he live a hundred and twenty 
 years !) but really, what do you think of our 
 Shmunke? Are there any brighter boys in the 
 Yeshiva? Really, I am only a poor, ignorant 
 woman; but is there anybody who knows more 
 
 than Shmunke ? And ' She suddenly checked 
 
 herself and with a beaming face she said: "I hear 
 him coming, and I must be quick. My ! my ! How 
 hungry my poor darling must be !" 
 
 And in a jiffy the table in " our " room was covered 
 with a white cloth and a savoury dinner was set 
 upon it. Menke and his wife never breakfasted 
 on anything better than black bread and chicory, 
 and their second meal (for they ate twice a day 
 only) consisted of the same rye bread, a piece of 
 herring, and milk-washed barley. 
 
 When Shmunke was in the house his parents 
 never talked above a whisper; then their thoughts
 
 My New Home 103 
 
 seemed to be centered upon him alone. Late at 
 night, while Shmunke pondered in the Yeshiva over 
 some commentary upon the Talmud, and while 
 I sleeplessly thought of Katia, Menke and Groone 
 would hold council regarding their ben-yochid's 
 future. The subject was always the same, and 
 their talk always was much as follows: 
 
 "Menke" thus the dialogue would commence 
 "Menke, are you already asleep? [Menke would 
 stir in his bed, evidently desirous of slumber.] 
 Menke, you blockhead, you peasant's brain, you 
 straw-stuffed head, why not Mendel the timber 
 merchant's daughter ? Why not ? [No reply from 
 Menke.] Now tell me why not, you stiff-necked 
 father. Mendel, as the whole world knows, is a 
 lamden [a man learned in the Talmud], who 
 owns a water-mill, manages two large estates for 
 Count Metzkewicz, is tax-collector, and has no sons. 
 [The primogeniture law is still in existence among 
 the Jews in Russia.] Mendel is fully seventy years 
 old, and how long does a man live? Think what 
 Shmunke would fall heir to. Imagine what Hirshle 
 the cobbler, Baril the carpenter, Zemach the water- 
 carrier would think of us then and who would 
 not? They would simply hang themselves with 
 jealousy. Shmunke would get a seat in the syna- 
 gogue next to the Oren-Kodesh. What ! you are 
 really snoring ? A plague on you ! You may burst 
 on the spot. And I say Mendel's daughter and no 
 one else."
 
 104 The Fugitive 
 
 A few seconds of silence would ensue. Not a 
 sound from the other bed. 
 
 " Well, Menke, did you get deaf and dumb all of 
 a sudden?" 
 
 "Oh, I told you a hundred times," Menke would 
 finally answer through his nose in a sleepy tone, 
 "that I'd rather have my son marry a rabbi's 
 daughter than the daughter of a timber merchant. 
 What is wealth? As it stands in the Tehilim 
 [Psalms] : ' For when he dieth he shall carry noth- 
 ing away: his glory shall not descend after him." 
 From the clearness of his voice I judged that he 
 rose on his elbow, as he continued suavely: " Look 
 here: Torah is the best merchandise. The Rabbi 
 is also an aged man, the girl is his only child, and 
 when he dies who will succeed him if he should 
 have a son like our Shmunke ? Narrele [little fool]," 
 he would proceed persuasively, "why should money 
 dazzle your eyes? Now think what our enemies 
 would say seeing our Shmunke with the Rabbi's 
 daughter under the Chupa [nuptial canopy]." 
 
 Little by little such conversations would become 
 more and more broken until nothing would be 
 heard from the next room but the sonorous snoring 
 of the pair, like trumpets out of tune.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 THE "SHA". 
 
 HOWEVER great the contrast between the life 
 I had led in the Sudya's house and that I spent 
 with these humble people, the next few months 
 passed rapidly and almost happily. It is true the 
 sacred fire which Katia had kindled in my young 
 heart did not smoulder, and the ambition which 
 she had aroused in me grew daily and took full 
 possession of me; but I was conscious of the heavy 
 shackles that checked my movements, and was 
 discreet enough to keep still when I realised that 
 the raising of my voice would bring me no relief. 
 
 I learned the ways and manners of my school- 
 mates and became one of them. I learned to 
 sway myself backward and forward and shout 
 the Talmudic lore at the top of my voice. By and 
 by I even learned to condemn Rabbi Brill for being 
 henpecked, and his young wife for curtailing the 
 students' stipends. 
 
 Ephraim was as commanding in this great insti- 
 tution as he had been in that dingy little Talmud- 
 Torah. Here, too, he was the leading spirit, and 
 was hated by Rabbi Brill and the other seminary 
 officials as he had been feared by Shlomka Gazlen. 
 
 105
 
 io6 The Fugitive 
 
 Although the school authorities knew that he was 
 violating every rule of the faculty, he was never 
 molested on that score. But he frequently got 
 himself into trouble by taking the part of others. 
 
 A few days before the close of the winter semester 
 the stipends of forty-five students were reduced 
 twenty per cent., and a number of students who 
 had been caught reading "prohibited books" were 
 given notice to resign. Ephraim promptly took 
 up the cause of his unfortunate fellow-students. He 
 openly condemned the actions of the Rosh-H' Shiva 
 and agitated fearlessly among his classmates. 
 The Yeshiva was in a state of uprising. Students 
 stood in groups about the campus, discussing 
 the state of affairs in excited tones, hushing at the 
 appearance of Rabbi Brill and resuming as soon as 
 he was out of sight. 
 
 "To-night we'll have the biggest 'Sha' Rabbi 
 Brill ever saw," Ephraim confided to me one morn- 
 ing. "Unless the stipends are raised and the 
 raids of students' lodgings stopped at once, Rabbi 
 Brill will ctay there all night, and every window- 
 pane of his house will be smashed." 
 
 "But why blame him?" I asked. "If the 
 contributions to the stipend fund have diminished, 
 what can he do?" 
 
 "What can he do?" he burst out vehemently. 
 
 You're the same chicken-hearted fellow as of 
 
 old; you always believe everybody. He lives in 
 
 luxury, his wife rolls in gold and lavishes money on
 
 The "Sha" 107 
 
 dresses, and forty-five poor students are to suffer ! 
 Why should he suppress the reading of en- 
 lightening books and periodicals? Aren't we our 
 own masters?" 
 
 I urged him to abandon the plan, but he said 
 sharply that I was just like a girl afraid of 
 everybody; and then he abruptly left me. 
 
 In the evening, after prayers, every student 
 resumed his studies as usual. Rabbi Brill, as was 
 his wont, walked between the rows of desks, and 
 up and down the long passage between the tall, 
 white "four columns" which supported the oriental 
 structure. He moved slowly, his thumbs stuck 
 restfully in his abnet, his Streimel (round fur hat) 
 tilted back, and cast suspicious glances here and 
 there. Presently Rabbi Brill reached his arm- 
 chair, which looked like a kingly throne, and opened 
 a pocket-edition volume of the Mishna* (a syllabic 
 digest of the Talmud). 
 
 Then suddenly, "Sh! Sh! Sh ! Sh!" hissed 
 five hundred breaths. And just as suddenly all 
 were hushed. 
 
 Rabbi Brill leaped from his chair, and his ener- 
 getic, powerful face clouded with rage. He turned 
 his piercing eyes right and left, but none of the 
 students looked at him. 
 
 " Sh ! Sh ! Sh ! Sh ! " again came from all sides 
 like so many hissing snakes. 
 
 The Mashgiach slapped his desk wrathfully. 
 "Silence!" he cried.
 
 io8 The Fugitive 
 
 "Silence!" shouted his assistant. 
 
 But their commands did nothing to quiet the 
 sibilant uproar. 
 
 Rabbi Brill's anger seemed to be aroused to its 
 highest pitch, but he still restrained his feelings, 
 and continued walking down the passage between 
 the "four columns," trying to subdue the class 
 with his looks. But of no avail. His patience 
 gave way, and he cried out in his hoarse voice: 
 "Stop hissing!" 
 
 No one regarded him. Stamping of feet 
 began to be heard at the farthest end of the hall. 
 Ephraim, who sat opposite me, joined in the stamp- 
 ing, and commenced slapping the book before him. 
 Rabbi Brill paused in front of me, his patriarchal 
 countenance white with wrath, and fixed his eyes 
 upon Ephraim. 
 
 "Stop that, you rascal!" he shouted, pointing 
 his finger at Ephraim. 
 
 " Raise the stipends !" responded Ephraim boldly, 
 hissing and stamping his feet the more. 
 
 Rabbi Brill lifted his hand and let it fall twice 
 on Ephraim's cheek. The reports of the slaps hushed 
 the class for a second, but the next instant the 
 confusion increased. A prolonged whistle rang 
 through the seminary. At once all the lights were 
 turned out, and a shower of smashed lamps and 
 their chimneys came rattling to the floor ; benches, 
 chairs, tables, and everything breakable flew up in 
 the air and came down with a crash ; a large tank of
 
 The "Sha" 109 
 
 water which stood at the entrance was turned over; 
 and above the clapping, stamping, shouting, whis- 
 tling, and hissing, the cry arose again and again in 
 chorus: "Raise the weekly stipends!" "Raise the 
 weekly stipends!" 
 
 Rabbi Brill groped his way out of the darkness, 
 but the Mashgiach and his assistant, who were less 
 respected, were beaten and thrown bodily out of 
 the hall with a great air-rending cheer. 
 
 As soon as the "Sha" was over a committee of 
 arbitration was sent to the Rosh-H 'Shiva. He, or 
 rather his young wife, immediately granted the 
 raise of those weekly stipends that had been reduced, 
 but he would not retract the other decrees. The 
 offense at which they were directed could not be 
 tolerated in a Jewish theological school, he declared 
 with tears in his eyes, and he said that he would 
 rather see the doors of the Yeshiva closed forever 
 than permit the reading of " pernicious books," as 
 he called novels and philosophic works. 
 
 Ephraim saved others, but himself he could not 
 save. The authorities could not overlook the part 
 he had taken in this uprising, and immediately 
 ordered his expulsion. 
 
 One beautiful springlike morning a few days 
 later a light cart moved slowly through the main 
 street of Javolin, and after it came a long train of 
 whistling, singing, shouting students. When the 
 hilarious procession reached the mail-coach road 
 leading to Vilno the cart halted and all voices were
 
 no The Fugitive 
 
 hushed; all eyes were raised to Ephraim, who 
 mounted the cart. He waved his hat and expanded 
 his chest, but for a moment it seemed he could not 
 give vent to his overflowing sentiments. His eyes 
 glowed like burning charcoal and his whole body 
 quivered. Then he controlled himself and poured 
 forth his ideas with all the passion and fire of his 
 nature. He spoke of the new epoch which was 
 beginning with the young generation, of fanaticism, 
 of enlightenment, and of the mysterious future. 
 
 The audience listened breathlessly. When he 
 had finished speaking they burst into a frenzy of 
 cheering, and when the time of departure came 
 every one embraced and kissed him. 
 
 Long after the happy gathering had returned 
 to their crude studies, long after the cart that 
 carried my friend had disappeared from sight, I 
 stood brooding by the roadside, with my head 
 drooped over my chest just as I had stood on 
 "Bloody Hill" years before, when Ephraim had 
 left me that first time. I was again left friendless, 
 and again I began to brood over the past, yearning 
 the more after my sweet Katia, and longing after 
 the books I had read in her house, and (with shame 
 in my heart do I record this) a faint hatred against 
 the Talmud and against Jewish life generally 
 struck root in the depths of my heart.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 THE REAWAKENING 
 
 THE following summer was the beginning of a 
 great epoch in the history of the Yeshiva, and also 
 in the lives of all Russian Jews. There was a 
 reawakening a resurrection, so to speak of the 
 low-sunken race. The flood of enlightenment that 
 streamed from western lands swept even through 
 the enclosures of the uncouth Ghettos. 
 
 That summer the broad-minded monarch, the 
 emancipator of the peasants, also showed his willing- 
 ness to liberate the Jews. His first step was to 
 admit them to schools from which they had been 
 barred. Hitherto the young people had been 
 restrained within by the demoniac clutches of 
 fanaticism and without by the tyrannical hand of 
 the Government. The announcement of the relaxa- 
 tion of the latter flashed through the dingy Jewries 
 like a new light. The young generation was dazzled 
 with the brilliancy of the opportunities for enlight- 
 enment that had dawned upon them. There was 
 confusion in the synagogues and uprising in the 
 Yeshivas. Children ran away from their fanatical 
 parents, and young Talmudists from their wives. 
 
 in
 
 us The Fugitive 
 
 Haskolo ! Haskolo ! (culture) became the cry of 
 the young. 
 
 Naturally the Mashgiach and his "scouts" were 
 now more active than ever and kept closer watch 
 over the students on the " suspected list" a list 
 that included the very brightest students of the 
 institution. It became a daily occurrence to search 
 students' rooms, break open their trunks, burn 
 their "forbidden books," and expel them from 
 town that they might not corrupt others. But 
 these acts of tyranny could not destroy the craving 
 for the new thought. Prohibited literature con- 
 tinued to be read behind bolted doors and in seques- 
 tered spots of the woods which surrounded Javolin, 
 and in spite of the Mashgiach's careful scrutiny of 
 the mail, "forbidden" books and journals continued 
 to be smuggled in. It was even discovered that 
 some of the contributors to the black-listed maga- 
 zines were seminary students, who concealed their 
 identity under fictitious names. 
 
 But in none of these acts of insubordination did 
 I take part, nor did the least suspicion fall upon 
 me. I never touched a literary book or a peri- 
 odical, nor did I even breathe to any one that I could 
 read Russian. The faculty wished me to study 
 the Talmud and the Talmud only, and I obeyed 
 their rules religiously. I had had enough trouble 
 and now craved peace. I followed in the footsteps 
 of my room-mate Shmunke, and little by little my 
 mind became as dull and inactive as his. My only
 
 The Reawakening 113 
 
 thought apart from the Talmud, and that only a 
 fleeting one, was a fragmentary recollection of 
 Katia and her father. Fanaticism had grown 
 stronger and stronger in me until it had induced 
 me to believe that to think of anything but the 
 Talmud even of Katia was an unpardonable sin, 
 and I scrupulously avoided all sins. 
 
 But changes happen unexpectedly. It was late 
 near the first blush of morning. I sat in the 
 Yeshiva, swaying my body over the Talmud and 
 trying to unravel some knotty point. For there 
 are many knotty points in that crude and mar- 
 vellous Babylonian encyclopedia, to which hundreds 
 of commentators have copiously added knots in 
 their earnest endeavour to simplify difficulties. 
 There are Tesopheth, Marshoa, Mahram, the Rosh, 
 and numerous other hair-splitting expounders, each 
 one of whom is trying to straighten the other, only 
 to become the more entangled himself. There is 
 no end of questions and no end of answers, but the 
 radical question was never asked and never an- 
 swered. But let me not fall into the Talmudic 
 style, but proceed with my story. 
 
 Only one other student still lingered in the great 
 class-room Nehemiah Rosencranz, a dark, slight 
 young man of about twenty-one or two, with a 
 pair of nervous, thoughtful eyes and tightly pressed 
 lips. The younger boys looked up to him with a 
 feeling which almost amounted to reverence. The 
 Mashgiach and his scouts would hardly have dared
 
 ii4 The Fugitive 
 
 to search his room, even if they had suspected him 
 of wrong-doing. Rabbi Brill often found himself 
 greatly perplexed when Nehemiah would begin to 
 question during a Talmudic lecture. Besides honour, 
 he received a large stipend, which enabled him to 
 live as comfortably as the richest boys of the school. 
 
 I occasionally glanced across the room at Rosen- 
 cranz. Several times I saw him peer around 
 suspiciously. My curiosity was aroused and I 
 watched him furtively. I soon detected that he 
 was reading a little volume lying between his large 
 folio of Talmud with a guilty air like one count- 
 ing counterfeits. I stole softly behind him, and 
 glancing over his shoulder I saw that the char- 
 acters of the book were Russian. 
 
 He was startled as he looked up, and hastily 
 covered the pages of the book with both hands. 
 
 *' Don't be afraid," I said. " I merely wished to 
 know what you were reading." 
 
 His face grew pale. At first he could not answer ; 
 then he stammered: "It is no nothing." 
 
 " I won't denounce you," I reassured him. " You 
 may show me the little book." 
 
 He stared at me dubiously. But there really was 
 but one course open to him to take me into his 
 confidence. He looked about fearfully, as if he did 
 not trust the vacancy of the large room. Then he 
 said in a low voice: "This is Pushkin." And look- 
 ing up to me he continued: "Oh, perhaps you don't 
 know who Pushkin is. He is the greatest Russian
 
 The Reawakening: 115 
 
 poet, and his verses are so beautifully wild that they 
 almost tear my heart when I read them." 
 
 I looked incredulous. I wished not to disclose 
 to him the fact that I had read Pushkin. Pre- 
 tending perfect ignorance and innocence, I returned: 
 "I would not read such poems." 
 
 "Ah ! it is because you do not understand them," 
 he rejoined warmly, and his black eyes sparkled. 
 "If you did you would forget eating and drinking 
 and sleeping and do nothing but read his verses. 
 It makes your heart throb and the blood in your 
 veins run warmer, swifter. It is not like the Tal- 
 mud it is more inspiring, more elevating." 
 
 I stared amazed. This from Rosencranz's lips ! 
 
 I still feigned innocence: "But they are gentile 
 books ! How can you compare them to the Tal- 
 mud?" 
 
 He concealed Pushkin in his trousers pocket 
 and paused meditatively a few minutes, as if he 
 were hesitating whether or not to speak. The dawn 
 shone through the long, arched windows of the 
 seminary, and Rosencranz's face grew paler and 
 more greenish from the cold morning light. Then 
 he clasped me by the hand and spoke impulsively: 
 "You are blind you are blind. Do not remain in 
 darkness and nebulous superstition. Flee from 
 the narrow compass of the synagogue. There is a 
 larger, greater, grander sphere than that circum- 
 scribed by the boundaries of the orthodox faith. 
 The world is not as gloomy and sordid as you have
 
 n6 The Fugitive 
 
 experienced it in the enclosure of our self-made 
 Ghetto. Waste no more of your profitable youth 
 and vigour of boyhood on the almost obsolete 
 genius of ancient generations. Not everything 
 that is old is necessarily sacred, and nothing is 
 sacred because it is old. Idolatry is the oldest 
 worship, for that matter. It is the feebler element 
 in man that reveres age : the more vigorous vitality 
 sympathises with old age, but never venerates it." 
 
 He spoke fervently; his eyes glowed with inspi- 
 ration. I drank in every word that fell from his 
 mouth, as if it came from the lips of a prophet. 
 
 "Many youths," he continued zealously, "who 
 are endowed with Hebrew genius and who should 
 be the torch-bearers of true civilisation and enlight- 
 enment are rotting away in the swamps of the syna- 
 gogue. Ah, how many brilliant gems myriads of 
 them sink in the bottomless Talmudic mire ! Russia 
 Lithuania in particular is an inestimable gold- 
 mine, but there are no speculators found to work it. 
 Oh, the Talmud ! the Talmud !" he cried out with real 
 pain and agony, his lips trembling with agitation, 
 "that golden chain that throttles the Jewish youths 
 of Russia ! Does not the Talmud itself say, in 
 commenting on the verse 'He hath set me in dark 
 places' [Lamentations], that means the Babylonian 
 Talmud ? But our people are beginning to open their 
 eyes now that the Czar has opened the schools to us. 
 Ah ! one decade of toleration and liberty, and our 
 people will flourish as in the days of old. It takes
 
 The Reawakening 117 
 
 other nations a century to make a progressive step, 
 but it takes the Jews only a generation, a quarter 
 of a century, if liberty be given them, to overtake 
 them all. Awake, Israel ! The hour is striking 
 now. If you oversleep this chance, God knows when 
 the hour will strike for you again." 
 
 He thus poured forth his feelings, tears glistening 
 in his eyes. He laid bare before me the conditions 
 of our faith, the absurd system of the Yeshiva, 
 how much energy was wasted on useless studies 
 while there were so many better, more useful, 
 nobler things for which to spend one's life. He 
 told me of a secret society to which he belonged, 
 whose object was the promulgation of liberal ideas, 
 and he urged me to join it and come into the light. 
 All this stirred the slumbering feelings of my soul, 
 revived the dying recollections of Russian litera- 
 ture of Katia, and made me think and doubt. 
 
 The door of the Yeshiva opened softly, and 
 Rabbi Brill, clad in a long, light robe, with Tephilim 
 (phylacteries) on his head, stepped in like an appa- 
 rition. He held his Mishna-pocket-edition in one 
 hand, with his index finger between the leaves, 
 and with the other he was fondling the straps that 
 hung down from the Tephilim. He stopped in front 
 of Nehemiah and me, and smiling benignly said in 
 his fatherly, care-taking, hoarse voice, "The Yeshiva 
 is imposing a too heavy burden on you children 
 always Nehemiah and Israel," and he tapped us on 
 the shoulders in a most paternal manner. And
 
 n8 The Fugitive 
 
 raising his eyes to the long clock that hung on the 
 wall at the entrance, he added: "So late, and only 
 two of you?"
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 I BEGIN TO DOUBT 
 
 FAITH is like a heap of dry sand: unmolested it 
 may lie for ages, but as soon as one grain of it is 
 disturbed by the slightest wind, it crumbles away 
 until there is no trace of it left. 
 
 Neither my stay with Judge Bialnick nor the 
 fiery arguments of Ephraim had shaken my belief 
 in the least. The exulting talk of Rosencranz 
 would likewise have had no permanent effect upon 
 me had he not immediately begun to take advan- 
 tage of the impression he had made. The following 
 day he gave me Spinoza's Ethics. That book 
 shattered my peaceful belief in a theological God. 
 The next book which he borrowed for me and 
 brought to my lodgings hidden under his coat 
 was "The Blunderer in the Paths of Life." My 
 heart throbbed violently as I glanced at its title. 
 This novel, which had just appeared, was the dread 
 of the rabbis and fanatics and was condemned by 
 the Jewish clergy. The vital genius of its author 
 shook the very foundation of Judaism. It was a 
 book filled with graphic descriptions of our sordid 
 Jewish life and caustic criticism of our absurd 
 
 119
 
 The Fugitive 
 
 religious customs. I also found myself a blunderer 
 in the paths of life. 
 
 I raced feverishly through volumes of philosophy, 
 history, and literature. As I plunged deeper and 
 deeper into modern studies (as I called everything 
 that was not Talmudic) a scorn for theology, and 
 for Jewish learning in particular, arose in my heart. 
 Finally I accepted two philosophic truths: "By 
 good, I understand that which we know is positively 
 useful to us. By evil, I understand that which we 
 positively know hinders us from possessing anything 
 that is good." And I asked myself: "Am I pur- 
 suing good by the study of the Talmud ? Do I not 
 positively know that this hinders me from possess- 
 ing everything that is good?" I shuddered as I 
 answered myself. 
 
 I told Nehemiah of my thoughts, and he smiled, 
 saying: "Well, you are already saved. The knowl- 
 edge of one's ignorance is wisdom."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 I AM BE'T RAYED 
 
 As Shmunke spent about eighteen hours daily in 
 the Yeshiva, I pursued my new studies in our room 
 without fear of detection. Shmunke's fanaticism 
 reached the point where religion and barbarism meet. 
 He would not look into a mirror because he regarded 
 such an act effeminate, and he would not pass 
 between two women on the ground of immorality. 
 He not only bore the yoke of orthodoxy, but he 
 even hated with the zealous hatred of a savage any 
 one who did not bear it. However, I little sus- 
 pected that he was spying upon me. 
 
 One cold, rainy spring morning, several months 
 after I began my new studies, I was brooding over 
 a big folio of Talmud, though my thoughts were 
 far from the subject before me, when the Mashgiach's 
 assistant came up to me and whispered in my ear 
 that I should forthwith appear before Rabbi Brill. 
 I followed him out of the Yeshiva into the Rabbi's 
 study, my brain filled with wild fears of evil. Rabbi 
 Brill sat in his large arm-chair, his face clouded with 
 sadness. His young wife stood haughtily in the 
 doorway between the library and the adjoining 
 room. Behind the Rabbi's chair stood the Mash- 
 
 121
 
 122 The Fugitive 
 
 giach and his scouts. The looks of all of them 
 pinned me as I stepped over the threshold: the 
 bigotry of a Torquemada was stamped on each 
 face except that of the Rosh-H'Shiva. One of the 
 scouts held a bundle of books under his arm. At 
 the sight of these a chill went through me. I knew 
 my fate. 
 
 "You are Israel Teploffker, and you have your 
 lodgings with Menke the tailor, hey?" inquired the 
 Mashgiach in his hissing, whistle-like voice. 
 
 I made no answer. 
 
 "Are these books yours?" he demanded, pointing 
 at the bundle under the scout's arm. 
 
 I still made no reply. There was such a whirl 
 of emotions within me that I could not have spoken 
 had I wanted to. Rabbi Brill held his sad, piercing 
 eyes fixed on me and sighed softly. 
 
 "So you confess, Teploffker," hissed the Mash- 
 giach again, " that these ' Epicurean books' are your 
 property and that you have read them?" 
 
 My hatred of orthodoxy suddenly flamed up. I 
 was on the point of answering the Mashgiach by 
 bursting into a fierce denunciation of Judaism, but 
 Rabbi Brill ordered them all out of the room by a 
 wave of his hand. I was following, knowing well 
 my sentence, when the Rabbi's voice, hoarse as if 
 choked with tears, checked me. 
 
 " Listen, my child. I accepted you in this insti- 
 tution when no other place was open to you. I 
 allowed you a stipend almost beyond my power.
 
 I Am Betrayed 123 
 
 I did this all for you with the understanding that 
 you should study the Talmud. But you have 
 devoted your time to other things to Haskolo; 
 you are worshiping strange gods. Modern culture 
 is like poison a cure to one, death to another. To 
 Judaism it is death." 
 
 He rose from his seat, and laying his hand gently 
 on my shoulder he continued: "Ah, the young 
 generation ! Our young men do not realise the 
 preciousness of the Talmud. It is now, as it has 
 been in centuries past, our stronghold and a pillar 
 of light that has guided us through all darkness. 
 But for it, what would become of our Jewish brains, 
 dulled by gentile cruelty and persecution? And 
 what would our morals be but for its mighty influ- 
 ence? What became of the Karraites after they 
 abandoned the Talmud? Talmud is like salt, 
 which must be preserved, if not for its own sake, 
 for the preservation of the Jew. Its beautiful 
 legends, its instructive precepts, its ethical fables, 
 its brilliant sayings, and the vigorous genius that 
 permeates every line of it ah ! the Talmud, and 
 the Talmud only, has made the Jew indestructible, 
 everlasting !" 
 
 The Rabbi's voice had become mournful, and 
 tears were trickling down his face. "The gaudy 
 appearance of European civilisation is dazzling the 
 eyes of our young. The same was true when Greece 
 was in its glory; then the Jews wished to shine as 
 Hellenes, not as Jews. The same happened a short
 
 ia4 The Fugitive 
 
 while ago in Germany; the same is going on now 
 in our own land. Ah" he sighed deeply, and a 
 stream of tears gushed forth over his already wet 
 cheeks "it is either to remain a Jew in the old 
 sense or give up Judaism entirely. The inherent 
 faculty of criticism in our race in a scientific age 
 will not tolerate Judaism or any other religion. 
 The gentile can be cultured and still remain true 
 to his faith, but the Jew is too critical for that. It 
 is either belief and dogma or science and infidelism. 
 What has become of most of the followers of Mendels- 
 sohn, who planned so wisely and sincerely? The 
 great Rabbi and philosopher would return to his 
 grave had he risen to behold the result of his arduous 
 labour. Only Moses Mendelssohn could be learned 
 in philosophy and be a Jew. Woe! Woe!" and 
 the Rabbi's tears streamed down faster and faster. 
 "Even his own offspring, his sons and daughters, 
 turned their backs on the faith of their noble father. 
 The invention killed the inventor." 
 
 I listened to all this with a drooping head. When 
 he had finished he delivered the sentence I expected 
 I must leave the Yeshiva at once. 
 
 I hurried to my lodgings. Entering the house, I 
 found my landlord, Menke, at his working-table, 
 with a disengaged needle in his hand, his spectacles 
 lowered almost to the very end of his nose, one leg 
 thrown over the other in reflective forgetfulness. 
 His wife, at his side, had the little finger of her 
 left hand between her lips, her right hand supporting
 
 I Am Betrayed 125 
 
 the elbow of the left, and when I came in she moved 
 slightly forward and heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 My appearance evidently disconcerted them. 
 After Menke swallowed a lump and feigned a faint 
 cough, he began to say something, but a glance of his 
 helpmeet silenced him, and without addressing 
 any one in particular she said: " Oi ! oi ! what have 
 we come to in these days !" and her " Oi ! " seemed 
 to find an echo in her husband's heart. "Oi!" 
 he also intoned, and then remained sitting and 
 looking abstractedly with the disengaged needle in 
 his hand. 
 
 "He!" she proceeded dismally, swaying her 
 heavily bewigged head. "Who ever heard of such 
 gzeires [fatal decrees] in former years? Who ever 
 heard of ' Epicurean books ' ? Nu ! nu ! what an 
 age we live in ! Would that my eyes had not seen 
 it ! We took him [this to her husband] into our 
 home to be an associate to Shmunke, who is a 
 blessing to the town, and now at last even Israel 
 Teploffker falls into Satan's snares. Nu ! what an 
 age we live in !" 
 
 Menke was again about to say something, but 
 was silenced by another look from his spouse. 
 
 I came into my room. My trunk, or rather the 
 wooden box that served as a trunk, was broken 
 open, and all my books and papers were gone. As 
 I stood gazing at my few pieces of underwear that 
 had been thrown out of the box and now lay scat- 
 tered about the room, Shmunke appeared.
 
 126 The Fugitive 
 
 "Epicurean, renegade, apostate, sinner in Israel," 
 he accosted me in his nasal voice, "you have pol- 
 luted our house with your unclean books. The 
 Talmud in Sanhedrin says : ' He who reads sacrile- 
 gious books will not enter the kingdom of heaven.' 
 I watched you for a long while," he continued 
 zealously, swinging his long arms like the revolving 
 wings of a windmill, "until, thank God! I could 
 inform the authorities in the proper time. And 
 you get out of this house this very minute." 
 
 I did not answer a word. I gathered my few 
 belongings from the floor and rolled them into a 
 bundle. "Indeed, this very minute," added 
 Shmunke's mother, who had followed him into our 
 room. "I cannot keep you in my house a half- 
 second. Oh ! oh ! the chorem [ban] ! Only four 
 years ago the two daughters of 'Avremil der 
 Schwarze' died in one night because Rabbi Brill 
 put the ban on them, and the Mashgiach told me 
 I must drive you out of the house without a second's 
 delay or the ban will follow." Groone wrung her 
 hands as she delivered this monologue. 
 
 "Oh! oh! the chorem I" Menke also ventured 
 the remark, but a glance from Groone seemed to 
 put him off again, and he went on stitching the 
 stiff lining on his lap. 
 
 Like Adam and Eve, "some natural tears I 
 dropped, but wiped them soon," and " with wander- 
 ing steps and slow" I took my solitary way from 
 this Paradise, watched by the piercing glances of the
 
 I Am Betrayed 127 
 
 cherubim, Menke and Groone, and in dread of the 
 flaming sword, Shmunke, "which turned every way 
 to keep the way of the tree of life."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 I WANDER AGAIN 
 
 WHEN driven out of my Garden of Eden I 
 repaired to the synagogue. In Lithuania the 
 synagogue is a lyceum where the most erudite of 
 the Jewish community come together of an evening 
 to vie in advancing hair-splitting arguments and 
 technical rigmarole of the Talmud; a board of 
 trade where business men discuss market prices 
 and competition; a club where friends meet to chat 
 over a cigarette or a pipe; a center of gossip where 
 everybody talks of everybody else ; a place of refuge 
 for the poor against whom every other place is 
 closed; and sometimes an arena where knotty 
 fingers and matted beards come in close contact, 
 and hats, like comets, fly in the air. 
 
 So to the synagogue I went to spend the night. 
 Now while I write I see myself sitting in a corner, 
 between two tall book-cases crammed with ancient 
 volumes, and near the Dutch oven that reached to 
 the high ceiling. My eyes are so blurred with tears 
 that everything about me is watery and dark. I 
 stare stupidly in front of me without thinking of 
 anything in particular. Fragments of the past 
 come and go like small tatters of clouds in a stormy 
 
 128
 
 I Wander Again 129 
 
 sky; they shift and float and drive one another, 
 but I see nothing clear, nothing definite. One 
 moment I think of the present, and my heart swells 
 with deadly hatred against the Jews and their 
 religion and their rabbis. Another moment my 
 anger against my own people is allayed. I recall 
 Judge Bialnick ; I think of the peasant's confession ; 
 I vaguely reflect upon the incidents of my father's 
 death. And again my sore heart smarts and 
 burns with hatred not against the Jews, but 
 against the world that enslaved and degraded 
 them. And again the Jew the old generation 
 the young generation prejudice; and again my 
 brain burns with fever at the cruelty of their fa- 
 naticism. Ah, Katia ! Katia ! like a flash of light- 
 ning that splits the clouds asunder, her face, her 
 voice, the vivid recollections of her charming ways 
 recurred to my mind. Ah, Katia ! Katia ! the lapse 
 intervening between her and the present vanishes, 
 and my heart is yearning, craving, burning with 
 anguish and desire to see her, to talk to her, to 
 ask her for help. 
 
 Toward morning one desire took definite shape 
 amid the chaos of my mind a desire to emancipate 
 myself from the Jewish bondage, to become free 
 free, and cast off the yoke that crushed my father, 
 my grandfather, and his father before him to 
 work and work and work and become not a great 
 rabbi, who sinks in the mire of superstition and 
 fanaticism but a great man such as Katia wished 
 to see me, like Pushkin or Gogol or Lermontoff.
 
 130 The Fugitive 
 
 Thus my whole past flashed through my mind, 
 and the present stood before me in all its grimness. 
 My heart became oppressed with bitterness. I 
 wished I could cry aloud, so that the big syna- 
 gogue, the market-place, the town, and the sur- 
 rounding fields and forests and brooks and ponds 
 would echo again and again the great anguish 
 of my soul. 
 
 At daybreak I took my little bundle under my 
 arm and left the synagogue. I had decided to 
 go to Vilno. Vilno was the Lithuanian Jerusalem, 
 where the Jews were already awakening from their 
 fanatical slumber. There perhaps I might find 
 means to continue my "modern studies" in the 
 gymnasium. I had no money to hire a coach, so 
 I made up my mind to walk. The distance was 
 only a hundred versts, and I could get there on foot 
 in four days. 
 
 At the close of the day I arrived at a small town 
 wholly inhabited by Jews. As I came into the 
 principal thoroughfare, the Beadle, with his head 
 thrown back and his hands over his ears, rushed 
 through the streets proclaiming in stentorian voice, 
 "In Shool Herein!" which was the signal for 
 merchants to close their places of business and go 
 to the synagogue. I was reminded that it was 
 Friday. As I was hungry and fatigued from my 
 long trip, I decided, if I could get a place to stay, 
 to remain here over the Sabbath. 
 
 I went to the synagogue and inquired for the
 
 I Wander Again 131 
 
 Shammes (sexton). I found him standing on a 
 high chair, with several assistants around him, 
 lighting the candles of the traditional Menorah 
 (candlestick). He was a dwarfish man with wet 
 peiis and a shiny forehead. In response to my 
 question as to whether he could procure me a place 
 in which to stay over the Sabbath, he shrugged 
 his shoulders and grumbled: "Too late now too 
 late." However, after I had incidentally informed 
 him that I came from Javolin Yeshiva a certain 
 deference came into his manner and he said: "Stay 
 here till after service." 
 
 I was ashamed to beg, but what will not a person 
 do when he is tired and hungry, without a farthing 
 in his pocket ? After service the dwarfish Shammes 
 invited me to follow him to the entrance hall. I 
 took my stand beside him at the door and patiently 
 waited. 
 
 "Gut Shabbos Gut Shabbos," the worshipers 
 saluted each other, every face wearing a look of 
 contentment; "Gut Shabbos," the children greeted 
 their fathers; "Gut Shabbos," the poor submissively 
 greeted the rich; "Gut Shabbos," the humble beg- 
 gars greeted everybody; "Gut Shabbos Gut Shab- 
 bos," kept on buzzing in the synagogue as the 
 large crowd passed through the narrow hallway. 
 
 Presently the Shammes, who had been scanning 
 the passersby, stopped one of the worshipers a 
 venerable-looking man with a fine, broad, jet-black 
 beard and happy, smiling eyes, who was followed
 
 132 The Fugitive 
 
 by two men, one on crutches and the other with an 
 empty, dangling sleeve. "Gut Shabbos, Reb* 
 Dovidle Gut Shabbos," the Shammes greeted him. 
 
 "Gut Shabbos, Reb Samson," returned Reb 
 Dovidle. 
 
 "Reb Dovidle," proceeded the Shammes respect- 
 fully, and scratching the back of his head, "a 
 Reb Dovidle a a young man a a a student 
 from Javolin a " 
 
 " Indeed ! indeed ! " the good-natured Reb Dovidle 
 interrupted him. " I always like to have Mezumen 
 [three men to the benediction] at my table. Why, 
 certainly, let him come." 
 
 Samson introduced me to Reb Dovidle, who 
 extended me a cordial invitation to remain with 
 him over the Sabbath. 
 
 As Reb Dovidle, his young son, whom he led by 
 the hand, and I approached his house, two little 
 children came running to meet their father, with 
 joyous shouting: "Gut Shabbos, papa Gut Shab- 
 bos." He bent down, kissed them, and the children 
 clung to the skirts of his frock coat. Opening the 
 door, Reb Dovidle greeted in a low cadence of 
 voice: "Gut Shabbos, Gittele Gut Shabbos." 
 
 His wife, Gittele, beamed with joy and her 
 diamond ear-rings twinkled as they bobbed in the 
 light of the candle on the table. Everybody looked 
 happy Sabbath eve spoke from every face. Reb 
 Dovidle kissed his dark-haired daughter, leaned 
 
 * Used in the sense of Mr.
 
 I Wander Again 133 
 
 his hands on the little children's head and mur- 
 mured a blessing. Then walking leisurely up and 
 down the room and clapping his hands gleefully, 
 he hummed: "Who can find a virtuous woman? 
 For her price is above rubies. The heart of her 
 husband does safely trust in her, so that he shall 
 have no need of spoil. She layeth her hands 
 to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff. 
 She stretcheth out her hand to the poor, yea, she 
 reacheth forth her hand to the needy," etc. 
 
 Thus hummed the happy Reb Dovidle in Hebrew, 
 and his soft voice quavered in quaint undulations 
 while he beamed upon his wife and children "like 
 olive plants round about the table." Gittele read 
 in a low tone: "Peace be to you, angels of service, 
 angels eternal of the King of Kings, the Holy One, 
 blessed be He." 
 
 During the meal Reb Dovidle asked me how long 
 I had stayed at Javolin and where I was going, to 
 which I replied (with shame do I record it) not the 
 truth, but rather what I thought best for me. Then 
 he asked me if I knew of a young man who would 
 like to teach Hebrew in a small village about fifteen 
 miles away. Without waiting for my answer he 
 added: "The work would not be hard. My 
 brother-in-law has only a little boy of about seven 
 and a daughter of about seventeen. The instruc- 
 tor would have to be with them only a 'few hours 
 a day." 
 
 I was silent a moment. It occurred to me that
 
 134 The Fugitive 
 
 here was a good opportunity to make a little money 
 to tide me through my first uncertain weeks in 
 Vilno. So I told him I was willing to accept such 
 a position myself for the summer. 
 
 And early Sunday morning I started for 
 Dubrovka, armed with a letter of introduction to 
 Mr. Nosen TakifL
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 I BECOME A TEACHER 
 
 I HAD no difficulty in finding the house of Mr. 
 Takiff, for Reb Dovidle had told me he was an inn- 
 keeper, and that there was but one inn in this 
 little straggling village. The long corridor which 
 ran through the center of the inn to the bar-room 
 was crowded with half-drunken peasants, who 
 jostled me as I picked my way through them, and 
 the bar-room, hazy with the smoke of vile tobacco, 
 was also filled with vodka-soaked muzhiks, who 
 laughed and jabbered and swore. 
 
 "Play!" a drunken peasant roared at a flaxen- 
 haired lad who stood in the middle of the room 
 tightening the keys of a violin. 
 
 " Play, Vanka, play ! " several other voices broke 
 out impatiently at the fiddler. 
 
 "Hey, Vanka, Kraskucha [a peasant's dance]!" 
 cried a robust muzhik beauty, with a red-and-blue 
 dotted kerchief covering her sandy hair and with 
 a strand of green beads around her full neck. 
 
 "A Kraskucha! a Kraskucha!" the crowd 
 approved vociferously; and in appreciation of 
 the girl who proposed the dance a peasant embraced 
 her and kissed her on the mouth. Then came the
 
 136 The Fugitive 
 
 scraping of the violin, stamping of feet, jostling, 
 pushing, hugging, slapping, shouting, whistling, 
 laughing, and the uproarious dance was on again. 
 
 A few minutes of this sufficed for me. I asked 
 of the man who was serving the drinks for the 
 master of the house, and was led across a narrow 
 passage which separated the inn from Mr. TakifFs 
 living quarters into a comfortably furnished sitting- 
 room. An elderly woman with a frank, genial face 
 greeted me. 
 
 "My husband will soon be at leisure, and will 
 be only too glad to see you," she said after I had 
 told her I had a letter of introduction to him. " Per- 
 haps you are hungry?" she immediately added. 
 And turning around, she spoke to a dark-eyed girl 
 who sat reading at the other end of the room: 
 "Malke, dear, show this young man into the dining- 
 room." 
 
 Very much pleased with this cordial welcome, I 
 followed the young girl. 
 
 Soon the innkeeper appeared, slowly puffing at a 
 long-stemmed pipe. Though at first sight he seemed 
 to me an old man, on account of his round, gray 
 beard, he was no more than forty-five. He was 
 tall and strongly built, and had a full white face 
 with a small, thin nose (the Jew's nose is not as 
 long as it is pictured) and with brown eyes that 
 sparkled with youth. He wore a velvet skull-cap 
 and a long, black frock. 
 
 He shook me by the hand warmly, and settling
 
 I Become a Teacher 137 
 
 himself in a chair opposite me began to read the 
 letter I had handed him. 
 
 As his daughter set the meal before me I placed 
 my hands over my eyes, as if from fatigue, and 
 scrutinised her through my fingers. Her face was 
 decidedly handsome. Her nose, like her father's, was 
 of Russian type, and her eyes were black and 
 almond-shaped ; her lips were red and slightly curled, 
 and her complexion was a warm, rosy brown ; and 
 when she put the knife and fork on the table I 
 noticed that her fingers were white and long. 
 
 Mr. Takiff looked up from his letter long enough 
 to glance at the table. "Malke," he said to his 
 daughter, "you have forgotten the salt. You are 
 dreamy of late, my child." 
 
 A faint blush passed over her face. She smiled 
 and murmured some excuse, which afforded me a 
 chance to see her white teeth and the little dimples 
 in her cheeks. While I ate the savoury meal that 
 the girl had placed before me, the innkeeper smoked 
 silently at his long pipe and observed me thought- 
 fully. 
 
 "My brother-in-law writes me," he began, after 
 I had drawn away from the table, "that you will 
 be willing to stay here and teach my daughter and 
 son Hebrew and the Prophets." 
 
 I corroborated Reb Dovidle's statement, and 
 said that I would do my best with his children if 
 he saw fit to employ me. 
 
 With that we went forthwith to business, and
 
 138 The Fugitive 
 
 after we had agreed as to the terms I was formally 
 engaged as instructor to the innkeeper's two 
 children.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 I FIND MY DUTIES VERY AGREEABLE 
 
 THE following day my duties began. It is true 
 the time spent with little Jacob was a trifle monot- 
 onous and irksome, but the hours spent in instruct- 
 ing Malke were not at all tedious. From the first 
 I found pleasure in her lesson period, and this 
 pleasure grew keener and keener. She was of a 
 naturally happy disposition, mirthful and witty, 
 but at times melancholy fits would come upon her, 
 and she would mope about the house with a sad, 
 far-away look in her eyes. I could not understand 
 these widely varying moods, but I had a faint feel- 
 ing that she was being preyed upon by some secret 
 grief. 
 
 My time, aside from that devoted to my pupils, 
 was also well spent. The climate was fresh and 
 wholesome, the environing scenery picturesque, a 
 large forest at a stone's throw, and my many 
 hours of leisure afforded me ample opportunity for 
 meditation and day-dreams in which I took infinite 
 delight. For appearance's sake I kept a volume of 
 Talmud in my room, though I never opened it, and 
 in its stead I made good use of a number of literary 
 works which I found in Malke's library, as well as
 
 140 The Fugitive 
 
 of the Bible, which, in spite of my skepticism, was 
 my favourite book. And at night, alone in my 
 quiet chamber, I would lie awake and think of the 
 past always of the incidents of the past ; the future 
 stood hazily before me like a prophecy, on which I 
 never cared to dwell too long. In such moments 
 my thoughts would travel back to Katia, and with 
 one arm thrown loosely over my eyes and my face 
 turned ceilingward I would muse for hours. The 
 remembrance of her father, like a tatter of cloud, 
 would soon begin to eclipse the happy light of my 
 mind, but each time I would relegate this thought 
 by sheer force of will, and continue my delightful 
 rumination undisturbed. At last my heavenly 
 dream would end in a crushing sense of hopelessness. 
 I would become conscious, as we often do in 
 dreams, that I was merely dreaming a dream that 
 could never come true. And slowly this charming 
 vision would move back, back, and then sink lower 
 and lower, like a setting sun, and a new phantasm 
 would take its place. Vaguely I would begin to 
 think of my pupil; indefinitely her expressive look 
 would stand before me ; faintly her voice, full of 
 pathos, would ring in my ears ; and little by little I 
 would become possessed with a feeling, a desire, 
 as uncertain as the image in my mind's eye. I would 
 thus continue to muse until all else would leave my 
 brain except the thought of Malke. The last 
 thought would lend speed to the beating of my 
 heart and would stir my passions. "She seems
 
 I Find My Duties Very Agreeable 141 
 
 to find no interest in me" would flash through my 
 mind. And insignificant little incidents which had 
 passed between Malke and me would immediately 
 spring to memory, defining more clearly the thought 
 that had just crossed my mind. This thought 
 would fill me with burning jealousy, and jealousy 
 would arouse my feelings. The more I thought of 
 Malke's indifference to me, the more I desired her 
 friendship her affections, if possible. 
 
 These half -jealous, half-arduous sentiments finally 
 got full possession of my heart and brain. The 
 lessons began duly with the opening of a book, 
 but hardly ever proceeded further than a few half- 
 hearted questions and aimless answers. Then we 
 would forget the lesson and talk disjointedly or 
 remain silent, each engrossed in secret thoughts. 
 Malke would sit looking out of the window, her 
 cheeks all aglow with a feeling for which I could 
 see no cause, and I poor bundle of sentiments 
 would interrupt this silence at intervals only to 
 talk as none but imbeciles and lovers can, while 
 the slumbering passions of a recluse stirred me to 
 a fury. 
 
 She was always frank and natural with me; she 
 treated me much as she might have treated a 
 brother of her own age. She would pull my hair 
 and stroke my chin playfully, and she found great 
 delight in teasing me. I resented both her sisterly 
 attitude and the jests at my expense. Frequently 
 her witty remarks made me writhe, and I would
 
 142 The Fugitive 
 
 decide that if she again spoke to me in that way I 
 would pay her back in the same coin. But I never 
 did. In her presence I was as submissive as a 
 faithful dog. 
 
 But there were some happy moments when she 
 would gaze dreamily at me with those strange eyes 
 of hers, her hair falling loosely over her white fore- 
 head, her breast quickly heaving. I would beguile 
 myself for a few throbbing moments with the hope 
 that these looks betokened love for me, and I would 
 forget all else. My ambition to become a distin- 
 guished man, my hopes to make a name for myself 
 as Katia wished me to do even thoughts of Katia, 
 who had aroused in me this ambition would 
 quickly vanish, and my only desire would be to stay 
 in Dubrovka and give instructions to this country 
 girl forever and ever. 
 
 Every morning, when the rising sun was streaking 
 the window-panes of my chamber with purple 
 light, I would quickly dress, seize the Prophets or 
 Psalms, and run out into the blooming garden which 
 was in front of Malke's chamber. I would stretch 
 myself upon the grassy ground, and with an open 
 book in my hand lose myself in the divine poetry 
 of the king of prophets, Isaiah, or reflect upon the 
 consoling, soul-inspiring verses of David. I would 
 look up to the blushing sky above, to the verdant 
 trees all around, the floating sunbeams, feel the 
 cool earth beneath me then, ah! then I would 
 fathom the great singer's meaning ! " Who covereth
 
 I Find My Duties Very Agreeable 143 
 
 Himself with light as with a garment ; who stretcheth 
 out the heavens like a curtain; who layeth the 
 beams of His chambers in the water; who maketh 
 the clouds His chariot ; who walketh upon the wings 
 of the wind. He sendeth the streams into the valleys 
 which run among the hills; by them the fowls of 
 the heavens have their habitation, which sing 
 among the branches; the trees of the Lord are full 
 of sap. O Lord, how manifold are Thy works ! 
 The earth is full of Thy riches. I will sing 
 unto the Lord as long as I live; I will sing 
 praises to my God while I have being." Homer, 
 Virgil, Chaucer, Heine, Byron, Shelley who of 
 them could express so much beauty in lines 
 so few? 
 
 One morning, as I lay stretched on the ground, 
 reading and pronouncing the lyrical words of 
 Psalms which chimed in my ears like exquisite 
 music, Malke opened the window of her chamber 
 and thrust out her head. Her eyes were only 
 half open, and the mist of sleep was still hovering 
 over her face. 
 
 "Why did you get up so early?" she asked me, 
 and faintly blushing as she covered her partly 
 exposed bosom with her naked hand. 
 
 I raised my eyes to hers, and beholding her head 
 resting between her hands, her luxuriant hair 
 hanging down her bare neck like a loosened skein 
 of silk, her rising and falling breast between her 
 arms, I faltered shyly, "Ah, it ia so beautiful!"
 
 i 4 4 The Fugitive 
 
 and I spread my arms and dropped them in de- 
 spair. 
 
 She smiled, blushed, and lowering her .head she 
 asked me to pluck a violet for her. 
 
 I was delighted to obey her, to be of some service 
 to her, to please every whim and fancy of hers. 
 
 As I handed the flower to her she bent forward 
 through the open window, and smelling the violet 
 she murmured, "What a delicious fragrance !" and 
 glanced blushingly at my face with a charming 
 twinkle in her eyes. 
 
 She remained leaning on the window-sill and 
 staring in front of her meditatively, while I gazed 
 and gazed at her face, that spoke of unsatiable life, 
 youth, passion, beauty. The garden with those 
 many trees and shrubs and flowers and birds, the 
 shimmering sky, the spreading sunbeams, the ver- 
 dant earth, the delicious air, the blooming maiden 
 with that wondering gaze of hers ah ! Nature 
 in all her splendour and supreme beauty stood 
 before me. 
 
 She again glanced at me, with a sad smile playing 
 around her lips, and with, what I thought, teasing 
 mockery she said in a very low tone, "Ah, it is so 
 beautiful!" and her pretty head disappeared. 
 
 I threw myself upon the ground with the book 
 clasped to my breast, and looked listlessly at the 
 bits of sky screened by the branches above me. 
 
 In my heart I felt a longing mixed with venom. 
 She was so near to me, and yet her confidence in
 
 I Find My Duties Very Agreeable 145 
 
 me, her frankness, her calmness, her self-possession 
 in my presence, indicated the distance between us. 
 
 Thus passed the summer in a state of doubt and 
 despair. Malke grew more and more absent- 
 minded and melancholy. She frequently spoke to 
 me of her lack of friends, of the monotony of her 
 life, and expressed a longing to visit theaters and 
 attend balls as did ladies of big cities. 
 
 One day she asked abruptly: "Israel, is it such 
 a great sin to marry a gentile? Magdeline Gru- 
 bovski, the surveyor's daughter, says she would 
 marry a Jew if she only loved him, and she is a 
 Christian. Why should it be a greater sin for a 
 Jew to marry a Christian?" 
 
 I could give no definite answer to this, so I said 
 nothing. Then she resumed: "I like Magdeline 
 so much. She has parties and balls, and oh ! what 
 nice, gallant gentlemen come to her ! I have been 
 invited many times, but I do not like to go there 
 because the young men call me 'pretty Jewess,' and 
 they seem to take more liberties with me than with 
 Magdeline. But they are so pleasant, so polite. 
 Isn't Count Losjinski handsome? Did you notice 
 how erect he walks ? How beautiful his long, black 
 mustache becomes his dark-blue eyes ! He always 
 pulls and twirls his mustache when he talks to 
 me, and he acts very strangely. Once he said to 
 father in a joke, of course that if he could get a 
 girl like me " Here she burst into feigned laugh- 
 ter and covered her blushing face with both hands.
 
 146 The Fugitive 
 
 "Isn't it nice of him to say that? He's a count 
 and owns this village and the next, and what a 
 palace he has ! Think of his marrying a plain 
 
 Jewish girl Why do you keep so quiet, Israel ? " 
 
 she asked abruptly. "You're always angry at me 
 when I speak of Count Losjinski. You're a good 
 little tutor, nevertheless," she added, emphasising 
 every syllable by stroking my chin in a playful 
 manner and laughing sweetly. How little I under- 
 stood the world or even myself ! I did not know 
 that there is something deeper in words than the 
 mere meaning of them; that things spoken are 
 only a part of what one wishes to convey ; that in 
 order to understand a person, one must be able to 
 divine that part of his thought which remains 
 unsaid. The first instructor of this enigmatic 
 language is love, and the best pupil is the 
 lover. 
 
 Not long after this, Count Losjinski stopped for 
 a few minutes at the inn. His coachman, who 
 was a baptised Jew, amused the bar-room by talking 
 Yiddish and reciting Hebrew blessings, which we 
 thought very strange. Malke's little brother asked 
 his father what became of the coachman's soul when 
 he turned Christian. The innkeeper smilingly 
 replied that after the conversion the Jewish soul 
 was changed into a gentile one. Malke wondered 
 very much and could not see the difference. 
 
 "Papa, what is the soul, anyhow?" Malke 
 asked her father with a pensive air.
 
 I Find My Duties Very Agreeable 147 
 
 "A soul is that part of godliness," explained her 
 father, "that every Jew possesses." 
 
 "Has not a gentile that part of godliness in him, 
 father?" asked the girl again. 
 
 "This is too deep for you to understand, my 
 child," responded Mr. Takiff, and puffed at his 
 pipe. "You're a girl, and a woman's brain is not 
 able to comprehend such serious problems. A Jew 
 whose soul was present on Mount Sinai when the 
 Torah was given to Israel, as the Talmud says, 
 has got that part of godliness because he answered : 
 'All that the Lord spoke we will do and hear.'" 
 
 This explanation did not seem to satisfy Malke. 
 "Will not the gentiles have Gan-Eden [heaven], 
 father ? " she resumed. " Not even Count Losjinski, 
 who is so good to every one and favours the Jewish 
 people in particular?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, my daughter. The Talmud also says : 
 'All good gentiles will have the world to come. 
 In heaven all will be Jews.'" 
 
 " It will be so nice," laughed Malke. "All will be 
 alike and there will be no more Jews and gentiles, 
 but all the same, and the Jews will be permitted 
 to own land in their own names, like gentiles, and 
 will be allowed to live everywhere, even in St. 
 Petersburg and Moscow." 
 
 "Oh, you fool!" interrupted her little brother. 
 "In Gan-Eden all the noblemen will make fire in 
 Jewish houses and snuff the candles on Shabbos. 
 And Vanka, who calls me Christ-killer, will carry
 
 148 The Fugitive 
 
 mamma's prayer-book to the synagogue on Shabbos. 
 It will be so nice!" The innocent little martyr, 
 who already bore the yoke of the Torah, clapped 
 his wee hands and danced with joy.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE 
 
 MRS. TARIFF often sighed because Malkele, as 
 she fondly called her daughter, was already going 
 on eighteen and there was "nothing suitable" for 
 her. Shadchonim (marriage brokers) proposed 
 many bridegrooms, and each one whispered to 
 Reb Nosen (as they addressed him) that he had 
 the very best article in the market. But none 
 quite satisfied the innkeeper. As for Malke, who 
 of course was never consulted when the merits of 
 the various candidates were being considered, she 
 was as heedless of all this matrimonial talk of her 
 parents as if she had been a girl of twelve. 
 
 One afternoon at the end of August we were in 
 the sitting-room Mr. Takiff, in his big arm-chair 
 before an open window, puffing at his long pipe, 
 Mrs. Takiff mending a stocking, Malke working 
 over a piece of embroidery, and I scanning the 
 pages of a Russian book when Koppel the Shad- 
 chan, who had taken a keen interest in Malke's 
 future, appeared before the window at which Mr. 
 Takiff sat. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Reb Nosen," he said, with his 
 indolent, oily smile on his face. 
 
 149
 
 150 The Fugitive 
 
 "Shalom Aleichem," returned Mr. Takiff, offering 
 his hand through the open window. " How do you 
 come here at this time of the day?" 
 
 "What a question ha! ha! ha! ha!" The 
 Shadchan's laugh was dry and cackling. "Isn't 
 a person allowed to pay you a visit? When one 
 has merchandise he should not close the door 
 against a prospective purchaser." And winking 
 significantly he cackled again. 
 
 "Well, Reb Koppel, well," rejoined Mr. Takiff 
 somewhat eagerly, "anything new?" 
 
 "Sure, indeed, Reb Nosen. The very article you 
 are looking for is at hand, and one to suit I should 
 rather say becoming an honourable Jew like 
 Reb Nosen Takiff. Well" spreading his arms 
 "a young man who is a rarity among mil- 
 lions millions, I say; of the very, very choicest in 
 the realm of Lithuania. An Illui upon whom thou- 
 sands of wealthy fathers are casting their eyes and 
 are trying to take him into their nets. ' But no, no/ 
 said I to myself, and my wife said the very same, 
 'this goldfish must go to no one else but Reb 
 Nosen's daughter.' You see" he drew an old, 
 dirty, tattered note-book from his pocket "Baas 
 Reb Nosen UJavolin Illui [the daughter of Nosen 
 for the Javolin prodigy]. He ! he ! he ! Koppel 
 the Shadchan is no fool." 
 
 "Well, well, come into the house and let me hear 
 what you have to say." 
 
 The Shadchan disappeared from the window and
 
 A Proposal of Marriage 151 
 
 a moment later was with us in the sitting-room. 
 He had an extinguished corn-cob pipe in his mouth, 
 and he playfully swung a gnarled cane between his 
 thumb and forefinger, which were yellow from the 
 tobacco he snuffed. He was a man of medium 
 size, with a weazened head, which he carried bent 
 slightly forward and to one side. His eyes, set 
 deep in their sockets, were overhung by shaggy 
 eyebrows; his beard, though thin, was broad and 
 long, and his peiis fell to his shoulders. He wore 
 a long caftan, the skirt of which registered his 
 movements on his shining boots, into the tops of 
 which his trousers were stuck. The caftan was of a 
 distinguished appearance, parted in the back in the 
 fashion of a frock coat, but pinned together at the 
 very bottom so that it might be technically regarded 
 as having but two corners and so be exempt from 
 tzitzis.* Only the lowest button of his coat was 
 fastened; the upper part hung loosely forward, 
 exposing a large red handkerchief protruding from 
 his inside pocket, where a snuff-box could invari- 
 ably be found. 
 
 "Good morning, bride," the Shadchan bowed 
 to Malke, who blushed scarlet at this salutation. 
 
 "Go, my daughter, to the next room," said Mr. 
 Takiff. "We have something to talk about which 
 is not fit you should hear." 
 
 Malke left the room, agitated and blushing. But 
 
 *Fringes, which, according to some rabbinical law, four-corner 
 garments are to have.
 
 1 52 The Fugitive 
 
 I, in an agony of expectation, pretended not to hear 
 the last remark and remained in my seat. 
 
 The Shadchan took off his hat, leaving his head 
 covered with an old, threadbare skull-cap, and 
 settled himself in a chair which the host pushed 
 toward him. Koppel dropped a large pinch of 
 snuff into the hollow of his left hand, and raising it 
 to his nostrils drew in the pungent stuff with one 
 long breath. 
 
 "Pshtzi ! pshtzi ! pshtzi !" he sneezed three times, 
 applying the red handkerchief to his nose as a pro- 
 tection for his host. 
 
 " I can never start a conversation of any impor- 
 tance before I take a little snuff," the Shadchan 
 commented, wiping his mouth and nose. "It 
 clears my mind and eyes, and I tell you, Reb Nosen, 
 I become fresh and vigorous after a little sneezing. 
 It is simply a refreshment a restorer of strength. 
 And I tell you there is none better than Kalman's 
 snuff in the whole world. It's a real heaven on 
 earth, so help me God, and it prepares me for active 
 work. By the way, snuff does not cost me any- 
 thing. Kalman promised to give me as much as 
 I want gratis, in addition to the five per cent, com- 
 mission he paid me for the match of his daughter." 
 
 "Of the snuff we'll talk later," said Nosen a little 
 impatiently. "Let us approach our subject." 
 
 "God be with you, Reb Nosen, have not the 
 Talmud sages said: 'Matchmaking is as hard as 
 the task of Moses in dividing the waters of the
 
 A Proposal of Marriage 153 
 
 Red Sea ' ? The Talmud also says, ' Be patient in 
 your judgment,' and we must weigh our words 
 before we decide. Well, now, Reb Nosen, I'll light 
 one of your Prussian cigars, and we'll instantly 
 proceed to business." 
 
 Mr. Takiff took the hint and handed him a cigar. 
 
 "In short," the Shadchan resumed, "I have for 
 you a young man a jewel, a gem, whose real value 
 a Rothschild only could pay for; and furthermore, 
 a real Talmud-Chochom Ben Talmid-Chochom [a 
 disciple of wisdom, the son of another]. As the 
 Talmud says: 'One should give his daughter in 
 marriage to the son of the Law.' The truth is" 
 here he stretched his neck and emitted a thin curl of 
 smoke "that I am too ignorant to mention the 
 qualities that prodigy possesses. A young man 
 that has the six parts of the Talmud at his fingers' 
 ends, and can tell the word a hundred pages ahead 
 if you stick a pin through a certain spot ; a wonderful 
 scribe whose handwriting is like print, and who can 
 read Poskim [ a digest of the Talmud ] in his sleep, 
 so may the Creator of the universe blessed be 
 His name ! help me to accomplish my undertaking 
 in a happy hour. Of course you know Rabbi 
 Brill of Javolin ; he told me that the young man is a 
 shining star in Israel whose brilliancy will illumine 
 our holy people in exile. As to his personal beauty" 
 here he shrugged his shoulders and made a motion 
 with his hands as if to drive away an imaginary 
 opponent "he looks like an angel. God's grace
 
 154 The Fugitive 
 
 rests upon him. Tall, majestic, and in his white-and- 
 crimson face there is the reflection of angels, so may 
 the Lord send a blessing wherever I turn." 
 
 He paused for a moment to wipe the perspiration 
 from his forehead. Nosen Takiff nodded his head 
 in silent approval. 
 
 "As to the dowry," the Shadchan continued, 
 "we have little to say. He has been offered ten 
 thousand and fifteen thousand rubles, but of course 
 to an aristocrat like Reb Nosen well, he would 
 go for a little less. I believe you once told me that 
 you were willing to give your daughter six thousand 
 rubles. Well, when you get such a rare gem you 
 will not mind to add two thousand. This young 
 man is worth every penny of it, so help me the One 
 Above every groschen. Yes, this is what I call a 
 bargain which could not be had by the richest of our 
 brethren. Why, did you never hear of the Javolin 
 Illui?" He looked with such astonishment at Mr. 
 Takiff that the latter blushed at his own ignorance. 
 
 " So may the Holy One blessed be He ! help me 
 find suitors for my own marriageable daughters 
 even babes have heard of him ! Oh, Reb Israel," 
 he turned to me, as if just seeing me, "you here ! 
 I did not notice you at all. Young fellows like you 
 must not listen to talk of marriage;" this with his 
 oily smile. "When you will be ripe enough I'll 
 get you a nice girl with a big dowry." 
 
 With my heart throbbing painfully over what I 
 had heard I went into the dining-room. There I
 
 A Proposal of Marriage 155 
 
 found Malke, pale and apprehensive, pretending to 
 read a book. I thought I detected the signs of 
 fresh tears on her cheeks. 
 
 In about an hour Mr. Takiff came into the room 
 where we sat, smiling blissfully. "My daughter," 
 he announced, "next Friday your intended one is 
 going to stay Shabbos with us." 
 
 Malke did not utter a word, but her beautiful 
 face changed colour, a few tears trickled down her 
 cheeks, and the book in her hand slipped to the 
 floor. " Oh, Israel, I am so unhappy so unhappy ! " 
 she whispered; and without giving me a chance to 
 reply she slipped away to her bedroom.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 FRIDAY night arrived. Having spent all after- 
 noon brooding in the forest, I had not seen the 
 Choson (bridegroom), who had arrived a little 
 before sunset and was now in the parlour chanting 
 prayers with Mr. Takiff. I found the dining-room 
 brightly illuminated, the finest cloth spread, and 
 the best dishes arranged on the table, and Mrs. 
 Takiff, in a new silk gown and a white apron, was 
 reading from her prayer-book and frequently raising 
 her eyes in the direction of Malke's room. She 
 likewise had not seen the Choson and was nervously 
 awaiting his appearance. 
 
 "Tell Malke to hurry with her toilet and come 
 to the dining-room," said Mrs. Takiff to me as I 
 came in. 
 
 I found Malke, who had remained in her room all 
 day, lying on her bed with her head buried in the 
 pillows. When I delivered my message she an- 
 swered dully: "I'll come in soon." 
 
 In a few minutes she entered the room and sat 
 down quietly, her face white and drawn. Her 
 mother glanced at her pale face and quietly dropped 
 her eyes upon the prayer-book before her. My 
 
 156
 
 The Bridegroom 157 
 
 heart ached with love and sympathy for Malke. 
 I wished to speak to her, but I dared not and could 
 not. 
 
 We sat in an embarrassing silence till the door 
 opened and Mr. Takiff ushered in a young man. 
 
 Heavens ! Shmunke Menke Shmunke's stood 
 before me in all his ugliness. His tall, lank figure, 
 with his head drooped over his chest, looked like a 
 faded sunflower bending the stalk of its weight. 
 His stooping shoulders seemed to have become 
 more rounded, and the corkscrew curls that hung 
 over each ear had certainly lengthened. He wore 
 a coat that almost swept the floor, and an octagonal- 
 shaped hat with a long visor that overshadowed 
 his greenish eyes. 
 
 "Gut Shabbos," he bashfully stammered. 
 
 Mr. Takiff turned to his wife. " Sarah, this is the 
 bridegroom." 
 
 Malke's face changed from white to scarlet, then 
 to white again. I had a great desire to knock 
 down this invited idiot, though I could not clearly 
 see how he was to blame. Neither Malke nor I was 
 introduced to Shmunke. I managed to sit at one 
 end of the table, and as his eyes rarely left his plate 
 I escaped recognition. 
 
 During the meal Mr. Takiff tested the young 
 man's sharpness in the Talmud. The host ques- 
 tioned and the bridegroom answered with wonder- 
 ful quickness. Mr. Takiff 's admiration was plainly 
 read on his face; he was ecstatic over finding his
 
 158 The Fugitive 
 
 future son-in-law so well equipped for the battle-field 
 of hair-splitting discussions. The Choson did not 
 exchange a word with his -fiancee that night; once 
 I noticed him glance through the corner of his eye 
 at the silent, trembling girl, but he bashfully dropped 
 his eyes as soon as she looked up. 
 
 Depressed and miserable, I sneaked out of the 
 room in order to avoid Shmunke. I spent all of the 
 next day in the forest on the pretense of feeling ill. 
 I hated the whole world Mr. Takiff for bringing 
 this Talmudic imbecile, Mrs. Takiff for not chasing 
 Shmunke out of the house, and I almost hated even 
 Malke because she kept silent. 
 
 The following evening the betrothal took place. 
 Malke, sad and pale, did not utter a syllable or 
 even show a smile during the ceremony. When 
 broken clay pots and dishes came rattling down 
 in a shower, celebrating the solemn event in accord- 
 ance with the traditional Jewish custom, she stared 
 blankly in front of her. I noticed her mother once 
 turn aside and wipe her eyes. But Mr. Takiff was 
 so lost in the Talmudic labyrinth and so elated in 
 spirit that he paid little attention to his child and 
 her sufferings. 
 
 The bridegroom did not exchange a word with his 
 bride this night, either, but sat surrounded by a 
 coterie of Talmudists, who were called together by 
 Mr. Takiff to test the "Illui's" sharpness and 
 knowledge. For an hour Shmunke swayed himself 
 to and fro, while he explained in his nasal voice some
 
 The Bridegroom 159 
 
 knotty point of Talmudic law. Half a dozen were 
 quizzing him at once, and to all of them Shmunke 
 replied with lightning rapidity. 
 
 " Pish! pish! an Illui ach, an Illui!" the guests 
 whispered to one another, and shrugged their 
 shoulders in great admiration.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 FATHER AGAINST CHILD 
 
 THE days passed rapidly, bringing Malke nearer 
 and nearer to the day set for her marriage. Her 
 feelings for Shmunke were obvious to me, but she 
 spoke very little to any one, and even with me she 
 went no further than to say that she was very, 
 very unhappy. 
 
 A few days before the Jewish New Year, while 
 we were all loitering at the table after we had 
 finished dinner, Mr. Takiff took notice of the 
 silent dejection of his daughter. "What ails you, 
 Malke?" he asked gravely. "You seem to forget 
 that your Choson will be with us Succoih [the Feast 
 of Booths], and that the wedding is not far off." 
 
 Malke, who had been sitting with her cheek in her 
 hand, made no reply. She only bit her lip and 
 tightened her mouth. 
 
 " Nosen ! Nosen !" admonished his wife, who must 
 have guessed how sore her daughter's feelings 
 were. 
 
 "What a simpleton you are!" he said impa- 
 tiently to his wife. " Can't you see Malke's indiffer- 
 ence to her Choson, who is a real gem? Why 
 do you look as if you had the nightmare?" he 
 
 1 60
 
 Father Against Child 161 
 
 demanded of Malke, irritated by her silent aversion 
 to his choice. 
 
 Malke's lips tightened again, her chin trembled; 
 then a flood of tears burst from her eyes. And 
 tugging nervously at her jacket she faltered in 
 a low tone: "I will not marry that ugly 
 stupid scarecrow ! " 
 
 These words were like a spark in a heap of powder. 
 1 ' What ! " he cried, jumping to his feet. ' ' What ! you 
 don't want to marry this Illui, this great and 
 wonderful genius! He stupid!" His voice rose 
 to a shriek in his excitement. "Do you mean to 
 instruct me to whom I shall marry you? Do you? 
 Do you perhaps wish to marry a gentile hey?" 
 
 "Nosen! Nosen!" implored Sarah. 
 
 Mr. Takiff did not heed his wife's appeal. " Whom 
 do you wish to marry, outcast? Ha ! ha ! ha !" he 
 laughed bitterly. "She don't want the Illui whom 
 Rabbi Brill consults in rendering decisions. Who 
 ever heard of a Jewish girl objecting to her father's 
 choice ? Mercy ! what are we coming to ? You 
 perhaps would like to have one," he continued 
 sarcastically, and his whole frame quivered with 
 anger, "who writes, and smokes a cigar on Shabbos, 
 and who rides on horseback on the holy rest-day 
 such a one my tznuah [virtuous one] wishes to 
 marry. Heavens ! Would that my ears were deaf 
 to such open blasphemy from the mouth of my 
 own flesh and blood. The Illui or the grave!" 
 As he shouted this last he brought his fist down
 
 1 62 The Fugitive 
 
 upon the table with such force that the dishes 
 danced. 
 
 "Nosen! Nosen!" cried his wife again, rising 
 and taking his arm. 
 
 But he threw off her hand and paced up and 
 down the floor, gazing wrathfully at Malke, who sat 
 weeping with her head upon the table. Then he 
 remained standing in the middle of the room for 
 a minute or two with both hands at his temples, as 
 if a dreadful thought had flashed through his 
 brain, and suddenly rushed out of the room and 
 slammed the door after him.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 "YoM KIPPUR" 
 
 THE family storm abated after this fierce out- 
 burst. Mr. Takiff, who was a very devoted father, 
 had simply lost control of himself for the instant. 
 He was now all kindness. Of course, it never for 
 an instant occurred to him to yield to Malke's 
 desire; but he began to try to reconcile her to the 
 coming marriage by reciting the great virtues and 
 ability of her Choson and by drawing pictures of 
 the happiness and the honour that the Illui would 
 bring her. Malke scarcely replied to his persua- 
 sions a silence which the father mistook for tacit 
 acquiescence. 
 
 We had planned to spend the Day of Atonement 
 in Gonsmar, a town seven versts distant, where 
 the family always went to worship, as there was 
 no synagogue in Dubrovka. On the morning be- 
 fore the Day of Atonement, Mr. Takiff, Mrs. 
 Takiff, and even little Jacob rose early, beaming 
 with happiness; for just as the following day is 
 devoted to earnest prayer and self-denial, this day 
 is one of festivity and rejoicing. It is incumbent 
 upon every God-fearing Israelite to feast and thank 
 the Great Creator a hundred and one times. And 
 
 163 
 
 .:
 
 1 64 The Fugitive 
 
 in order to fulfill this commandment, Mr. Takiff 
 took a bite of various kinds of fruit and offered a 
 blessing each time. 
 
 Despite the general happiness, Malke looked so 
 sad and ill that her mother suggested it would be 
 wise for her to stay at home if she would not feel 
 lonesome. Malke expressed her preference to 
 remain, and it was so settled. 
 
 At dinner we dipped our bread in honey this 
 being a symbolic prayer that the coming year may 
 be as sweet as the bread we ate. After dinner we 
 prepared to start for Gonsmar. Mr. Takiff, who 
 made a grand appearance in his long, black holiday 
 coat, called together his servants and gave them 
 orders not to sell or execute any transaction the 
 next day. Suddenly Mrs. Takiff began to weep, 
 crying that she feared to leave Malke behind. 
 But her husband laughed at her forebodings, and 
 said if Malke wished to remain at home she might 
 remain. Malke threw her arms about her mother 
 and kissed her again and again, and embraced and 
 kissed her father, her warm tears trickling down 
 his white beard. He kissed her and blessed her 
 in the old Hebrew fashion. She did not speak a 
 word, but I could see that her tears almost stifled 
 her. 
 
 "I shall pray for you to-morrow," her father 
 said, as he stood upon the threshold of the house, 
 "and you should also pray for us." 
 
 Malke wiped her eyes, but did not venture upon
 
 "Yom Kippur " 165 
 
 an answer. After we had left the house Sarah 
 went back to kiss her once more. 
 
 As we rolled away in the carriage I glanced 
 back at Malke. My heart almost broke at sight of 
 her, standing on the porch, her hands clasped 
 before her, her face streaming with tears. Another 
 instant, and the thick forest had shut her from my 
 view. But the picture of her weeping in the door- 
 way, with interlocked hands, was still vivid before 
 me as it is even now whenever I think of her. 
 
 On arriving at Gonsmar we left our carriage at 
 an inn and at once repaired to the synagogue. 
 The yard about the house of worship was crowded 
 with people. Immediately before the entrance of 
 the synagogue there stood a long table on which 
 plates were placed marked "Hospital," "Orphan 
 Asylum," " Hakhnoses-Kalo " (to bring poor maidens 
 into wedlock), and with the names of the various 
 other charities of the community. Before each 
 plate sat some prominent member of the congre- 
 gation. 
 
 Mr. Takiff stopped before the long table, bade 
 them all "Gut Yomtov," and dropped five rubles 
 in one plate, ten in another, three in another, until 
 he had contributed to every one of them. 
 
 The passage from the table to the door was 
 blocked by scores of wretched cripples, orphans, 
 and widows, who begged in most pitiful tones. 
 As every well-to-do man entered the synagogue 
 yard he was surrounded by these poor creatures,
 
 1 66 The Fugitive 
 
 who perhaps had been waiting all the year for this 
 charitable season, and who implored, in the name 
 of their hungry wives, mothers, and children, that 
 they be helped with a few copecks. 
 
 The experience of all was our experience. Dozens 
 of hands were stretched out for alms as we came 
 up to the synagogue door. "May you live a thou- 
 sand years, good Jew ! Have pity on a poor cripple," 
 jumped up one with a wooden leg. "Oh, eternal 
 health to you and your wife and your children, 
 Mr. Takiff. Give something to a poor widow with 
 nine children," a haggard woman pulled Mr. Takiff 
 by his sleeve. "May you live to see great-great- 
 grandchildren; have mercy on a poor orphan who 
 has a mother lying sick in bed," pleaded a ragged 
 boy. " Oh, pray, give me something. Good life and 
 health to you! I have eleven children, and my 
 husband lies sick in bed with a broken leg," entreated 
 a woman with a babe at her breast. In response 
 to all these pleas, Mr. Takiff drew a bagful of 
 silver coins from under his long coat and distributed 
 its contents to the miserable alms-seekers. That 
 done, we entered the synagogue. 
 
 The large building was filled to its very doors 
 with pious worshipers, some of whom read from 
 books and cried softly; others shook their bodies 
 violently and shouted in most agonising despair; 
 and still others wept and moaned and beat their 
 breasts as if they meant to strike them through 
 and through. They were all robed in white shrouds,
 
 "Yom Kippur" 167 
 
 over which were thrown loosely white and black 
 praying-shawls. Hundreds of wax candles, stuck 
 in a large box of sand, burned before the altar, 
 and hundreds of them flickered in the deep recesses 
 of the windows. 
 
 Some belated people with penitent faces were 
 pulling off their boots and unfolding their shrouds; 
 many remained at the door shaking hands and 
 asking forgiveness of one another, and with tears 
 in their eyes expressing regret for the past; here 
 and there others happily extended wishes of a 
 "good seal" to their neighbours. For on the Day 
 of Atonement all must be friends. "Sins between 
 man and his Maker are forgiven on Yom Kippur," 
 laid down the Talmudic sages, "but sins of one 
 man against another are not atoned for until the 
 wrong-doer asks forgiveness from the person 
 wronged." 
 
 The T'philo Zako (the Pure Prayer) had already 
 begun when we arrived. I also opened a prayer- 
 book and murmured the Pure Prayer, but my 
 mind travelled back to Malke with her bowed head 
 and clasped hands. 
 
 A resounding clap on the big hollow table at 
 the altar suddenly silenced all noises. Only the 
 irrepressible sob of a bitter heart or the broken 
 weeping of women from the gallery disturbed the 
 quietude. All rose with faces uplifted. The 
 silence grew deeper; nothing but the soft tread of 
 shoeless feet was heard; these were the footsteps
 
 1 68 The Fugitive 
 
 of the seven white-bearded elders of the congre- 
 gation. The snow-white curtain overhanging the 
 Oren-Kodesh was drawn aside; the portals were 
 opened. At sight of this there came a look of 
 awe in every countenance. Each of the elders took 
 out a scroll of the Torah, kissed it, and holding it 
 to his breast marched to the altar, where the seven 
 formed a ring. Breathing almost stopped it was 
 a moment too reverential for tears, too solemn for 
 prayer. 
 
 The choir waited for the sexton's signal; the 
 sexton waited for a motion from the rabbi. At 
 length the signal came. The leader of the choir 
 gave a faint cough to clear his throat, and in a 
 tremulous minor key began the quaint, traditional, 
 melodious Kol-Nidro. The voices of the choir rose 
 and fell, swelled and narrowed, all in the saddest 
 of tones, and the congregation groaned and moaned 
 and wept. The hymn was repeated three times, 
 and after each time an amen was intoned that 
 sounded like the sudden bursting of a dam. 
 
 Unconsciously tears gathered in my eyes. I 
 bowed my head, and there came upon me a burning 
 realisation of the meaning of this period of self- 
 denial this day which has been eternised in Jewish 
 memory by fire and blood; the day which cost 
 the downtrodden Israelite the lives of his innocent 
 babes and guiltless sons and daughters ; the day on 
 which the eternal wanderer recalls with horror the 
 sufferings of his people in the time of the Crusaders ;
 
 "Yom Kippur" 169 
 
 the day on which the persecuted Ghetto Jew is 
 reminded that for maintaining an ideal and belief 
 he is penned up in filthy quarters, and his life and 
 soul are crushed out from him; the day on which 
 the scapegoat prays for less cruelty and barbarism 
 in the new year from the hands of the preachers 
 of Peace and Love and Charity the Day of 
 Atonement ! That day gives the unhappy race 
 strength and forbearance to endure the blows and 
 derision from their neighbours who smite the right 
 cheek, then the left. That day has made the Jews 
 a race of martyrs. 
 
 At the close of the service I went to the inn. 
 Mr. Takiff and many of the congregation remained 
 in the synagogue all night, reciting prayers and 
 chanting hymns. When I returned the next morn- 
 ing they were still praying and crying and beating 
 their breasts. The reeky smell of socks mingled 
 with the foul odour of hundreds of smoking tallow 
 and wax candles. Mr. Takiff 's candle, which stood 
 in the recess of the window nearest him, was already 
 extinguished, and a long piece of burned wick fell 
 over one side, where the wax had melted away. 
 He regarded this as a bad omen and was perturbed. 
 Mrs. Takiff extended her head from the women's 
 gallery and gazed at the extinguished candle with 
 a frightened expression on her face. 
 
 The day slowly advanced. The effect of the 
 fast was impressed upon every face. Only the 
 little boys who had not reached the fasting age
 
 170 The Fugitive 
 
 looked happy, munching legs and gizzards of 
 chicken and making guesses and bets as to what 
 candles would burn out the soonest. The boys who 
 had just reached the fasting age of thirteen sat 
 exhausted in the hay that littered the floor. Their 
 faces were haggard, without a shade of the colour 
 of life in them ; their eyes opened and closed wearily ; 
 and the " smelling-vials " went up to their noses 
 automatically. 
 
 Happily Neilla (the last prayer at sunset) came. 
 It is the holy of holies. It is the last chance, so 
 to speak, to invoke the King of Kings to "impress 
 a good seal upon the decrees." Tired out as the 
 worshipers were by this time, they girded their 
 loins to make the last appeal. The doors of the 
 ark were opened by one who had paid dear for 
 the honour. The congregation stood up with 
 evident fear, and remained on their feet during 
 this service, which lasted over an hour. Like 
 warriors fighting the last battle, they prayed and 
 wept and struck their breasts with their last bit 
 of energy. 
 
 From the women's gallery came a wailing and 
 sobbing that encouraged the men to augment 
 their own. The hour was sacred, fearful, awe- 
 inspiring. 
 
 Finally Neilla was over. The last amen 
 resounded in the dusky synagogue like a deep 
 sigh of relief. There was hope in every counte- 
 nance. A faint smile the smile of victory bright-
 
 "Yom Kipput" 171 
 
 ened many faces at the forcible slap of the sexton's 
 hand upon the table. 
 
 "Next year in Jerusalem!" proclaimed the 
 whole congregation in one uproarious voice; then 
 came seven times "God is our Lord" in a tri- 
 umphant shout; and then came the finale the 
 long-drawn call of the ram's horn.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 A TRAGEDY WITHOUT BLOODSHED 
 
 WE found a carriage waiting, and without 
 stopping to break the fast in town we started 
 for home. The coachman cracked his whip fiercely 
 and set the horses at full speed. Mrs. Takiff was 
 anxious about her daughter, and asked the driver, 
 who had been in the innkeeper's house for fifteen 
 years, how he had left Malke. "All right," he 
 muttered; and he snapped his whip viciously at 
 the horses' ears and cursed them for their slowness. 
 I wondered at this, for I knew Nikolai loved the 
 horses better than his wife. Even when the horses 
 were galloping at breakneck speed Nikolai did 
 not stop his curses. 
 
 "You're in a bad humour to-night, Nikolai," 
 Mr. Takiff reproved the coachman; but the latter 
 paid no attention to his master and emptied another 
 volley of curses. 
 
 After an hour of this rapid pace we drew up 
 before the long house. No light was seen through 
 the windows, and Malke was not on the porch to 
 meet us. The driver jumped off quickly, opened 
 the gate, and drove into the yard. Not even a 
 
 172
 
 A Tragedy Without Bloodshed 173 
 
 servant came to receive us. We entered the large 
 dining-room. Still not a soul appeared. 
 
 ' ' Where is Malke ? Where is everybody ? ' ' shouted 
 Mr. Takiff. 
 
 Tekla, the muzhik maid-servant, and Andrew, 
 who took care of the cattle, entered with hanging 
 heads. 
 
 "Where is Malke? Where is my daughter?" 
 Nosen demanded in a threatening voice. 
 
 They did not answer, but stood with eyes down- 
 cast, alternately wringing their hands and making 
 the sign of the cross. 
 
 "Muzhik, swine, you dogs' hides, robbers, where's 
 my daughter?" burst out the desperate father 
 wildly. "Give me my daughter!" He caught 
 Andrew by the hair and shook him, during which 
 jerking the muzhik frantically crossed his breast. 
 
 " Panotchic Moi [my little master]," faltered 
 the peasant, "you know Count Losjinski "' 
 
 "You horse's head," his master interrupted him, 
 stamping his feet madly, "where is my Malke? 
 I don't care about the Count, you pig's snout !" 
 
 "Pan Notka [Master Nosen]," the servant began 
 again, "the Count was here this morning and 
 stayed here several hours, and I saw him walking 
 away with Malke." 
 
 "Confound you, pig's snout! Did you see my 
 daughter going away with the Count?" 
 
 "No, Pan Notka, but " 
 
 The master lost control of himself and shook the
 
 174 The Fugitive 
 
 muzhik by his ears. "Where is my daughter? 
 Tell me quick or ' 
 
 His excitement was so intense and his anger so 
 fierce that he could not finish the sentence. His wife 
 dropped upon a sofa and sobbed. Little Yankele 
 (Jacob), frightened by the frenzy of his father and 
 the grief of his mother, broke into wails. I stood 
 in the middle of the room, stiff and cold. 
 
 "I saw Pane Malke walking toward the forest 
 about half an hour after the Count had left," 
 stammered the trembling Andrew. 
 
 "Harness the two best horses in the light vehicle, 
 Nikolai," shouted the master. "Israel and I will 
 look in the woods." 
 
 I realised the folly of searching in the woods 
 for Malke, for I divined the cause of her disappear- 
 ance. But I made no objection, and accompanied 
 the agitated father to the forest. The horses 
 galloped as fast as they could; Nikolai, at the 
 command of his master, whipped them merci- 
 lessly. On the way Mr. Takiff did not utter a 
 word, only pressed his temples with his hands and 
 groaned. 
 
 When we reached the path that cut through the 
 forest Mr. Takiff alighted and asked me to walk 
 with him through the thick woods. We tramped 
 over stumps and fallen trees and through the thick 
 underbrush. Everything was quiet except the 
 autumn wind that whistled painfully and the 
 sound of our footsteps.
 
 A Tragedy Without Bloodshed 175 
 
 "Malke! Malke!" shouted the unhappy father 
 distractedly. 
 
 Nothing but a hollow echo came in response. 
 Once there was a noise which sounded like the 
 cracking of dry twigs under foot. We stopped and 
 listened with held breath. But it was only the 
 hissing of the wind. 
 
 At the other end of the woods Nikolai was 
 waiting for us with a carriage. "To Count Los- 
 jinski," ordered the master as we stepped into the 
 vehicle. 
 
 In about an hour we reached the Count's palace. 
 No light was to be seen at any of the windows. Mr. 
 Takiff pulled the bell fiercely. No one came to 
 the door. He rang again impatiently, and again 
 and again, but he only got the same silent answer 
 that he received when he called for his daughter in 
 the heart of the forest. 
 
 We remained standing on the steps of the palace 
 while minute after minute passed, Mr. Takiff with 
 his head hanging over his chest. 
 
 Presently we started home; there was nothing 
 else for us to do. On our way we accosted every 
 peasant we met with questions, but learned noth- 
 ing. At length we came to a small inn kept by a 
 Jew, and here we stopped in the hope of obtaining 
 some clue. 
 
 We found a shrivelled, black-haired, black-eyed 
 little man seated at a table, with his wife and three 
 little children by his side, eating their first meal
 
 176 The Fugitive 
 
 after the long fast. A few muzhiks sat at another 
 table in the same room, smoking their stinking 
 Makhorka (a poor quality of tobacco) and washing 
 their throats with delicious vodka. 
 
 "How do you do, Pan Notka?" said one of the 
 muzhiks, with long, flaxen hair, a sharp little nose, 
 and small, shiny eyes peeping from under a narrow, 
 projecting forehead. "You're highly promoted, 
 Pan Notka," he went on jestingly, before any one 
 else could speak. "I saw your Malke driving 
 with the Count in a carriage to-day," and he winked 
 at his companions. 
 
 Mr. Takiff fell back and stood quivering for a 
 minute. Then he partially controlled himself, and 
 besought the peasant to tell him all he knew about 
 his daughter. " Pray, Danila, where have you seen 
 my daughter with the Count ? Have mercy on an 
 old father," the old man implored, with tears rolling 
 down his soft, white face. 
 
 Sympathy for his grief could be read in every 
 countenance; even Danila appeared more earnest 
 at these words. 
 
 "Well, Pan Notka, I'll tell you all I know," said 
 the peasant, putting his pipe aside. "You know, 
 my oat-field lies right by the forest, and you know, 
 Pan Notka, this year we had a poor harvest. At 
 first there was no rain at all, then there was too 
 much rain. You remember the hail that broke the 
 window-panes of your hothouse? So my oat-field 
 in the skirts of the Count's forest was very poor,
 
 A Tragedy Without Bloodshed 177 
 
 and I could not gather my oats until last week. 
 This morning, Pan Notka, I went to gather the 
 last few sheaves I had there, when, about two 
 o'clock in the afternoon, I noticed the Count Los- 
 jinski with your daughter coming toward my field. 
 And the Count was very good and kind to-day. 
 He asked me about my harvest and about the 
 vegetables. Coming home I told my wife there 
 must be something wrong with the Count, to talk 
 to me as if he were one of our set. First the Count 
 waited in the forest, walking up and down and 
 whistling, then I saw your daughter coming. She 
 was wrapped in a large black shawl and carried a 
 reticule. I wondered at first where she was going 
 on the greatest of your holidays, but I said nothing, 
 because the Count ran to receive her and embraced 
 and kissed her. I wondered and wondered, but I 
 could not understand it. Then the Count whistled 
 very loud, and his carriage came from the woods. 
 They got in and drove off as quick as the devil. 
 In fact, I couldn't believe my own eyes, and so I told 
 my wife, but, says I to myself: 'Don't I know 
 Malke, Pan Notka's daughter ? ' My wife laughed 
 right out in my face, and said the devil must have 
 played a nice trick on me, and I thought my Mari- 
 anna was right, and it must have been some ghost 
 or devil, or the evil spirits know what." 
 
 This story the peasant told in the usual digressive 
 peasant's style, and finished by spitting on the 
 floor unsparingly before returning to his pipe. The
 
 178 The Fugitive 
 
 little innkeeper and his bewigged wife shook their 
 heads and moaned: "Woe is to us ! woe is to us !" 
 But Mr. Takiff said nothing ; he stood dumb, staring 
 idiotically. And we immediately left the inn. 
 
 About an hour later we arrived at home. We 
 found Mrs. Takiff lying in bed, and an old peasant 
 woman, who was the physician of the village, 
 attending her. Little Yankele was sleeping in his 
 clothes, crouched on two chairs in the dining-room. 
 
 Mrs. Takiff pointed to the open letter that lay on 
 the table. It ran thus: 
 
 "My Beloved Father and Mother: I go with the 
 Count. I realise the pain and shame I am causing 
 you. I know you will never forgive me it is useless 
 to justify myself to you. The thought that I 
 shall never see you again makes me dizzy. How 
 my blood is boiling ! But I could not help myself. 
 I love Count Losjinski; the thought of him fills 
 me with life and love. Can I resist when a greater 
 force, which governs you and me and every one else, 
 has taken possession of me? Do you remember, 
 father, you used to tell me that whatever one does 
 it is the will of God ? If this is true, then it is not my 
 wrong, but His, who made me love the Count. If 
 you cannot forgive, forget not your ever-loving 
 
 "MALKE." 
 
 The aggrieved father scanned the letter with a 
 wild stare in his eyes. He remained speechless for 
 a moment. Then, as if awakened from a delirium, 
 he rose to his feet, got a knife, and with a nodding
 
 A- Tragedy Without Bloodshed 179 
 
 head and tears flowing over his face came up to 
 his wife. 
 
 "Sarah, our daughter Malke is no more !" he said 
 in a hoarse, tremulous voice. "Her chastity is 
 gone ! Our child is dead to us dead ! Krea 
 [rend your clothes]." 
 
 And as he said this he made a cut in his wife's 
 jacket, then in the lapel of his own coat, and sat 
 down on the floor heavily. 
 
 "Malke is dead dead!" he groaned through his 
 streaming tears as he swayed his body mourn- 
 fully. 
 
 " Oh, my child ! Oh, Malke ! Malke !" wept Mrs. 
 Takiff bitterly, wringing her hands.
 
 BOOK THE SECOND 
 LIGHT 
 
 The people that walk in darkness have seen a great light." 
 
 ISAIAH.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 "LITHUANIAN JERUSALEM" 
 
 holidays passed mournfully enough. Noth- 
 ing was heard of Malke. Her name was not 
 to be mentioned in her father's presence, though both 
 of the grief -stricken parents continued to weep and 
 groan, and the dreary fall added a touch of gloom. 
 I could not bear to stay in this house any longer, 
 so when the first snow fell I thanked the broken- 
 hearted people for their kindness and departed. 
 With a hundred rubles in my pocket I hoped to 
 be able to make a start in Vilno. 
 
 Late on Friday afternoon I arrived in the great 
 city of enlightenment. The streets of "Lithuanian 
 Jerusalem," as Vilno was justly termed, were 
 thronged with running, jostling, pushing men and 
 women, whose every look and gesture spoke of 
 thrifty commerce. With no particular destination 
 in view, I wandered through the busy thoroughfares, 
 staring at everything about me with astonishment: 
 at the three- and four-story white-plastered build- 
 ings which seemed to me like so many towers of 
 Babel, at the crowded sidewalks, at the noisy pave- 
 ments, at the smoothly rolling carriages, at the 
 rattling carts, at the rushing droshkys. Everything 
 
 183
 
 1 84 The Fugitive 
 
 was so different from what I had been accustomed 
 to in the small, dirty towns that I felt helpless, 
 half-frightened. 
 
 I reached the market-place. Here more than 
 ever I was aware that I was in Vilno and on Friday 
 the busiest day of all seven. I paused on a street 
 corner and looked about dazedly. Fishmongers, 
 fruit-venders, small dry-goods dealers called off 
 their wares in stentorian voices, asthmatic voices, 
 screechy, piping voices, jarring voices, and in all 
 sorts of intonations and dialects. 
 
 A heavy-cloaked, fat Jewess, with a large woollen 
 shawl twisted around her head and covering all 
 features but her frozen nose and moving lips, 
 solicited trade in this wise: "Blessed women, 
 come, come; good hot, mellow, and relishable beans; 
 buy, women, for the Sabbath. They will melt in 
 your mouths like granulated sugar so may the One 
 whose name I am not worthy of mentioning help 
 me to see my children under the bridal canopy 
 a real bargain; a bargain as sure as I live." "A 
 bargain as sure as I live," piped her little daughter, 
 while her mother was rubbing her hands and warming 
 herself over the "fire-pot." 
 
 Another woman stood in the doorway of a dry- 
 goods shop, her hands under her apron and her 
 head cowled in a heavy shawl, quarrelling with a 
 woman who was leaving the store. "Outcast! 
 vixen ! may your name be effaced from the earth !" 
 cursed the storekeeper. "Don't I know that you
 
 "Lithuanian Jerusalem" 185 
 
 go around from store to store only to bargain and 
 haggle without buying a penny's worth of stuff? 
 Ha! ha! ha! Did you ever see such a pig, such 
 an unclean animal, who came over^here from some 
 small town or village, and simply goes around for 
 the fun of bargaining? Ten customers so may 
 God help me and give me good luck ! ten cus- 
 tomers so may I see my eldest daughter under 
 the bridal canopy and you in the grave ! ten 
 customers so may ten plagues set on your hoggish 
 black face ! ten customers passed my door and 
 did not come in because you were bargaining with 
 me, and they surely would have bought more goods 
 than you have got in your store, you pig of a small 
 town ! All the ten plagues of Egypt shall rest on 
 your hoggish head ! " The shopkeeper turned to 
 the passersby: "Nu! nu! Did you ever hear? 
 She don't want my goods, she says, after I had 
 turned the store upside down and quoted her the 
 cheapest prices almost at cost." 
 
 The would-be customer, a short, heavy-set woman 
 with purple cheeks, blue lips, and a reddish snub- 
 nose, had been gathering wrath, and she now turned 
 it loose. "Thief! Pickpocket! Your swindles are 
 known all over the world, ' from India unto Ethiopia.' 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! She thinks she has got hold of a fool 
 from a small town, and tries to sell her a 'cat in a bag. ' 
 Before I ever knew about your threadbare stolen 
 handkerchiefs and rotten silk I had already dealt 
 in ten thousand rubles' worth of satin and costly
 
 1 86 The Fugitive 
 
 silks and velvets. All the storekeepers of our town 
 warned me not to buy any goods from you so 
 may I live to see my husband and children in the 
 best of health when I arrive home ! All your 
 curses will fall in the deep sea where the Egyptians 
 were drowned, and where I hope to see you 
 swallowed. Must I buy your rotten goods? Get 
 yourself a bigger fool than me. No, no, little 
 sister" this in a tone of mockery "you can't sell 
 me your stinking goods. I was not born yesterday. ' ' 
 
 " Fish trembling, live fish, just from the bait, as 
 good as the leviathan," struck in a fishmonger, 
 winking significantly at the two quarrelling women. 
 "The Czar himself may eat them. Try them, buy 
 them, good women. Eight copecks a pound eight 
 copecks. Fresh and trembling, good women." 
 
 Bewildered by the tumult and confusion, I 
 strolled from stall to stall, staring about me in 
 countryman fashion. I paid dear for my curiosity. 
 Every time I raised my eyes to the high buildings 
 some urchin was certain to aim a painful blow 
 under my chin. Once the blow was so powerful 
 that when I recovered from my surprise I found my 
 image deeply imprinted in a heap of snow. 
 
 At length the yellowish street lights began to 
 flicker. I had never before seen such illuminations, 
 and they filled my mind with admiration for the 
 magnificence of the Lithuanian metropolis. 
 
 While engrossed in sight-seeing, I was utterly 
 unconscious of the biting frost and the dust -like
 
 "Lithuanian Jerusalem" 187 
 
 sprinkling of snow in the air; but now that my 
 curiosity was half-satisfied and night had fallen I 
 began to feel the cold and think of a place to spend 
 the night. I had money in my pocket and might 
 easily have found lodging, but I was so at a loss in 
 this big city that I actually feared to try. At one 
 tavern after another I stopped, but could not 
 summon courage enough to open the door. I might 
 have walked the streets all night had I not soon 
 observed that on every corner policemen were eying 
 me, made suspicious by my having so often passed 
 and repassed them. As my fear of them was greater 
 than my fear of innkeepers, I determined to seek 
 refuge in the first lodging-house I should come 
 across. 
 
 I pushed open the door of an ale-house and, 
 half-embarrassed, remained standing like a beggar 
 on the very threshold. Two men seated at a little 
 table were talking in low tones, and at first seemed 
 not to observe my presence. A minute later, 
 however, one of the men looked up at me angrily 
 and said to his companion: "The beggars are 
 eating the flesh off our bones. They give us no rest 
 even on Friday night." Then he asked sarcasti- 
 cally of me: "How many suppers have you had 
 to-night?" 
 
 I was humiliated. I fingered the money in my 
 pocket, with a strong desire to pull out the roll of 
 bills and show him that I had more than enough to 
 pay for a meal.
 
 1 88 The Fugitive 
 
 "He's not that kind of a bird," the other re- 
 marked, rising from his seat. 
 
 "What do you wish?" demanded the first man, 
 who was the proprietor. 
 
 In a faltering voice I told him that I was a 
 stranger seeking lodging for the night, for which I 
 was ready to pay in advance. My explanation 
 seemed to appease the angry proprietor, and coming 
 near me he asked: "What is your business, young 
 man?" 
 
 I could not understand what right he had to put 
 this question to me, but as I lacked courage to 
 refuse an answer I told him I had come to attend 
 the gymnasium. 
 
 "Talmudic sucklings are flocking in daily, so 
 that the Yeshivas will soon have to be closed 
 for want of students," he said to his companion. 
 Then turning to me he said in a tone of 
 dismissal: "This is no lodging-house, young 
 man." 
 
 I was about to leave, when his companion, who 
 had been scrutinising me silently, inquired: "Have 
 you any friends here?" 
 
 "I don't know a soul in the city," I answered. 
 
 He continued to look sharply at me, and after a 
 moment's hesitation asked: "Do you write a neat 
 hand I mean Russian?" 
 
 "I think I do." 
 
 "If you are willing to do some copying for an 
 hour or two a day I will give you lodging by way
 
 "Lithuanian Jerusalem" 189 
 
 of compensation and give you an opportunity to 
 earn a few rubles besides." 
 
 This was indeed a godsend. I accepted the offer 
 straightway. 
 
 A few minutes later we were walking through the 
 streets, while my companion was questioning me 
 about my past. He was tall and solidly built, 
 with jet-black curly hair, and with, what I thought, 
 michievous-looking eyes. At first I was apprehen- 
 sive of danger ; but there were candour and sympathy 
 in his words, and his offer was too inviting for one 
 in my circumstances to reject, so I soon dismissed 
 all suspicion from my mind. 
 
 We presently entered a large, gloomy courtyard, 
 
 After we had climbed two narrow stairways my 
 new friend rapped on a door. We were admitted by 
 a young woman into a dimly lighted apartment. 
 He introduced the woman as "the lady who keeps 
 house for me," and he showed me into a neat- 
 looking room which contained, besides a bed and a 
 little table, a small printing-press. 
 
 "Israel don't mind my calling you by your 
 first name; I also wish you to call me Adolph, not 
 Mr. Dolgoff," he laughed merrily, and slapped me 
 on the shoulder by way of encouraging good 
 fellowship "Israel, make yourself at home here. 
 I hope you will not find me a bad fellow. But I 
 must add one stipulation whatever you see or 
 hear keep to yourself; ask no questions. When 
 you have had as much experience as I you will find
 
 The Fugitive 
 
 this advice very helpful to you. Children must be 
 taught to talk, grown people to keep silent." 
 
 After I had supped on very palatable food I 
 went to bed. But although I was worn out, hours 
 passed before I fell asleep. The incident of my 
 meeting Dolgoff and the scenes I had witnessed 
 during the day kept me awake. My new friend 
 looked mysterious; everything about him was 
 suggestive of a secret; and yet his cordial manners 
 won my confidence. One hour in his company had 
 made me feel as if we had been lifelong friends. 
 But what did it matter as long as I was in Vilno 
 in Lithuanian Jerusalem in the great city of light 
 and culture? Finally magic hope sung a sweet 
 lullaby and lulled me to sleep.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 MY SECOND BIRTH 
 
 AFTER a long rest I awoke the next morning with 
 a happy word on my lips Vilno. I lay in bed 
 listening to the rumbling of wheels on the loud 
 cobble-stones as if it were sweet music, and later, 
 glancing through my window at the tier upon tier of 
 high buildings and domes and spires, I pictured 
 myself as Napoleon beholding the burnished roofs 
 and magnificent structures of Moscow before its 
 doom. 
 
 My joy was so overwhelming for many days to 
 come that all past recollections escaped my memory ; 
 even the fresh remembrance of Malke was merely 
 like the sour taste that remains after eating sweets. 
 I thought of nothing but the future. Nor was I 
 troubled by the suspicion that Dolgoff had at 
 first aroused in my mind. I did my clerical work 
 as he bade me, asking no questions. Not infre- 
 quently I wondered what he did with so many 
 passports, which I copied, and what he did with 
 that printing-press, which I often heard him work 
 behind closed doors, but I would instantly recall 
 his stipulation and remain dumb. Did I have any 
 cause to disregard his orders ? Did he not treat me 
 
 191
 
 192 The Fugitive 
 
 generously ? Did he not furnish me with books that 
 I might pursue my studies ? Did he not help me in 
 every possible way? With such questions I would 
 quiet any misgivings that arose in my mind. And 
 what a companion ! His rich, elastic barytone, 
 which rang with tragic sweetness and pathos on 
 many a frosty winter night, still chimes in my 
 ears like a weird echo whenever my mind recurs to 
 that period of my eventful life. 
 
 Two months passed happily in routine work 
 and study. One night about Christmas time, 
 while I sat reading, I heard Dolgoff and another 
 man talking in the adjoining room. That there 
 was a man in his room was itself surprising, as 
 Dolgoff had few visitors, but my attention was 
 attracted not so much by the visitor as by some- 
 thing suggestive in the voice of the guest. 
 
 "S-h! I hear somebody stirring in the next 
 room," I heard the visitor say. 
 
 "This is the fellow I told you about silent as a 
 fish." 
 
 A short pause. 
 
 "How soon must you have the passports and the 
 circulars?" 
 
 There was a sound like that of unfolding a large 
 sheet of paper. "To-morrow morning, if possible," 
 the stranger answered. "There is danger if they 
 don't get the passports in three days." 
 
 "I am afraid to work at night. The press 
 makes too much noise, and my housekeeper tells
 
 My Second Birth 193 
 
 me that the neighbours, are getting suspicious 
 of us." 
 
 " How about getting the fellow to work to-morrow 
 all day?" 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 " I am afraid to trust him. He appeared dull at 
 first, but I find him quite shrewd." 
 
 "Suppose you call him out so I can size him up." 
 
 Dolgoff called: "Israel!" 
 
 I pretended not to hear. 
 
 He called a second time. 
 
 I stepped into the next room. It was dim, and 
 I could not see Dolgoff 's companion very distinctly, 
 but I noticed that he wore a gymnasium uniform. 
 
 " Is that you?" the stranger exclaimed. 
 
 I shrank back a step and said laughingly: "The 
 voice is Jacob's voice and the hands are the hands 
 of Esau." 
 
 "Don't you know me?" he asked, again coming 
 closer to me. 
 
 Ephraim ! But what a change ! A heavy crop 
 of dark, curly hair crowned his well-formed head, 
 a brown mustache shaded his upper lip, and his 
 keen eyes sparkled through a pair of glasses. He 
 was more erect, more graceful than ever, and in 
 the smart gymnasium uniform he looked quite 
 distinguished. 
 
 Then we forgot everything else and talked of days 
 gone by and of what had happened to us since our 
 separation.
 
 The Fugitive 
 
 "I am in the seventh," he answered to my 
 question as to his class. 
 
 "And I am in minus one," I said jocosely, though 
 a trifle jealously. 
 
 "You will catch up with the rest of us," Ephraim 
 assured me encouragingly. "Once rid of the 
 fanatics, the rest is easy sailing. ' In der Beschrank- 
 ung zeigt sick erst der Meister,'" he quoted Goethe.' 
 "The danger is now over: one daring step brings 
 the advance of two." 
 
 Although I rejoiced at meeting my old friend, yet 
 I dreaded his association. I realised that Ephraim's 
 motives and ideas had always been worthy, but at 
 the same time I feared he was instinctively creating 
 trouble for himself and his companions. I did not 
 clearly understand in what complication he was 
 now involved, but the passports of his and Dolgoff's 
 fabrication, as well as the circulars printed behind 
 closed doors, were doubtless not serving a legitimate 
 purpose. However, my situation was such as did 
 not warrant my severing connections with either 
 him or Dolgoff. And, besides, in spite of Ephraim's 
 revolutionary ideas, which were not in harmony 
 with my nature, I loved him for his sincerity. 
 I have always preferred erring sincerity to truth 
 advocated by a hypocrite. 
 
 The following day he took me to his lodging, 
 where we discussed my future. There would be no 
 trouble in my being admitted to the sixth, he as- 
 sured me, if I should study all winter and the coming
 
 My Second Birth 195 
 
 summer; but I had no passport, without which, he 
 said, I could not even present myself for examina- 
 tion. After a few minutes' thought he asked: 
 "Would you mind changing your name?" 
 
 I did not divine his meaning at first and looked 
 at him somewhat dubiously. 
 
 "Why, don't you understand?" He lowered his 
 voice. " I can get you a passport under a different 
 name, provided you would assume that name. 
 Every three years you may renew the passport and 
 live undisturbed all your life." 
 
 I felt .that it would not be easy to part with my 
 name ; it seemed to me like changing my nose without 
 remodelling my other features. But after he had laid 
 the proposition before me and explained the impossi- 
 bility of my accomplishing anything without such 
 a step, I submitted to this change. 
 
 So that very afternoon, in the presence of Dolgoff, 
 Ephraim presented me with a document that bore 
 the Russian eagle and smilingly said: "I'll be your 
 godfather and christen you Ivan Petrowitch Russa- 
 koff, a native of Pskoff. Remember, you are a 
 native of Pskoff," he repeated warningly. "And 
 now you are safe." 
 
 That night I lay awake for hours. Hitherto, 
 though I had worked with enthusiasm, I had been 
 in much the situation of one who is trying to find 
 his way alone through a wilderness. Ephraim had 
 pointed the direct path to me ; his advice helped me 
 to reduce my desultory plan of study to order. My
 
 196 The Fugitive 
 
 hopes grew stronger as I tossed about on my bed. 
 I began to look into the future. I saw myself in 
 gymnasium uniform; I saw myself studying ardu- 
 ously to win prizes; I saw myself in the midst of a 
 graduating class and heard distinctly, "Gold medal 
 for Ivan Petrowitch Russakoff" and then, ghost- 
 like, a picture began to take hazy shape. Gradually 
 the figure assumed more definite outlines. My heart 
 began to throb faster and the blood in my veins 
 run more swiftly as the picture became clear before 
 my eyes. I held my breath. A blooming maiden, 
 with rich brown hair hanging down her back, stood 
 by my side, smiling. I thought I heard her murmur 
 very softly: "You foolish Israel! Why, then I'll 
 marry you."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 A ROSE WITH A THORN 
 
 DURING the winter and the following summer my 
 studies were a passion with me. My eagerness for 
 study and my inexhaustible craving for books kept 
 me so spellbound that the nights for sleep appeared 
 to me like black spokes in a fast-whirling wheel. 
 I was instinctively an idler, and day-dreams were 
 as natural to me as breathing. I forced myself to 
 read and study assiduously all day and night. My 
 friends urged me to study less and give more time 
 to recreation. But how could I? I realised there 
 was so much to learn, so much to observe, so much 
 to think about, and that I was so ignorant and life 
 was so short. And when I did permit myself a 
 little respite in dusky twilight; when I figured it 
 was cheaper to rest than to burn oil or candles, 
 which I could ill afford, my mind would immedi- 
 ately turn to literature. I would revel in memories 
 of the works of Shakespeare and Milton and Dante 
 and Goethe and Schiller and Lessing and Heine 
 and Rousseau and Moliere and Cervantes. I was 
 inspired by their grandeur and at the same time 
 I was humbled. To be called a student without 
 possessing a thorough knowledge of literature, 
 
 197
 
 igS The Fugitive 
 
 philosophy, and all the sciences seemed to me tin- 
 pardonable pedantry. Such thoughts, immediately 
 followed by a realisation of my own insignificance 
 and ignorance, often drove me to despair; and I 
 would quickly make a light (not minding the cost, 
 which frequently deprived me of a few meals at 
 the end of the month) and proceed with my studies 
 more arduously than ever. To say that I devoured 
 all the books I could get hold of is scarcely a figure 
 of speech. Finding myself in a library before 
 many tiers of books, my brain would become dizzy 
 from a nervous desire to read all the books at once. 
 
 In spite of Dolgoff's congeniality and kindness, 
 I soon determined that his house was no place for 
 me. I dreaded people with secrets. So as soon as 
 I found employment by which I could earn enough 
 for bread, butter, and tea, I moved to a small attic, 
 from which I looked down upon a wide expanse of 
 roofs. Small as my room was, I enjoyed it more 
 than if it had been a sumptuously furnished palace. 
 I loved the noiseless hum of silence at night, and 
 there in my forsaken nook, with but a cot, a chair, 
 and a table, I found these comforts in all their 
 lavishness. 
 
 Of Ephraim I saw little, and at Dolgoff's apart- 
 ment I called rarely. The former was too much 
 engrossed in his ideas and propaganda, and the 
 latter was busy fabricating passports and printing 
 circulars, which he took pains to keep away from 
 me. Besides, I had made up my mind that the
 
 A Rose With a Thorn 199 
 
 secret bond between the two was such as would 
 not admit of investigation. From remarks dropped 
 now and then I learned that they belonged to a 
 revolutionary society, which I had no desire to 
 join. 
 
 At the end of the summer I was admitted to the 
 sixth grade of gymnasium, as Ephraim had pre- 
 dicted. My answers to the examination questions 
 drew attention to me. I overheard one of the 
 examiners remark to another: "A bright Jewish 
 lad." And the record I made at examination I 
 kept up in the class-rooms. I was constantly being 
 commended by my instructors. 
 
 But there is no sunshine without shadow, no 
 rose without a thorn. A very sensitive person 
 can never be happy; his feelings are so tender that 
 the least unkindness puts him in misery. Happiness 
 is the lot only of those whose nerves are dull, whose 
 brains are heavy, whose eyes look and do not see. 
 Unfortunately, I was very sensitive quick to see, 
 quick to comprehend, quick to feel. 
 
 And it was not long before I felt the prick of the 
 thorn. My assiduous study and native aptness 
 for literature brought me to the head of the class 
 in that course. The jealousy of the gentile boys 
 was provoked, and I suffered. During recess, when 
 the boys would play and fight, I could not pass 
 through the school-yard without insult. One would 
 gather the skirt of his coat in his hand in the shape 
 of a pig's ear and imitate that unclean animal as
 
 200 The Fugitive 
 
 I passed ; another would mimic my walk ; some one 
 else would bespatter me with ink blown through a 
 straw. Nor were these the worst pranks they played 
 upon me. Need I say that I suffered? The word 
 suffer is not adequate to express what I felt. It 
 was not their jibes and mockery alone that hurt me. 
 I was hurt as much by their injustice to my race. 
 It was not me individually that they insulted, but 
 the great suffering people of Israel. 
 
 Many a night, when my tormentors were peace- 
 fully asleep, I lay in my dark little chamber and 
 longed for the Ghetto and the Talmud. Several 
 times I determined to give up all my hopes of be- 
 coming a distinguished man and go back to the 
 Beth-Hamedresh and the musty folios of the 
 Talmud. "Is not the confined Ghetto, with all its 
 dirt and bigotry, the safest corner for the sensitive 
 Jew?" I would ask myself. "There at least, 
 though I suffered physically, I was not a target for 
 sneering and jeering and unbearable offenses. There 
 at least my heart and sentiments were not wounded. 
 The swineherds who had beaten me were ignorant 
 and were therefore not quite responsible for their 
 inhuman act. But now, among educated people 
 who are taught to reason and who boast of civilisa- 
 tion, why should I feel like a strayed lamb among 
 a pack of wolves? What fault do they find with 
 me that justifies their insults? What makes me 
 an object of scorn? I do not ask of them to love 
 me. Toleration is all I pray for."
 
 A Rose With a Thorn 201 
 
 But the next morning all my yearning for knowl- 
 edge would come back to me, and I would go on 
 with my studies with unabated zeal. Though it 
 has never been in my nature to humble myself 
 before any one, I learned after a while, in spite of 
 my pride, to walk humbly before those brutal 
 boys. I even used to correct some of the students' 
 compositions before they had been handed to the 
 teacher. And what recompense did I get for it? 
 Smiling insults and tacit offenses. 
 
 After all, I derived a certain benefit from all these 
 injuries. The misery I suffered through the preju- 
 dice of my tormentors strengthened my will; the 
 sneers I received because I was of the fugitive race 
 lent courage to my timorous nature. Suffering 
 is the best cultivator of character. The wrongs 
 others had done to me made me realise the wrong 
 I was doing to others. Persecution taught me 
 tolerance, sympathy, truthfulness, justice. 
 
 After a time I began to take thought as to what 
 profession I should enter. I finally settled upon 
 medicine, though I had no inclination for it. In 
 Russia a Jew may not do what he wishes, but what he 
 is permitted to do. I chose medicine because it 
 was the most independent profession open to me. 
 
 During all the period of study and torture the 
 image of Katia was constantly arising in my mind. 
 Her sovereignty over me, which had lapsed during 
 Malke's brief sway, was now more absolute, more 
 absorbing; it thrilled me and added an ineffable
 
 202 The Fugitive 
 
 sweetness to my existence. I could not clearly 
 see where or how I could ever meet her again, but 
 I was young, and youth is ever hopeful. When 
 my teacher pronounced my verses "decidedly 
 promising" I regarded this success as a partial 
 fulfilment of Katia's prediction that I would 
 become a famous poet. Then would come the 
 consuming ambition to realise her expectations, 
 and I would study and write more zealously than 
 ever that I might become as great as Nekrassoff 
 or Lermontoff or Pushkin. 
 
 So several years passed years of torment, of 
 study, of versifying, of dreaming of Katia. On 
 my graduation day I heard, as I once had dreamed : 
 "A gold medal for Ivan Petrowitch Russakoff." 
 
 Ephraim had graduated the year before and 
 had gone to Kieff to study in the university; and 
 thither I also decided to go.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 "RUSSIAN JERUSALEM" 
 
 ONE chilly autumn morning I arrived in Kieff 
 the "City of Churches." Its numberless glittering 
 spires, gilt cupolas, sparkling crosses, superb belfries, 
 overtowering domes, and the splendour and holi- 
 ness of its atmosphere filled me with overwhelming 
 admiration. The sight of the picturesque Jerusa- 
 lem of Russia, with its numberless monasteries, 
 cathedrals, and churches, aroused in me new feelings, 
 new thoughts, new hopes, new aspirations. My 
 innate love for beauty in any form stirred my 
 enthusiasm to wonderment, admiration, worship. 
 
 I found Ephraim easily enough, and through 
 him I found Dolgoff. The former was pursuing 
 his studies and no less ardently his propaganda, 
 and the latter, by some means or other, managed, 
 without doing a stroke of work, to wear good 
 clothes and eat the choicest of food. 
 
 Dolgoff started on seeing me the first time. 
 "By thunder!" he cried, "with that sprout- 
 ing mustache on your face and appealing look 
 you're enough like an old friend of mine to be his 
 brother [this mustache was a product of my last 
 year in Vilnoj. And by the bye, one of his names 
 
 203
 
 204 The Fugitive 
 
 he had a dozen [this with a rolling laugh] was 
 the same as yours, Abramo witch." 
 
 I thought of Joseph in my turn I was startled. 
 My heart beat wildly. This (if this friend of 
 DolgofFs should prove my brother) was the first 
 I had heard of Joseph since I was a child; and, in 
 fact, I had scarcely ever thought of him. 
 
 "What was the brother of mine like?" I asked, 
 controlling myself and attempting to laugh. 
 
 "Don't call him your brother, even in jest," 
 returned Dolgoff. "You look a little alike only 
 in physical appearance. He is one of the biggest 
 rogues the devil ever got into." 
 
 "He sounds interesting. You might at least tell 
 me a little about him," I said, with a fast-beating 
 heart, again straining a light manner. 
 
 "He certainly was a lost soul," said Dolgoff 
 carelessly. "I heard it whispered that he killed 
 his own father. Whether this was true I can't 
 say. But I know he collected a lot of blackmail 
 from an important personage who was mixed up 
 in a murder, by threatening exposure. I got to 
 know him pretty well, for we worked together for 
 a while passports, you know. When I first knew 
 him he was living with a woman, a gentile, who 
 said she was his wife. But they weren't married. 
 He had talked free-love hocus-pocus to her till he 
 had convinced her marriage wasn't necessary. 
 He soon deserted her and ran off with a money- 
 lender's daughter and all of his money he could
 
 ** Russian Jerusalem" 205 
 
 get hold off. I haven't heard of him since, but 
 he's undoubtedly at the same game. If I were you, 
 Israel," he ended humorously, with a soft, rolling 
 laugh, "I'd shave off my mustache and look like 
 some one else." 
 
 I did not dare question him any further about 
 Joseph, for fear my curiosity, together with the 
 resemblance he had noted, might lead him to suspect 
 the relationship between his old friend and me. 
 Needless to say, I was not proud of Joseph. So I 
 turned the conversation upon Ephraim. 
 
 "Oh, Razovski is now stirring Kieff with 'liberty 
 for the Jews' and 'assimilation, ' " he said in answer 
 to my question as to what was Ephraim's present 
 hobby. "He is always fortunate in finding co- 
 operators. A certain Judge Bialnick a gentile 
 is working indefatigably for the cause." 
 
 "Judge Bialnick!" I uttered breathlessly. 
 
 "Why, did you ever hear of him? He comes 
 from Lithuania and has spent his life among Jews." 
 
 I did not answer his question; instead, I again 
 changed the subject. " And what about Nihilism ? " 
 
 "It is not dead yet, " he responded in a whisper. 
 " That's how Razovski came to meet Judge Bialnick. 
 The Judge is at the head of our secret society here. 
 Matters will become lively pretty soon." He 
 suddenly checked himself, as if he realised he had 
 already talked too much. 
 
 The information that Bialnick was in Kieff took 
 me completely by surprise. I was so dazed that
 
 206 The Fugitive 
 
 after leaving Dolgoff I almost lost my way. I 
 recalled that Bialnick had talked of being trans- 
 ferred to Kieff, so this must be the same Bial- 
 nick that I had known. And Katia must be in 
 Kieff, too. A thrilling hope took hold of me. 
 I could not see my way clear to a renewal of 
 friendship with her, but I trusted to fate and my 
 efforts. 
 
 I took up my new course of study with fresh 
 zeal. Because Katia was so near, because of the 
 new hope that was burning within me, the dry 
 pages of anatomy and materia medica became as at- 
 tractive to me as volumes of poetry. I was happy all 
 the time because I was breathing the same air with 
 Katia; and every evening I was doubly happy, 
 because then I walked past her residence, which, 
 I soon learned, was in the Pecherskoi quarter, the 
 most fashionable part of the city. 
 
 But I suffered from material want. Living 
 expenses here were much higher than at Vilno, and 
 my earnings were less. I eked out my livelihood 
 by doing some odd literary jobs for a well-known 
 periodical, but the remuneration was so meager 
 that I was often compelled to live on one meal a 
 day. However, I was not discouraged. On the 
 contrary, my ambition was stimulated, and the 
 time of the missing meal was spent in writing 
 verses. My muse was very active in those days. 
 With ink and paper before me, and a pen in my 
 hand, I felt as if I were riding on a fast-sailing
 
 "Russian Jerusalem" 207 
 
 cloud, with the earth below like a mere child's 
 ball. 
 
 Yet I could not substitute verses for all my 
 meals. So I advertised in a local newspaper, and 
 the second insertion procured me a position as 
 tutor in a wealthy family. The payment I agreed 
 upon was sufficient to carry me through college. 
 The first lessons I gave were satisfactory, and now 
 all seemed easy sailing. But I was soon again 
 reminded that a rose is scarcely ever without a 
 thorn. One afternoon, as I presented myself at 
 the appointed time, I found the father instead of 
 his two sons. 
 
 He bowed stifBy and in a courteous tone said: 
 "Well a you will excuse me a your name a 
 : deceived me." And he smiled, as if he wished 
 me to understand the rest. 
 
 I looked dubiously at him. 
 
 41 Don't you see Mr. Russakoff ? " he added. " I 
 don't believe you are the kind of tutor my boys 
 need." 
 
 "Could you kindly specify my deficiencies, so 
 that I may benefit by your opinion?" I asked 
 smilingly, though I was filled with sudden despair. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir." He smiled graciously. 
 "The fault a is not with you, but a with 
 a the Jew " 
 
 My feelings at that instant were beyond all 
 description. I had suffered many injuries of a 
 similar kind before, but never had I felt so hurt as
 
 208 The Fugitive 
 
 at this time. I went to my room and threw myself 
 upon my bed, and, man though I now was, burst 
 into a flood of tears tears of rage, of humiliation, 
 of helplessness. Afterward I sat smarting at my 
 window, watching daylight turn to dusk and twilight 
 to darkness. 
 
 "He finds no fault with me, but with the Jew." 
 This ran through my brain for days. However, little 
 by little my wounds were healed. I soon began 
 to reason and look for excuses for my abuser, as I 
 had always done, and I found some justification for 
 his inhuman act. But I could not forget that my 
 college fees were due and my board bill was not 
 settled. 
 
 And now a daring plan came into my mind a 
 plan suggested by my recent occupation as tutor 
 and by my desire to see Katia. I wrote a brief 
 formal note to Katia, without giving my real name, 
 stating that I was a student in the university who 
 desired to do some tutoring, mentioning the branches 
 which I felt competent to teach, and explaining 
 that I was writing her because I understood that 
 she desired instruction in one of these subjects. 
 
 Two days later the answer came. She desired a 
 tutor in German, she wrote in fact, she had just 
 applied for one at the university; so she would be 
 glad indeed to talk with me and perhaps arrange 
 to give her the desired lessons.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 I SEE WITHOUT BEING SEEN 
 
 THE following day I ascended the steps of the 
 Bialnick mansion with a quivering heart. A foot- 
 man immediately answered my ring, ushered me 
 into a sumptuously furnished room, and disappeared 
 with my card. 
 
 A few minutes later a side door opened. Katia ! 
 At sight of her I trembled so that I could hardly 
 keep my feet. Katia ! Katia at last ! The same 
 Katia, but so grown, so changed. In my dreams 
 of her all these years I had always seen her as a 
 slight girl in a short frock, with her hair hanging 
 down her back. Now she stood before me a young 
 woman. The slight figure had matured; her gown 
 swept the floor; the luxurious hair was coiled at 
 the back of her head. But her luminous eyes, 
 of no particular colour, but rather a mixture of 
 many colours, were the same, and her soft smile 
 was the same, for she was smiling at something 
 when she came in, and I could see she was as grace- 
 ful, as sweet as ever. 
 
 I steadied myself with my hands upon the back of 
 a chair, and wondered if she would recognise me. 
 But I had changed in the years of our separation 
 
 209
 
 2io The Fugitive 
 
 more than she had. She greeted me as an absolute 
 stranger. 
 
 "Is this Mr. Russakoff?" she asked in her low, 
 sweet voice. 
 
 I acknowledged my name with a bow. I could 
 not trust myself to speak. But I immediately 
 gained control of myself and we proceeded to 
 business. 
 
 After we had arranged the hours of instruction, 
 price, and books, I remarked: "I ought to inform 
 you, perhaps, at the outset, that I am a Jew. 
 Perhaps you have objections to my race?" 
 
 "Mr. Russakoff, your question surprises me," 
 she answered. "Why, my father is known as a 
 friend of the Jews. As to myself" here she 
 laughed softly and a blush crept down her neck 
 "my dearest playmate when I was a little girl was 
 a Jewish boy." 
 
 At this the control I was trying so hard to main- 
 tain almost left me. I gripped myself and said 
 with a show of calmness : "I did not know how you 
 felt; some people are so narrow-minded and so 
 prejudiced" ; and I told her of my recent experience. 
 
 "That is a shame !" she cried indignantly. And 
 then, as if to express her feeling, she added: "It is, 
 of course, natural for me to like the Jews on account 
 of my early intimacy." 
 
 For a moment I was tempted to disclose my 
 identity, but I obeyed the advice of prudence to 
 remain unknown.
 
 I See Without Being: Seen 211 
 
 I soon left her and repaired immediately to my 
 scantily furnished room. She recalled our early 
 romance as a mere childish fancy, while with me 
 it had matured into a deep-rooted affection. I now 
 realised more than ever how deeply I loved her. 
 
 But what a gulf there was now between us ! We 
 were no longer boy and girl, I told myself, with 
 the natural impulses of childhood. She was now a 
 charming woman of high social position, and I 
 a vagabond, a poor devil of a student, with nothing 
 to inspire or charm her. True, she had called me 
 brother when I was a mere tramp, a wandering 
 little gipsy, but that was many years ago; true, 
 she still remembered me, but to her I was only a 
 pleasant memory. That was all I was to her a 
 pleasant memory a bit of recollection of playful 
 childhood. 
 
 This change of thought brought the images of 
 her father and my father to my mind. I shuddered 
 the blood of Judge Bialnick was flowing in her 
 veins. The consciousness of my race, of my faith 
 (little as it was), of the duty I owed to my inno- 
 cent father, stirred my blood and woke my calm 
 nature. I ought to think only of vengeance. I 
 ought to abandon my wild plan and see Katia no 
 more ! 
 
 But when the decision was half made my heart 
 was torn with anguish and an irresistible desire to 
 see her just to see her and hear the cadence of 
 her voice again that and no more; just to be near
 
 2i2 The Fugitive 
 
 her and feel her presence nothing further; just 
 to be her teacher without ever breathing to her the 
 secret of my heart that was all I wished.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 CUPID'S ARROWS 
 
 WHEN I called to give my pupil her first lesson 
 I found her father present. A shiver passed through 
 me as he grasped my hand. He eyed me so in- 
 tently that I thought he had recognised me, but 
 his remark that followed convinced me that he 
 had not. 
 
 "It is rather strange, Mr. Russakoff," he said, 
 " that there is a close resemblance among intellectual 
 Jews. At the first glance I thought I had met you 
 before." 
 
 I made an evasive remark, and he chatted on, 
 asking about my native town, my parents, my 
 previous studies; to most of which questions, I 
 am sorry to record, I gave false replies in order to 
 avoid suspicion. 
 
 As he sat talking in his big arm-chair I watched 
 him furtively. The change in him was almost 
 startling; his hair and beard were fast turning 
 white, and there was a perceptible nervousness in 
 his movements ; even the hue of his skin had changed. 
 His eyelids drooped frequently, and there was a 
 certain laxity, like that of extreme indolence, in 
 
 213
 
 214 The Fugitive 
 
 his speech and gestures. Every few minutes he 
 nervously passed his hand over his eyes, an act 
 which I soon perceived had become with him a 
 habit. 
 
 I found myself speechless in his presence. I was 
 surprised at myself. I had always told myself that 
 when chance brought us together I would denounce 
 him and take vengeance ; but now that I was in his 
 presence I felt no anger instead, I pitied him. I 
 could easily see that he constantly suffered great 
 pain, that he was a physical wreck; and it was 
 obvious that he suffered mental agony no less 
 intense than the physical. For the time, com- 
 passion banished my hatred. 
 
 I continued giving Katia lessons four times a 
 week without so much as betraying a sign of my 
 identity. Occasionally we would drift off the 
 lesson to the discussion of other matters. We 
 talked of history, of novels, of poetry, of char- 
 acters in fiction. I often wondered where I got 
 the phrases and picturesque descriptions which I 
 used in making my ideas clear to her. I simply 
 drew inspiration from her to give it back to her. 
 Sometimes her look would thrill me ; then I would 
 drop my eyes, and when again I raised them I 
 would see her cheeks suffused with blushes and her 
 own eyes burning with intense emotion. I would 
 wonder if that show of feeling was induced by our 
 talk or was it an indication that she cared for
 
 Cupid's Atfows 215 
 
 me ? I realised that I was a nobody, and therefore 
 she could not care for me; and yet how 
 kindly, how sympathetically she treated me me, 
 a vagabond, a son of the hated race, a child of 
 persecution ! 
 
 I was playing with fire. I knew it, and yet I 
 loved to be burned. I would feel happy and miser- 
 able at the same time. I would become possessed 
 at once with jealousy and hatred of myself for 
 harbouring that jealousy. I reasoned that if she 
 now loved me Ivan Petrowitch Russakoff she 
 had forgotten Israel Yudelowitch Abramowitch, 
 and I could not bear the idea that she did not love 
 my old self. 
 
 One afternoon I gave her my interpretation of 
 Heine's " Traumbilder, II." I read with all the 
 glow and enthusiasm with which this bard, whose 
 soul I understood better than that of any other poet, 
 has always inspired me. I forgot my sorrows in 
 feeling his. His words seemed to me like drops of 
 honey dripping from a poisoned honeycomb. His 
 heart was poisoned with the same venom that 
 embittered my own. I have always imagined when 
 reading Heine that when he laughed tears were 
 trickling down his cheeks, and when he cried a smile 
 of defiance and irony played around the deep 
 corners of his mouth. 
 
 While I read, Katia sat with her lustrous eyes 
 fixed upon me. She did not once stir. She seemed
 
 216 The Fugitive 
 
 as much possessed by this magnificent lyric as I 
 was. 
 
 "Read it again, Gospodin Russakoff," she asked, 
 sighing deeply, when I had finished the last line. 
 " You speak like a poet yourself, and how your eyes 
 change from their steady brown to pitch-black! 
 You remind me of Israel, the Jewish boy I told you 
 of," she added, smiling faintly. " I almost fear you 
 when you read as you have done your eyes look 
 so strange when you are aroused." 
 
 "You must not be afraid of me," I said, thrown 
 into throbbing confusion by her words. "I am too 
 weak to hurt anybody." 
 
 The night following that afternoon I lay a long 
 time awake, my mind a prey to incoherent thoughts 
 and memories. "How your eyes change from 
 their steady brown to pitch-black" passed through 
 my mind again and again. I had never noticed 
 the colour of my eyes. She had. What could it 
 mean? "You remind me of Israel, the Jewish boy 
 I told you of." I again recalled her words. 
 Evidently the memory of that boy was still sweet to 
 her, and evidently she was interested in me. My 
 heart almost leaped out of my breast at the 
 thought. 
 
 I was near falling asleep from mere mental ex- 
 haustion; my mind was raving already just a 
 wink from unconsciousness when in the blank 
 darkness of my chamber the form of a female shaped 
 itself before me. Thick, light-brown hair with a
 
 Cupid's Arrows 217 
 
 silky gloss, brilliantly smiling eyes, an exquisitely 
 shaped mouth with deep corners, fine arched eye- 
 brows, a fine bosom it remained but a moment, 
 then gradually faded away, and in its place the 
 small golden crucifix which Katia wore suspended 
 from a fine gold chain around her neck grew larger 
 and larger until it assumed the shape and size of a 
 female form. A minute later the figure of a woman 
 again appeared, and again it vanished, and that little 
 golden cross was metamorphosed into the form of 
 a person, and behold ! the features were mine. 
 Oh, that little golden cross ! What pangs and morti- 
 fication it added to my wounded heart ! As soon as 
 I would begin to think of Katia (and when did I not 
 think of her ?) that tiny cross, as if by magic, would 
 appear before my fancy, swaying to and fro and 
 growing larger and larger until it assumed the size 
 and proportions of a human form with my own 
 features. 
 
 Weeks passed by. The hope that had sprung 
 up within me was soon succeeded by doubt, by 
 thoughts of my own insignificance. Of course I 
 loved her madly loved her as no one else had ever 
 loved, I thought. But I had also been in love many 
 times with the brilliant stars that shone on a 
 serene frosty night. And was I not as far from my 
 beloved Katia as I was from the stars? "I, a 
 poor vagabond, a struggling student who earns his 
 bread by giving lessons and scribbling lyrics at a 
 penny a line, a wandering Jew hated and scorned
 
 2i8 The Fugitive 
 
 by all, without a place to call home have I the 
 right to love Katia and drag her down to my level 
 her who, besides her social position, is in every 
 respect superior to me?" I would ask myself. 
 
 "But have I no right to love her, though she is 
 so much above me?" I would demand in behalf of 
 my passion. "Must the poor's right to love be 
 restricted, just as are all his other privileges, and 
 confined within a narrow compass?" And anger 
 would swell my breast against all the rich people 
 of the world, as if they had taken sides against me. 
 "She may not reciprocate my love that is as she 
 will. I only justify my right to love her." 
 
 But if she was to learn that I loved her, I told 
 myself, she would discharge me immediately. Dis- 
 missal I could not stand. I would rather a thousand 
 times over suffer the pangs of an untold love than 
 be sent away from her. Her servant her slave 
 I cared not what my position was so long as I could 
 continue to see her. 
 
 In one of our talks I casually touched the history 
 of the Jews in Spain, the pages of which are aflame 
 with fire and blood. I must have talked with no 
 little fervour and enthusiasm, for I noticed tears 
 sparkling in the eyes of my pupil. I asked whether 
 I had hurt her feelings. She only smiled in response, 
 but a minute later she said in her sweet, sympa- 
 thetic voice: "It must have hurt you to speak of 
 it, Mr. Russakoff. How your eyes changed !" 
 
 After that lesson I went home like a somnambulist.
 
 Cupid's Arrows 219 
 
 I recall a collision with something or somebody, and 
 that somebody muttered: "It is really a shame to 
 have drunkards stagger through the streets." 
 Next I remember my head met with something as 
 bulky and as hard as mine, and the owner of it 
 grumbled, " Bolshay Durak [big fool] !" and then I 
 remember, as through a mist, myself seated on the 
 old sofa in my room, my head between my hands, 
 looking fixedly upon the head of a nail in my carpet- 
 less floor. I cannot tell how long I studied that 
 object before a jolly laugh, which sounded queer 
 in my ears, interrupted my reflection, and a hand 
 shook me by the shoulder rather violently. 
 
 I looked up and recognised Ephraim Razovski. 
 
 "You must have a nightmare," laughed Razovski 
 again, slapping me on the shoulder. " I rapped on 
 your door more than etiquette permits, but you 
 were evidently so absorbed in your dreams that you 
 did not hear me at all. So I ventured to open the 
 door myself, for I saw the key sticking on the 
 inside. Wake up, comrade ! You must not dream 
 in your fur coat." Again he laughed a hearty, 
 sonorous peal. 
 
 "You are perhaps dreaming of writing for the 
 Morning Star an article against assimilation, you 
 Orientalist, you Ghetto mystic," he continued, 
 having received no answer from me. "You always 
 come out with your bosh about the glorious Jewish 
 past, their wonderful history and their philosophic 
 monotheism, and so forth, and so forth. Can't we
 
 220 The Fugitive 
 
 look into the face of truth and realise that the 
 world is waiting for us to assimilate if we just say 
 the word? Wake up, you dreamer!" And he 
 slapped me on the shoulder again. 
 
 "There must be something wrong with you," 
 Razovski continued, shaking me by my long hair. 
 "Wake up, Israel [he always called me by my 
 Jewish name]. If it is love, a night's rest and 
 sound sleep will readily cure you of it. I fell 
 in love at least a score of times, and every time I 
 thought I would not be able to survive it, and in 
 spite of that I lived long enough to fall in love with 
 some other 'best girl in the world." 
 
 He took my head in both his hands and examined 
 my face playfully. "I surmised correctly," he 
 laughed. "Your absent-mindedness and these blue 
 rings betray you. Indeed, you are more sensitive 
 than I thought; this is only a momentary sickness. 
 Once I believed that a person could love one girl 
 only, and if that one rejected him he should seize 
 the first knife he could get and send his soul to the 
 better world. My twenty -six years of experience, 
 however, have taught me differently. If you are 
 in love with a girl and she is indifferent to you, seize 
 the first opportunity and fall in love with another. 
 This is the best cure I can recommend as a layman. 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! Isn't that a good prescription for a 
 lawyer?" 
 
 "Well, good night, comrade," he said after a few 
 moments of silence. " I just dropped in to see you.
 
 Cupid's Arrows 221 
 
 It is getting dark and I have yet a lot of work to do. 
 Well, good night. I will let you dream of your 
 best girl," and he slammed the door after him.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 A GREAT EVENT 
 
 THE next day was the ever-memorable March 13, 
 1 88 1 the date of the assassination of Alexander 
 II. The bomb which exploded in St. Petersburg 
 shook the entire empire. Immediately the whole 
 nation was in mourning; the theaters were closed, 
 music was forbidden, every place of amusement 
 was desolated. The very air was filled with sadness 
 and fear; every heart trembled with consternation, 
 for even a loud laugh was regarded suspiciously. 
 The student element feared the most, for the students 
 were known as the chief conspirators. Following the 
 murder, they were arrested everywhere on the 
 slightest shadow of suspicion; thousands were im- 
 prisoned during that month. Close watch was 
 kept over all the students, and the least sus- 
 picion or denunciation was sufficient to throw a 
 student into prison, perhaps never to come out again. 
 People in the streets did not talk above a whisper. 
 One heard of nothing but arrests. 
 
 That night I sat in my room trying to study, 
 but could not fix my mind upon my books. The 
 news of the murder of the Czar and a fear that in 
 some manner the Jews would be made scapegoats 
 
 222
 
 A Great Event 223 
 
 had unnerved me. I moved restlessly about my 
 room, stirring my fire, peering out of my window 
 at the snow-sheeted roofs, listening to the passage 
 of crunching footsteps and tinkling sleigh-bells. 
 
 About midnight there was a gentle knock on my 
 door. I jumped up with a palpitating heart (though 
 I knew the knock was too gentle for the police) 
 and turned the knob. A short, stocky man wearing 
 glasses stood before me. He was Mr. Levinski, 
 a gifted journalist, with whom I had become 
 acquainted through Ephraim. 
 
 Mr. Levinski entered, pale and shivering. " No 
 time to stop," he whispered hurriedly. "I have 
 just come to warn you. Razovski has been arrested. 
 Examine your books quick. The police are 
 ransacking the whole city. Eight Jewish students 
 have been arrested. Good night. " And he closed 
 the door behind him. 
 
 I bolted the door and examined every scrap of 
 paper I had in my trunk. I burned all the letters 
 I had ever received from Razovski and some manu- 
 scripts that might be construed in a manner to 
 throw suspicion upon me. 
 
 I thought I had nothing to be afraid of, and a 
 little later I tested the lock of my door and crept 
 into bed. I had scarcely settled myself for sleep 
 when three blows against the door made the walls 
 of the house shake. 
 
 "In the name of the law, open!" thundered a 
 voice.
 
 224 The Fugitive 
 
 I leaped out of bed and unlocked the door. 
 Four officers entered. 
 
 "Is your name Ivan Petro witch Russakoff?" 
 demanded the leader. 
 
 I said that was my name. 
 
 "Do you know a student by the name of 
 Razovski?" I was asked abruptly. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did you have any communication with him?" 
 
 I said that we had exchanged some friendly 
 letters. 
 
 "When did you first get acquainted with him?" 
 
 I explained to him. 
 
 "Do you have any relations in St. Petersburg 
 by the name of Russakoff?" 
 
 I told him that I was an orphan and that I did 
 not know any of my relatives, nor in fact did I 
 know whether I had any. 
 
 "Search the room," commanded the chief to 
 his subordinates. Every nook was ransacked. 
 They even threw my pillows out of their cases. 
 But nothing suspicious was found. 
 
 "What are these short lines?" demanded the 
 chief, pointing at a manuscript poem, without 
 reading it. 
 
 " It is a poem," I said. 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A poem," I repeated. 
 
 "Well, you'll have to explain to the chief of the 
 detective bureau what a poem is," he replied
 
 A Great Event 225 
 
 with a burst of laughter. And ordering me to appear 
 before the chief, he and the other officers departed. 
 The relief I felt at their departure can be easily 
 imagined. While they had been ransacking my 
 room I saw the prison gates yawning to receive me. 
 I went to bed, not to sleep, but to wonder fearfully 
 what changes the next few days might bring. 
 
 Presently there came a third knocking at my 
 door this time so gently that I could scarcely 
 hear it. I held my breath. Everything was still; 
 only the buzzing of the burning lamp was heard. 
 I feared to answer the knock, so I rose on my 
 elbow and stared in terror in the direction of the 
 door. 
 
 "Israel!" came through the keyhole in a husky 
 voice. 
 
 "Who is it?" I asked. 
 
 "Open." 
 
 I opened the door and started back a step or 
 two. A large, bearded muzhik, in a sheepskin hat 
 and fur cloak, girdled by a red belt, stood in the 
 doorway. Warning me by a gesture to keep 
 silent, he bolted the door behind him. 
 
 In another instant the beard and hat were thrown 
 off and I beheld Dolgoff. 
 
 " Razovski is in the net," he said in a low, trem- 
 ulous voice. "As usual, I escaped," he added 
 with a faint smile. "I came to you for help." 
 
 I answered nothing. 
 
 " Not for me ; I am safe," he continued. " Razov-
 
 226 The Fugitive 
 
 ski's friend, Judge Bialnick, is in danger. His 
 house is guarded. The police spy him. If he 
 leaves it in three-quarters of an hour (which he 
 will unless he is warned in time) he will never see 
 his home again." 
 
 "I'll go," I said, trembling with agitation. 
 
 " Don't say yes before you hear the nature of 
 your mission," he said smilingly. " Bialnick's house 
 is guarded three squares around. You will be 
 stopped half a dozen times within the Pecherskoi, 
 and unless successful you will not come back to 
 this cosey nook. I don't want you to undertake 
 this task without fully realising the risk attached 
 to it." 
 
 "I'll go," I repeated parrot-like, shivering 
 with anxiety for Katia. 
 
 "I would have gone myself, but my absence 
 from another place would ruin a score of faithful 
 members. A secret meeting, which was discovered 
 by the police, was to be held to-night. Every 
 member who will start for our meeting-place will 
 never see his home again. I don't wish to impose 
 upon you, but if you are fearless enough you will 
 have a chance to save the life of a noble man, who 
 is also a champion of the Jews." 
 
 "I'll go," I reiterated, moving about impa- 
 tiently. Many conflicting thoughts rushed through 
 my brain; it was the battle between revenge and 
 forgiveness. " Love your enemies, bless them that 
 curse you, do good to them that hate you, and
 
 A Great Event 227 
 
 pray for them that despitefully use you and perse- 
 cute you," a weird voice whispered to me. "I'll 
 go I'll go," I reiterated nervously, lest I should 
 change my mind. 
 
 Dolgoff took a bundle from under his arm, 
 unrolled it, and disclosed an artificial beard, a pair 
 of glasses, and a cap with a cockade. " Ready ? " he 
 asked. In an instant I was entirely transformed; 
 my daily companions could not have recognised 
 me. "Remember, you are Doctor Orshanski, the 
 famous surgeon. The impersonation is complete." 
 He examined me studiously and added, half to me, 
 half to himself: "The hat should be drawn a little 
 lower that's better." 
 
 "Now go," he said. "You will find a droshky 
 on the corner. Get in without saying a word to 
 the driver. Ask no questions on the way. If you 
 are stopped, answer 'Doctor Orshanski.' If you are 
 asked where you are bound for, say, ' Miss Bialnick 
 sprained her ankle.' The coachman will put you 
 off at the right place. Ring the bell and ask to 
 see the Judge personally. If you are refused, say 
 ' Pax. ' When you meet him, don't introduce 
 yourself, but simply tell him to stay at home three 
 days on pretense of sickness. When that is said, 
 don't add another word, but depart at once. Now 
 go, quick; don't lose a moment's time." 
 
 The droshky sped like lightning for fully twenty 
 minutes. The driver avoided principal streets. I 
 was only stopped once, and before I had time to
 
 228 The Fugitive 
 
 give my name the officer said, " Pass on, Dr. Orshan- 
 ski," without any interrogations. Other partic- 
 ulars of the ride I do not remember. All the way 
 my brain was so feverish that I was like one stunned. 
 When I was just in the act of ringing the bell the 
 door opened and the Judge appeared before me, 
 robed in a heavy fur cloak. I delivered my mes- 
 sage, and for fear of being recognised by him I turned 
 quickly and sped home.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 LOVE CONQUERS DISCRETION 
 
 THE following morning I was called before the 
 chief, and after a brief trial was told to go home, 
 but warned that I was "under the suspicion of 
 the police." 
 
 On my way home I learned from Mr. Levinski, 
 who had had an interview with the chief of police 
 concerning Ephraim, that Ephraim was also arrested 
 on suspicion only, but his case was rather serious 
 because he had carried on some correspondence with 
 Professor Dragmanoff, who was a great agitator of 
 Nihilism and who had fled to Switzerland. The 
 worst for Ephraim was, however, his being found 
 destroying papers, and the discovery in his trunk 
 of letters from Dragmanoff after his denial of ever 
 having corresponded with the Professor. Besides 
 other "censored" books, "The Revisor" (Gogol's 
 famous drama of corruption), which had been 
 particularly suppressed that winter, was also found 
 in Ephraim's possession. Mr. Levinski gave it as 
 his opinion that Ephraim would certainly be sent 
 to Siberia. 
 
 However, the misfortune that befell my friend, 
 and the still graver affliction that the nation had 
 
 229
 
 230 The Fugitive 
 
 sustained by losing the noblest of its emperors, were 
 as naught compared to my anxiety about Katia. 
 Of what interest or value was Russia to me ? What 
 did it matter that the liberal Czar was assassinated 
 when Katia, who was more to me than my nation, 
 my creed, my race, and above kings and queens, 
 was away from me and yet dwelt in the innermost 
 chamber of my heart ? For who is more selfish, jeal- 
 ous, conceited than a lover? Human beings, the 
 animal kingdom, and other matters like pen, ink, 
 or paper, serve only one purpose to communicate 
 his or her feverish sentiments to the beloved. 
 Even the world plays a trifling part when the 
 egotistic lover is engaged in the amorous vanity of 
 the heart. And yet the world was built on love, 
 so the poets say. Love is the magnetism which 
 holds together the molecules of humanity. 
 
 I stayed in my room two days, and then, the 
 excitement being over, I went to give Katia her 
 regular lesson. I was shown into the reception 
 room, where I found her taking leave of a tall, 
 stout man of military bearing. I had met him 
 several times before, but he had evaded an intro- 
 duction, always overlooking me with obvious con- 
 tempt. 
 
 This time he could not avoid meeting me, but he 
 acknowledged the introduction formally with a bow 
 that seemed to mean: "What the devil is the Jew 
 doing here?" 
 
 He remained only a few minutes longer, and when
 
 Love Conquers Discretion 231 
 
 he departed he did not give me even so much as a 
 friendly look. 
 
 "Is it not horrible, Mr. Russakoff?" Katia 
 began tremulously. "My father has been sick in 
 bed for the four days since the fearful news 
 reached us. He takes this catastrophe so to heart. 
 It is terrible ! Oh, the Nihilists are ruining this 
 country ! Why cannot people live peacefully, I 
 wonder?" 
 
 She dropped into a chair as if from sheer exhaus- 
 tion. She evidently knew nothing of misery, of 
 suffering, of starvation, of oppression she did not 
 even know her own father. 
 
 For a while we talked of her father, of the Nihil- 
 ists, of the possible results of the Czar's assassi- 
 nation; and then our talk shifted to Heine, whose 
 " Reisebilder " she was reading with my assist- 
 ance. 
 
 "I always wondered how those poets could write 
 so much on the single subject of love," Katia 
 remarked; and then she immediately blushed, as 
 if she wished to recall her words. 
 
 "Because they felt so much," I answered. 
 
 "It seems strange," she went on hesitatingly, 
 playing with the golden crucifix that dangled over 
 her bosom. "When my feelings are touched I have 
 very few words to say, and for the rest" she 
 broke the sentence with a forced laugh ' ' I cry. 
 I think that tears are the poetry that flows from 
 the very depths of one's soul, while words come
 
 232 The Fugitive 
 
 more often from the brain. Don't you ever feel 
 inclined to shed tears, Mr. Russakoff?" 
 
 "Sometimes," I replied in a stifled tone; and 
 immediately I added with an attempt at lightness: 
 "And sometimes I relieve my feelings as the poets 
 do in verses." 
 
 A silence of a minute or more followed, during 
 which she glanced at me several times from under 
 her lowered eyelashes. 
 
 "Do you know," she resumed, clearing her throat 
 as she spoke, "the more I see of you the more you 
 remind me of Israel. He was always melancholy." 
 
 Again there was silence. I quivered with delight 
 at the introduction of my old self. "What became 
 of this early friend?" I asked at length. 
 
 She flushed slightly and twirled the chain of her 
 crucifix. 
 
 " He ran away. He was too sensitive. In that 
 respect he was also like you." 
 
 " I suppose he felt guilty of some wrong. Sensi- 
 tive people cannot bear their own wrongs, though 
 they can tolerate the same wrongs in others," I 
 rejoined. 
 
 "No. It was I who was to blame for it all." She 
 flushed again. "I committed the wrong and he 
 was punished. My father was a little too harsh 
 on him." 
 
 Then she added: "I am inclined to believe that 
 my father was also very fond of that boy, for he 
 talked of him quite often, and of his purpose to
 
 Love Conquers Discretion 233 
 
 educate him and make a great man of him. He was 
 exceptionally bright." 
 
 "And yet you drove him out of your house and 
 forced him to become a vagrant, as he undoubtedly 
 has become," I said, forgetting for the moment that 
 I was supposed to know nothing of this incident. 
 
 She glanced at me in bewilderment at these 
 words. "You are quite mistaken, Mr. Russakoff," 
 she rejoined somewhat confusedly. "He ran away 
 voluntarily." 
 
 I perceived that she was not aware that I had 
 been asked to leave, and I saw no reason for enlight- 
 ening her. After an awkward pause I said jealously : 
 " It is unfortunate for two young people of different 
 stations in life to fall in love. It is better that 
 they should be separated. Think of that Jewish 
 boy" I was smiling and yet trembling "now 
 grown to manhood and come to claim you." 
 
 "It would all depend," she replied, looking down 
 and fingering her crucifix. 
 
 "Yes, it would all depend on his being rich and 
 famous and handsome," I said bitterly. 
 
 "Oh, no. It would all depend on his being the 
 same as he had been," she said very softly, her face 
 warm with blushes. "There is nothing specific we 
 love; we love something indefinable, and we can 
 only love as long as that indefinable attraction 
 exists." 
 
 "But suppose," I continued eagerly, my eyes 
 fixed intently upon her, "your early lover should
 
 234 The Fugitive 
 
 come as a poor student, nameless, without a fortune, 
 and yet possessed of that indefinable something? " 
 
 She quivered perceptibly and turned her eyes 
 away from me, her breath coming fast and short. 
 
 All my feelings of unworthiness, all my vows of 
 silence went to the winds. I leaned forward, on 
 fire with love, and caught her hand. "Katia!" I 
 whispered. 
 
 She started. 
 
 " Katia ! " I implored. " Don't you know me ? " 
 
 She trembled, and her head sank forward so that 
 I could not see her face. 
 
 "Katia Katia, I have lived for years with one 
 thought, one desire, one hope to find you. And 
 at last I have found you Katia !" 
 
 Her breast rose and fell violently, but she did not 
 speak. 
 
 "I am the same Israel the Israel who used to 
 play with you who used to love you." I pressed 
 her hand more closely. "Don't you remember 
 don't you remember that afternoon when we sat 
 together? Don't you remember your promise? 
 Aren't you the same Katia the same little Katia 
 who once loved me a little a little bit, at least?" 
 
 A hot tear splashed upon my wrist. 
 
 "Katia !" I cried, all my soul in that one word. 
 
 I dropped to the floor beside her and dared to 
 touch her chin, with the intention of raising her 
 head. But it came slowly up of its own accord. 
 She turned her glorious eyes, brimming with tears,
 
 Love Conquers Discretion 235 
 
 full upon me, and her face threw open heaven to 
 me. 
 
 "You you! Oh, Israel!" she whispered.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 I BEND TO THE CROSS 
 
 AFTER a while we began to talk of the years that 
 had passed since I had tramped through the sleety 
 night away from Zamok. She told me of her 
 experiences, all of which were very quiet, for her 
 life had moved on evenly and happily; and I told 
 her of the Yeshiva of Javolin, of Malke, of the 
 gymnasium at Vilno. Then our talk became more 
 broken. 
 
 "How surprised father will be to learn who you 
 really are," she said at one time during the evening. 
 I made haste to suggest that it might be wisest not 
 to reveal my identity to him just yet, giving reasons 
 which, though plausible, were not the ones which 
 actually influenced me. To this she agreed. 
 
 When I told her the poems which appeared 
 weekly in the Moskovski Gazette, and for which 
 she had often expressed admiration, were mine, 
 she assumed an "I-told-' T ou-so" air that was 
 bewitching. 
 
 "Don't you remember, I used to say that some 
 day you would be a great poet like Pushkin or 
 Lermontoff 
 
 236
 
 I Bend to the Cross 237 
 
 "And then," I interrupted her, "you remember 
 what you promised? " 
 
 "Why, you foolish Israel then," she laughed 
 rapturously and dropped her head on my breast. 
 
 I asked about the officer whom I had seen so 
 frequently at her house and to whom I had that 
 day been introduced, and she confessed to me that 
 he had proposed to her twice within the last two 
 weeks. 
 
 "When you think of that fine-looking man, how 
 can you love me?" I asked with a tinge of jealousy. 
 "Me a Jew?" 
 
 "Oh, you foolish, foolish boy!" she cried, again 
 showing her affection in a way that was more ex- 
 pressive than words. 
 
 " But don't you know that the law stands in the 
 way of our marriage?" I asked. For the time, this 
 had escaped my own mind. 
 
 "Why, no, it doesn't. You only have to 
 be baptised that's all," she returned inno- 
 cently. 
 
 Baptised that's all. I thought I had long 
 abandoned my faith and was free from its beliefs 
 and prejudices, but at these words, spoken in a 
 matter-of-fact voice, my Jewish sentiment arose 
 in revolt against this imminent apostasy. 
 
 I might not believe in Judaism, but could I even, 
 as a matter of form, adopt the faith of the perse- 
 cutors of my race ? 
 
 "Of course you believe in Christ," said Katia.
 
 238 The Fugitive 
 
 Evidently she did not fully understand the difference 
 between a Jew and a Christian. 
 
 I gazed at her, but a mist gathered before my eyes 
 and a thousand bells seemed to chime in my ears. 
 All I could see was the golden cross upon Katia's 
 breast to me the symbol of my people's wrongs. 
 But in another instant I saw Katia's eyes, glorious 
 with-love. 
 
 "Yes," I whispered. 
 
 "And you'll be baptised?" 
 
 "Yes," I repeated. The word almost choked me. 
 
 "Oh, Israel, we'll be so happy ! " and she slipped 
 her arms about my neck and kissed me again and 
 again. 
 
 What was then race or faith to me ? Who thought 
 of religion? I felt her heart beat against mine I 
 felt her glowing cheek against mine. I loved her; 
 she loved me. What does love care for creeds. and 
 ceremonies which have emanated from cold or 
 mystic brains ? Love was my faith Katia's faith. 
 Is not God the incomprehensible term for love?
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 WALKING home that afternoon through the 
 Krestchatik the main thoroughfare which was 
 teeming with busy pedestrians, my senses were 
 stunned. All I could hear was a deafening clamour 
 of bells. Swiftly I traversed the long, beautiful 
 streets as if impelled by a cyclone. Now and then 
 I raised my eyes to a monument, a church, a cathe- 
 dral, and instinctively frowned. My brain seemed 
 to have become suddenly benumbed. At the 
 junction of Podol with Pecherskoi I stopped in- 
 voluntarily and stared like an idiot at St. Vladimir's 
 monument, which is supposed to mark the site of 
 a fountain at which his children were baptised. 
 The high-stuccoed obelisk filled me with a mysteri- 
 ous, superstitious awe, and as my eyes rested on 
 the wooden crucifix I murmured to myself the 
 inscription which it bears in Hebrew, Greek, and 
 Latin: "Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews." 
 I smiled and read it again and smiled. A youngster 
 looked at me and shouted: "Look at him! He is 
 crazy!" 
 
 Coming into my room, I lighted my lamp and put 
 a few coals upon the fire, which had all but expired. 
 
 239
 
 240 The Fugitive 
 
 The lamplight was too intense, I thought, and I 
 turned down the wick, leaving a scarcely visible 
 glow. One thinks best in darkness. 
 
 I moved a chair near the grate, and resting my 
 feet on the fender I fixed my eyes on the glowing 
 spots within. Listlessly I looked at the little 
 tongues of flame shooting forth here and there and 
 battling for life among the dead coals and spiritless 
 ashes. I was soon engrossed in this play of life and 
 death, when suddenly a coal crackled with a short, 
 crisp snap, like that of agony, and rolling aside sent 
 forth fiery lines, which soon formed the outlines of a 
 human face. Against the black coals, which were 
 piled up like a braided skein of hair, glittered two 
 bright spots like sparkling eyes; there below the 
 flames curved in the shape of lips slightly opened ; and 
 lower still two red coals intersected to form a golden 
 crucifix. The arms of the crucifix increased in 
 length; then the face vanished; in another instant, 
 at the point of the arms of the cross, I beheld a face 
 without a body or hands or feet. Then the arms 
 of the human form extended along the arms of the 
 cross, legs along the foot of it, a body and lo ! the 
 cross vanished and I beheld my own image. 
 
 I remember that I gazed stupidly at this fire- 
 drawn picture for a long while, when another 
 spectacle appeared before me. 
 
 The gorgeous Vladimir Cathedral, one of the 
 holiest of the "holy quarter" of Kieff, was bril- 
 liantly illuminated by myriads of tapers. The high-
 
 The Burden of the Gross 241 
 
 arched ceilings looked like a frosty winter sky 
 with innumerable twinkling stars. Hundreds of 
 bells tolled sonorously, clamorously, and their 
 resounding echo made the earth tremble. How 
 loud they rang and clanged ! The high portals 
 of the cathedral were open, and people thousands 
 of them were coming in with bowed heads and 
 solemn faces. "A Jew is going to be baptised," I 
 heard some one whisper. 
 
 It seemed to me I stood before the altar, above 
 which VarnitzofFs "Madonna and Child " shone with 
 unusual brilliancy, and a priest in his clerical garb 
 stood by the baptismal font and held a bronze 
 crucifix in his hand. 
 
 The bells continued to chime while a great crowd 
 of people were filling the immense church. Yet 
 everything about me was so quiet that I could almost 
 hear the movements of the priest's lips as he solemnly 
 rolled his eyes and murmured some prayer. He 
 opened a small hymn-book and read something from 
 it. My eyes were fixed upon the "Madonna and 
 Child" in front of me, half in admiration, half in 
 bewilderment. 
 
 Suddenly the spectators were hushed as if by 
 magic, and two apparitions elbowed their way to 
 where the priest and I stood. I shrank back with 
 fright as the ghosts advanced a step and put them- 
 selves between me and the font. One was shrouded 
 and wrapped in a Talis, and had his hands and long, 
 bony arms clasped over his head as if in despair.
 
 242 The Fugitive 
 
 The other was the ghost of a woman, tall and lean, 
 hollow-cheeked, with hair dishevelled, and wild 
 eyes that seemed about to dart from their cavernous 
 sockets. The priest checked himself. 
 
 The apparitions came close to me; their shrouds 
 touched my clothes; I shuddered. They both 
 fixed upon me their ghostly eyes, which expressed 
 more horror than words could tell. The man-ghost 
 relaxed his clasped hands and motioned to the 
 right. I looked. The myriads of candles were 
 suddenly extinguished, and palpable darkness per- 
 vaded the very atmosphere of the church. Sud- 
 denly, as from the mouth of a volcano, a streak of 
 flame leaped from the ground, which had been occu- 
 pied by the audience. By its light I noticed before 
 me priests in robes like clergymen with big crucifixes 
 in their hands groping about in darkness. They 
 all came forward to the flame and threw fagots 
 from a pile that lay close by. The flame turned 
 into a big blaze. The priests lifted their voices and 
 chanted religious hymns above the noisy crackling. 
 Their song was melodious, devotional, sad. Groans 
 reached my ears ; I turned. An old man with long, 
 silvery beard and hair and a beautiful maiden with 
 arms clinging around his neck were brought before 
 the fire. The maiden's massive, luxuriant black 
 hair mingled with the old man's white beard, and 
 their tears streamed down together. They lifted 
 their eyes heavenward, and the blaze lighted up 
 their contrasting countenances his marred by old
 
 The Burden of the Gross 243 
 
 age and sorrow, hers blooming and sweet. The 
 patriarch uttered in a weird voice, that echoed far 
 and wide: "Hear, O Israel! God our Lord, God is 
 one." Then he exchanged kisses with the maiden 
 by his side, and their tears flowed in one stream. 
 " Yahweh is one," both repeated. 
 
 A murmur of surprise passed from priest to priest. 
 Then again everything was hushed. Solemnly the 
 aged man and the maiden were led to the rising 
 flames. The fagots crackled louder and louder, 
 the flames rose higher and higher, the priests sang 
 and chanted with more devotion, and a weird voice 
 answered: "Yahweh is one." 
 
 A chill ran through my frame. I turned my 
 face away from this horrible sight. It had vanished. 
 Again impenetrable darkness, and then another 
 lurid scene. 
 
 The woman-ghost pointed to the left. In place 
 of the blazing fagots there flowed a broad river, on 
 the bank of which stood a motley crowd of Jews and 
 Jewesses, gallant young men and handsome maidens, 
 and all looked terrified and wailed and wrung their 
 hands. Some elderly people lay prostrate upon the 
 ground and wept bitterly. Others rambled about 
 as if they had lost their wits. Suddenly all were 
 hushed by one of the crowd, and all surrounded 
 him, as if to listen to his advice. He said something 
 in a fervent, solemn tone, and as he spoke his tears 
 flowed profusely. The audience seemed deeply 
 impressed ; some nodded their heads, as if what was
 
 244 The Fugitive 
 
 said was gratifying to them; others shook their 
 heads in negation. Then was heard the trampling 
 of hoofs, like that of a whole army of cavalry. 
 Alarm and consternation were expressed in every 
 countenance. Again they flocked around the man 
 who had addressed them, as if asking his advice. 
 His face showed firmness, his eyes expressed resolu- 
 tion, and he spoke again in a determined tone. The 
 trampling of horses was heard louder and louder. 
 The whole crowd moved toward the sandy edge, 
 which was washed by the ebb-tide. Then every 
 man drew from under his coat a flashing two-edged 
 knife. They waited. Hush ! The trampling of 
 hoofs grew louder and more distinct an army of 
 cavalry was in sight. Old men, women, maidens, 
 little children threw their heads back, and the flash- 
 ing knives were passed over their necks hurriedly. 
 "Quick they are coming!" they murmured im- 
 patiently to one another. The crowd became 
 smaller and smaller and the number of corpses with 
 ripped throats grew larger and larger. A long 
 stream of blood flowed into the river. Only one 
 venerable man, who I thought resembled the gray 
 man in the previous scene, and a young girl sur- 
 vived. The bloody knife glittered in his hand, and 
 with the other he embraced the maiden. The 
 trampling of hoofs grew still louder a troop of 
 soldiers galloping on horses and with upright bayo- 
 nets in their hands rapidly approached. The maiden 
 glanced wildly at the troops, threw back her head,
 
 The Burden of the Cross 245 
 
 and stretched out her neck. A tide of blood gushed 
 forth; the lifeless body rolled over the heap of 
 corpses. The old man raised his eyes heavenward, 
 spread his arms in supplication, and shouted, 
 "Yahweh is one!" and passing the knife over his 
 own throat he also fell on the heap of dead bodies. 
 
 I opened my eyes. I found my landlady standing 
 at the foot of the bed, a trifle frightened. 
 
 "Mr. Russakoff," she explained, "I wondered 
 what could have happened to you. Ten o'clock, and 
 you were not up yet. I sent up my little girl, and 
 she said the door was unlocked and you were 
 asleep in your clothes. You have looked a little 
 melancholy of late, and I thought God knows what 
 has happened to you. You must have had bad 
 dreams, for you were crying in your sleep when I 
 came in. But crying in sleep is a sign of joy." 
 
 I tried to remember what had happened to me the 
 night before, but all that I remember was that I 
 began to undress myself. I thought of Katia and 
 of my obligation to meet her this morning, but the 
 memory of my dream chilled my brain. However, my 
 reason predominated, and I said to myself as I pre- 
 pared to go to my beloved, " Traume sind Schaume" 
 and tried to banish the vision from my mind. I 
 paced the room with the towel in my hands, wiping 
 my face and laughing at my own superstition. 
 "Dreams are the fruit of idle brains," I murmured; 
 yet he one I had just experienced continued to 
 annoy me, and my heart beat like a sledge-hammer.
 
 246 The Fugitive 
 
 Finally I conquered my superstition and set out to 
 visit Katia. 
 
 She met me in the hall, finger on lips. "S-h! 
 Papa is waiting in the reception room," she whis- 
 pered. "I told him of our engagement, but I did 
 not tell him who you were. At first he was sur- 
 prised, but I soon brought him around to my way 
 of thinking. He said he would have to give us his 
 blessing, since I loved you so much." She clasped 
 my arm tightly, and so we went into the reception 
 room. 
 
 Judge Bialnick did not look particularly pleased, 
 but nevertheless he received me almost cordially. 
 
 "Since Katia has chosen you, it must be for the 
 best," he said, placing one of his trembling hands 
 upon my shoulder. " I know my Katia would 
 choose only the right one." 
 
 He drew her within his other arm and kissed her. 
 
 I shivered at his touch. The peculiar incidents 
 of my dream appeared before me. Something 
 within me wanted to throw his hand from my 
 shoulder and cry out "Murderer!" But I con- 
 trolled myself and stood quietly with my eyes 
 down while he wished us all happiness.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 ON MY WAY TO NAZARETH , 
 
 THE weeks that followed my betrothal were a 
 dream of happiness. I was with Katia a great 
 deal of each day, which is the best description I can 
 give of how blissful this period was. I believe that 
 a lover, like a poet, is born, not made, and I think 
 I was born a lover. A few months passed by, 
 during which I came in contact with nobody but 
 my beloved Katia. I gave up my lodgings in the 
 Jewish quarter Libedski, in order that my connec- 
 tions with the Jewish people might be cut off 
 entirely; and I did not inform any of my friends of 
 my betrothal nor where I lived, in order to avoid all 
 argument or comment that the step I was about 
 to take would call forth from them. I cannot say 
 that I succeeded in dispelling the struggling thoughts 
 against changing my faith, but I overcame them. I 
 fought hard and bitterly, and a constant battle 
 raged in my breast. But Katia's image helped me 
 to conquer. 
 
 My baptism was set for Sunday, May i8th. I 
 did not wish to have the ceremony performed pub- 
 licly, so it had been arranged that the baptism 
 
 247
 
 248 The Fugitive 
 
 would take place in the house of Mr. Bialnick's 
 priest. 
 
 The night preceding this event I could not sleep 
 a wink. I must confess that this act of changing 
 beliefs appeared to me a comedy in which I was 
 playing my part simply to please Katia. I was 
 nervous all night. Reminiscences of childhood came 
 back to me, and there awoke in my breast a certain 
 yearning for Judaism. To change one's faith ! 
 What a tragi-comedy ! People talk of it our 
 good Christian missionaries especially as if it were 
 to cast off a cloak from one's shoulders. How little 
 they understand human nature! They do not 
 realise that faith, if it only exists, is rooted deep in 
 one's heart, and the one that sometimes extirpates 
 it tears it out often with flesh surrounding it, and 
 the wound keeps on bleeding until there is heart no 
 more. 
 
 I arose early Sunday morning with a painful 
 headache; my heart was beating faster than usual 
 and I was very nervous. The morning was partic- 
 ularly bright, and a flood of warmth and sunshine 
 streamed into my room. I dressed myself carefully 
 with trembling hands, putting on my best clothes, 
 though all the while something was twinging at 
 my heart. " Superstition, foolishness," I murmured, 
 and tried to think of Katia, but this brought me no 
 solace, either. I opened several books, but could 
 not read. I opened a volume of Pushkin, glanced 
 at some of his most passionate stanzas, which at
 
 On My Way to Nazareth 249 
 
 other times had made my blood run warmer, but 
 now they were cold and lifeless to me. I tried 
 to read my favourite poet, Heine, but none of his 
 ballads could hold my mind. When we have too 
 much to think about we cannot think at all. Our 
 thoughts crowd so closely together that we cannot 
 fully grasp a single one. 
 
 I waited distractedly for the specified hour. I 
 drew my watch from my pocket, laid it on the 
 table, and looked at its face. How slow its hands 
 crept ! I wound it up every quarter of an hour, 
 and wondered how long fifteen minutes was and 
 how long man's life was. 
 
 A clock in the neighbourhood struck two; the 
 appointed hour the hour to wash off my Judaism 
 with a little Christian water had arrived. I locked 
 the door of my room, put the key into my pocket 
 with a nervous hand, and walked slowly toward 
 the priest's house. 
 
 I had to pass the Jewish settlement Libedski. 
 This caused me some uneasiness. I was ashamed 
 of myself and wished I could avoid it, but there 
 was no other way. 
 
 An uproar broke upon my ears as I approached 
 Libedski the wild, boisterous noise of muzhiks in 
 a skirmish. But in the Jewish quarter on Sunday ! 
 I wondered, and a sudden fear possessed me. 
 People were running from all sides, and forgetting 
 everything else I ran after them. I soon found 
 myself in the midst of a turbulent mob, jostled and
 
 250 The Fugitive 
 
 carried along like a wisp of straw on a flowing 
 stream. The street was filled with gesticulating, 
 brawling peasants, who gave vent to volleys of 
 oaths as only descendants of Tartars know how, and 
 rapaciously attacked Jewish shops and dwellings. 
 Here and there savage-looking muzhiks, with long, 
 unkempt, sandy hair, bloodshot eyes, and disordered 
 dress, shouted and yelled through the windows of 
 wrecked houses like firemen fighting flames. The 
 noises were deafening: the crash of axes mingled 
 with wild shrieks of victory ; the ring of crowbars 
 echoed above cries of agony ; the clanking of hatchets 
 drowned piercing screams of butchered babes; 
 whoops of triumph swallowed heartrending groans 
 of despair. 
 
 " Take care ! " bellowed a rioter from a second-story 
 window to the excited crowd below, as he shoved 
 out a long mirror, which appeared in the sun like 
 a sheet of quivering fire. An air-splitting cheer 
 went up as the glass was shattered upon the pave- 
 ment. 
 
 "Stand back!" hoarse voices called from another 
 upper-story window as a piano was forced through. 
 A second later it struck the sidewalk with a resound- 
 ing crash. 
 
 " Catch it ! Catch it !" a roaring voice came from 
 a third story, as a screaming babe was swung in 
 the air by its feet. 
 
 "Ho! ho! ho! ho!" cheered hundreds from the 
 crowd below. "Throw down the Jewish brat !"
 
 On My Way to Nazareth 251 
 
 With the exultation of conquest the screeching 
 babe was flung high in the air, like a ball, and it 
 came down upon the pavement with a splash of 
 blood that bespattered the bystanders. 
 
 "Comrades, a snow is coming," announced a 
 blood-stained muzhik, with a boisterous laugh, as a 
 large feather-bed was rent in twain and its contents 
 spread to the winds. 
 
 "Co-o-old!" jeered the crowd, with feigned 
 chattering of teeth. 
 
 "A Jewish frost," a lad wittily exclaimed. 
 
 "Make way for the Jew make way!" 
 
 The throng pressed back. Two ruffians dragged 
 an old man by his feet down a high porch and ran 
 through the streets, dragging him after them, the 
 Jew's white hair sweeping the stones of the pave- 
 ment and painting their sharp edges red with 
 flowing blood. 
 
 Some one took notice of a Jewish drinking-place. 
 "Vodka! Ho! ho! ho ! vodka ! Ho! ho!" he 
 raised a cry. 
 
 Like a bursting dam, the mob rushed upon the 
 dram-shop. " Vodka ! Ho ! ho ! ho ! vodka ! Ho ! 
 ho ! ho !" they yelled, as they attacked the shop and 
 battered its doors and windows. 
 
 In a minute the building was wrecked. Casks of 
 vodka were broken into splinters and their con- 
 tents spilled. The strong smell of liquor seemed 
 to stimulate the rapacious crowd. "Ho! ho! 
 vodka ! vodka !" The thirsty rioters fell upon the
 
 2$2 The Fugitive 
 
 beverage, fighting fiercely. Some caught a mouth- 
 ful in the hollow of their hands; many dipped 
 their caps into the broken kegs and drank from 
 their dirty headgear ; others pulled off their boots, 
 filled them, and swallowed from their filthy foot- 
 wear. 
 
 I was stunned paralysed. I could not believe 
 my eyes. This scene in the holiest of Christian 
 cities in the place of churches and cathedrals ! 
 "This must be another lurid dream," I muttered 
 to myself. But it was real. Above my head was a 
 cloud of dust with flake-like feathers, a vault of 
 smoke with flying sparks; the rattling of smashed 
 windows rang in my ears; thousands of happy 
 Jewish homes were being wrecked and ravished; 
 the air was filled with cries of agony and the clang- 
 ing of the pillagers' crowbars; the earth was red 
 with Jewish blood. 
 
 And I was on my way to accept the faith of these 
 two-legged beasts ! I shuddered. 
 
 A frightful shriek made my blood curdle. 
 
 "Help! Help!" A girl with dishevelled black 
 hair, with her clothes torn into shreds, rushed from 
 a rich house, pursued by several rioters. 
 
 "Ah! ah! ah!" Lusty exclamations came from 
 all sides at the appearance of the maiden. 
 
 She was caught and thrown to the ground, 
 struggling for her life, for her honour. 
 
 "Stop!" I cried with all my might, and began 
 to pull away the rioters.
 
 On My Way to Nazareth 253 
 
 They gave me no heed. 
 
 " Christians ! men ! beasts halt ! " I shouted at the 
 top of my voice. 
 
 "Kill the Jew!" a cry went up. A number of 
 bystanders dragged me from the assailants, raining 
 blows upon my head. 
 
 "Defend your down-trodden people," a voice 
 seemed to call from within me. 
 
 Clubs, sticks, iron bars littered the ground. I 
 seized a sharp iron and with all my strength ham- 
 mered the heads bent over their victim. Some fell 
 bleeding to the ground, while others were fighting 
 to finish their diabolical deed. I brandished the iron 
 right and left, up and down, furiously. "Blood!" 
 I muttered, frantic with the scene before me. I 
 craved to see blood, to wash myself clean with blood, 
 to submerge myself in blood. I struck heads and 
 breasts and shoulders with the rage of a demon , 
 and blood gushed forth abundantly. " Baptise 
 your Jewish soul with blood," a weird-like voice 
 whispered to me. And I did bathe in fresh, hot 
 human blood. 
 
 " Soldiers ! Cossacks !" rose a cry of warning, as 
 a squad of horsemen came into the street. 
 
 "Arrest that Jew !" ordered some one in a shout. 
 
 I turned and saw the officer whom I had met at 
 Bialnick's pointing at me. 
 
 "Stop that Jew!" he commanded again. But 
 before any one could stop me I fled to the next 
 street.
 
 2 S4 The Fugitive 
 
 There the fight was fiercer. Feathers and 
 leaves of books filled the air; porches and balco- 
 nies fell with explosive roaring; massive furniture 
 came down upon the pavement with thunder-like 
 crashes; on every side were mangled babes, 
 mutilated old Jewish women, aged Jews with 
 crushed limbs and fractured skulls, lacerated girls 
 fighting for their honour. Here and there 
 fashionably dressed Christian women bent down 
 to pick up a piece of precious jewelry or a trinket 
 which the rioters had dropped in their wild ex- 
 citement. 
 
 I stopped before the synagogue. A gang of brutes 
 were forcing an entrance into the house of worship. 
 Its doors were soon stormed, and the crowd burst 
 furiously in. I pressed in after them. Before the 
 ark that contained scrolls of the Torah the book 
 that inspired prophets and poets and sages stood 
 an old Jew wrapped in a Talis, his arms spread 
 across its portals and begging mercifully: 
 
 "Kill me, but save the holy Torah." 
 
 "Take him to the gallery!" the one who acted 
 as leader commanded. 
 
 With a jubilant shout the struggling old man 
 was raised in the air and carried up to the high 
 gallery. 
 
 "Throw him down!" demanded the mob. 
 
 "Save the Torah the holy Torah," faintly 
 moaned the victim. 
 
 "The holy Torah the holy Torah!" mocked
 
 On My Way to Nazareth 255 
 
 the rioters; and with a heavy thud the martyr's 
 body struck the floor. 
 
 I remembered the iron in my hand. " Blood ! 
 blood ! blood !" I muttered to myself as the violators 
 began to tear the scrolls of the Torah in strips and 
 trample the parchment under foot. My iron rose 
 and fell mercilessly. I cleared my way until I 
 reached the door. Finding myself outside, I con- 
 tinued the slaughter. But suddenly my eyes 
 dimmed, I became dizzy, and a hot current passed 
 through my body. The iron dropped from my 
 clasp and I raised my hand to my forehead. Some- 
 thing like a drop of boiling water dripped down 
 my nose. I wiped it away, but it dripped faster 
 and faster. Tumult, confusion, shrieking, scream- 
 ing, begging, imploring ...
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 A REACTION 
 
 "WHERE am I?" were the first words I uttered 
 when I opened my eyes after the events described 
 in the last chapter. 
 
 A young lady who stood at the other end of the 
 room came quickly up to me and murmured: 
 "He is gaining consciousness." Her face seemed 
 familiar, yet I could not recall her. 
 
 "Where am I?" I repeated. 
 
 "Be at ease, Mr. Russakoff. You are among 
 friends." 
 
 I looked around. The room was not mine. My 
 book-case and desk were missing, and there were 
 three windows here, while mine had only two. On 
 a small table near the bed on which I lay stood 
 little flasks of medicine. I must have been sick, I 
 thought. 
 
 I tried to collect my thoughts, but my memory 
 was absolutely blank. I looked now at the woman, 
 now at the drugs, but soon I felt a pain in my head 
 and became half-unconscious. Flying stones, babes 
 hurled in the air, a sweet-faced young girl in a blue 
 dress with a golden crucifix dangling over her 
 bosom, fire, smoke, blood a lot of blood a big 
 
 256
 
 A Reaction 257 
 
 pool in which I swam up to my neck and all was 
 blank again. 
 
 The next time I opened my eyes I found Mr. 
 Levinski and his wife I now recognised the young 
 woman I had seen before seated at my side. She 
 was standing with a small flask and a teaspoon in 
 her hand. 
 
 "How do you feel, Mr. Russakoff?" Levinski 
 asked. 
 
 "I feel no pain," I answered. "What happened 
 to me? Tell me, please." 
 
 "I'll tell you when you get a little stronger. The 
 physician forbade us to disturb you in the least." 
 
 His wife gave me a spoonful of the liquid from 
 the flask. I lay there for some time, gazing at the 
 ceiling, and trying to recall what had occurred 
 before I fell sick. 
 
 Next morning I felt stronger and again asked 
 Levinski to tell me what had happened. 
 
 "Can't you wait a little longer?" he coaxed me. 
 
 "But the anxiety makes me more restless," I 
 urged him. 
 
 "Well," he said, and sighed, "you will recall 
 the riot in the Jewish quarter about two months 
 ago [two months, did he say?], on May 1 8th [my 
 mind began to clear up]. I was invited to dinner 
 that day with our editor-in-chief, and we were 
 leisurely enjoying our time over a cigar when 
 the tumult of the rioters reached us. The first 
 thing that occurred to my mind was the possible
 
 258 The Fugitive 
 
 danger of my uncle and his daughter, who lived 
 in Libedski. He kept a jewelry store and lived 
 above it. When I reached the place I found 
 everything destroyed and plundered, and in the 
 gutter in front of it I noticed you lying senseless 
 and bleeding [my memory now became clearer]. 
 Fortunately, the soldiers and officers, who at first 
 helped the mob to plunder and rob, kept them back 
 now. Doctor Mandel, a friend of mine, came up with 
 an ambulance. I left you in his care and went in 
 search of my uncle and his daughter. I found the 
 girl in an unconscious condition in the hallway." 
 Levinski put his handkerchief to his face, but his 
 voice betrayed that there were tears in his eyes. 
 
 "You can imagine my feelings when I looked at 
 my cousin thus violated. Through the assistance of 
 Doctor Mandel she gained consciousness and began 
 to cry for her father. This reminded me of my 
 uncle, and we went to search for him. We looked 
 through the house, but he was not there. The 
 furniture was demolished, and his books for he had 
 a valuable library were stolen and some were torn 
 leaf from leaf. Finally we found him lying in the 
 back yard with a fractured skull. He had died long 
 before we had arrived. 
 
 " I could see that the girl's condition was critical. 
 When she gained consciousness she told how her 
 father had met his fate. Learning that the mob was 
 plundering downstairs, they locked themselves in a 
 dark room on the second floor, hoping to save
 
 A Reaction 259 
 
 their lives. But after the mob had finished their 
 diabolical work downstairs they broke into the rooms 
 upstairs and attacked the door of the room where 
 they were hidden. It was forced open and the 
 girl was assaulted. She and her father were armed 
 with knives, but what could weak creatures like 
 them do?" 
 
 Levinski paused here and openly broke into 
 tears. 
 
 "The ravagers succeeded in wresting the poor 
 child from her father's arms, and violated her while 
 he was wrestling with the rioters who held him back. 
 Then they flung him through the window, and the 
 girl succeeded in rushing downstairs. But they 
 caught her in the hallway and attacked her 
 again." 
 
 A vague recollection of the situation in which I 
 found the girl was now coming back to me. 
 
 "How is the girl?" I asked after a short pause. 
 
 "She stabbed herself in the abdomen while being 
 ravished, and she died from the wound the next 
 day," Levinski said, and sobbed again. 
 
 After a while he said to me: " Where in the world 
 did you secrete yourself after Razovski's arrest ? I 
 inquired for you at your old lodgings, but was 
 informed that you had moved. I went around 
 to most of your friends, but none of them seemed to 
 know where you had gone. I wrote to the publisher 
 of the magazine to which you had contributed, but 
 he replied that he had heard nothing of you for
 
 260 The Fugitive 
 
 some time. I came to the conclusion that you 
 had fallen into the snares of the police." 
 
 This brought to my mind my engagement to 
 Katia, and her sweet face came before my eyes. 
 At this recollection I grew dizzy. 
 
 "Do you feel any pain?" Levinski asked me 
 anxiously. 
 
 "None," I said. "I will tell you of my disap- 
 pearance some time when I am stronger. But tell 
 me, how did the riot start?" 
 
 "After the riot broke out in Yeliswetgrad, if you 
 remember that, a rumour was circulated that a 
 similar outbreak was going to take place here 
 on May 3d. We sent a delegation to the 
 Mayor and asked him to station soldiers in the 
 most thickly populated Jewish streets, but he 
 bluntly replied: ' I would not trouble the soldiers 
 for a pack of Jews.' However, the riot did not 
 occur on the day expected, but on the next Sunday. 
 
 " I was a dreamer. We were all dreamers who 
 thought we had become citizens of Russia. Yes, 
 we are only stepchildren in every country, after all, 
 and we very seldom find a kind-hearted stepmother 
 to take care of us. Always sneered at, scolded, 
 cursed, persecuted, beaten, whether we commit a 
 fault or achieve the heroic. To please the Christian 
 nations, we ought to, as Fichte says, cut off our 
 Jewish heads and put on Christian ones; and I 
 scarcely believe even that would be sufficient. 
 
 "Yes, I was dreaming. But the stones hurled at
 
 A Reaction 261 
 
 the windows of the Jewish quarter, the burning 
 roofs over the heads of my brethren, the cry of 
 agony of the wretched dwellers of Libedski these 
 awakened me. The dream is over." 
 
 He sat in gloomy silence for a minute, then broke 
 out bitterly: "In what deception and delusion I 
 have lived for the past ten years ! I dreamed that 
 Russia was my fatherland; I fancied that we also 
 had a share in her culture and progress ; I imagined 
 that bigotry and superstition had died out with the 
 last generation; I persuaded myself that Russia 
 would give us equal rights if we would only seek 
 for them. Had I no cause to think so ? Was there 
 no Jewish blood shed on the battle-field of Plevna ? 
 Is not the State treasury filled with gold from the 
 burdensome taxes imposed upon our race? Have 
 we not contributed our share to her literature ? 
 Did we not give them a Rubenstein, a pianist and 
 composer the semibarbaric people would never 
 have produced? Is not the greatest Russian 
 sculptor, of whom his stepmother is at present so 
 boastful is not he a Jew? These thoughts made 
 me feel secure, and I went to sleep and dreamed of 
 a golden age." 
 
 He spoke furiously ; his eyes flashed through their 
 tears. 
 
 "Yes, I awoke! Russia is my fatherland no 
 longer. I can't stay in this country. I expect to 
 leave Europe and all Christian nations forever. 
 The nations that teach love in the name of the
 
 262 The Fugitive 
 
 crucified Jew do not practise it. They never 
 practise it. The Crusaders, the auto-da-fe, the 
 Russian knout, the German press they are all 
 pursuing the same end in the name of Christian 
 brotherhood. I shall flee to my Uncle Ishmael and 
 seek protection under him. He does not preach 
 much, and this leaves him more time to practise." 
 
 "I do not understand you," I interrupted him. 
 "Do you intend to go to Turkey?" 
 
 " You have been ill for the last few months, so you 
 do not know what is going on among us now. There 
 is a movement among the Jews to go back and 
 colonise Palestine. A great number of Jewish 
 students of Kieff and Kharkoff have abandoned 
 their studies and will sail in a few weeks for Pales- 
 tine. I subscribed to this league, too. Enough 
 of this European civilisation ! Back to our ancient 
 fatherland, where our prophets saw celestial visions 
 and preached peace; where David poured forth his 
 heavenly psalms ; where the earth was once saturated 
 with the blood of the Maccabeans; where the 
 precious relics of our history are entombed. I 
 shall be happy to put on the Arab's robe and 
 turban and till the ground of my ancestors. No 
 more dreaming I have awakened at last." 
 
 Thus spoke Levinski, who had been an ardent 
 believer in assimilation two months before. I could 
 hardly believe my ears; I thought I must be still 
 delirious. 
 
 I stared at him and murmured: "Palestine
 
 A Reaction 263 
 
 Palestine. So you are dreaming again. You com- 
 mence to believe in the Messiah." 
 
 "No, no; this is no dream. I do not believe in 
 the Messiah, as some of the narrow-minded Jews do 
 in one who will rush down from heaven riding on 
 a white ass and proclaim his lordship; but I do 
 believe in a political Messiah who will emancipate 
 the Jews. History points clearly in that direction. 
 Neither fire nor sword, neither the poignant pen nor 
 the barbaric knout could annihilate the indestructi- 
 ble Jew. Whenever any grave disaster has happened 
 to Israel, relief has come from some place. In 
 Egypt, Moses arose; later, when the entire ex- 
 termination of the race was threatened, the Macca- 
 bees sprang up ; in the same year that the Jews were 
 expelled from Spain, Columbus, as if through the 
 dispensation of Providence, discovered America 
 a place of refuge for the ever-persecuted race. 
 Can any one be blind to facts? Can any skeptic 
 deny the providential course of history? However 
 rational we might be, can we for a moment doubt 
 that we are the chosen people of God? Can any 
 other nation, modern or ancient, boast of such a 
 glorious record as that of Israel ? Is it not nobler to 
 be downtrodden than to tread upon others ? Is it 
 not more heroic to be burned at the stake than to 
 add fagots to the blaze? Our lot has always been 
 that of martyrs. We witnessed the rise and down- 
 fall of Babylon; we outlived artistic Greece; we 
 survived the Roman warriors; we shall yet see the
 
 264 The Fugitive 
 
 downfall of Spain; and we shall yet experience the 
 collapse of all nations that inhumanly oppress us. 
 You stare at me, Mr. Russakoff; you can hardly 
 believe your ears ; but it is the same Levinski that is 
 talking to you. I was dreaming; I have awakened 
 at last." 
 
 Thus the enthusiast indulged in new, pleasant 
 dreams. I listened in amazement, and wondered 
 what a productive race of dreamers Israel is ! 
 
 As soon as I was strong enough to walk about the 
 house I began to worry about the future. The 
 remembrance of Katia was as sweet as ever to me, 
 but with the thought of her came the thought of 
 baptism, and that prostrated my mind. My con- 
 science and self-esteem as a born Jew aroused by 
 the recent massacre revolted against my love. I 
 hesitated whether or not to go back to her. 
 
 How strangely people often act ! What would 
 I not have done for Katia's sake two months before ? 
 And now, when my road was so smooth, without 
 the least obstacle, I thought of giving up the loveliest 
 and most charming girl on account of a little cold 
 water. True, the world calls it changing one's 
 faith, but is it not in reality only deceiving a narrow- 
 minded priest? True, the world condemns and 
 despises one who goes through this ceremony 
 without being in earnest about it, but do not men in 
 more ways than this deceive others in the pursuits 
 of life? Do not writers every day, in newspapers, 
 magazines, and voluminous books, misrepresent
 
 A Reaction 265 
 
 themselves and express ideas they do not themselves 
 believe ? Do not politicians who are respected and 
 honoured in our community, and whose praises are 
 perpetuated in verse do not these political schemers 
 advocate principles solely for their own benefit? 
 What difference is there between one who mis- 
 represents his ideas or belief for a million, 
 and the poor man, whose stomach pains from 
 hunger, who lets himself be sprinkled with a little 
 cold water by some priest for a few dollars ? Is not 
 love the most divine and the purest sentiment that 
 can prompt one to deceive a bigoted priest? In 
 doing this one does not trifle with God, but merely 
 exposes a foolish priest to the ridicule of the wise. 
 Never in his life did the witty Heine play a greater 
 satirical prank on Christendom than by his baptism. 
 
 Finally I decided to go and see Katia. I inquired 
 of Levinski, who was on friendly terms with Judge 
 Bialnick, about the latter. 
 
 "Judge Bialnick?" he said. "No one knows 
 where he is." 
 
 "What has happened to him?" 
 
 "He was arrested immediately after the riots 
 and " 
 
 "And was sent to Siberia?" I struck in fearfully. 
 
 "No; he managed to escape, and I was told he 
 is with his daughter either in France or Switzer- 
 land."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 I BID FAREWELL TO MY FATHERLAND 
 
 IN a short time I recovered entirely from my 
 illness; only a scar across my forehead and right 
 eye was left to remind me of my injuries. I 
 was low-spirited most of the time, and stayed 
 in the Jewish settlement. "The stone which I 
 recently despised became the headstone of the 
 corner." I felt like the prodigal son returned to 
 his father. Again there was a yearning in my 
 heart for the Ghetto, surrounded by high, dingy 
 walls, with a heavy gate; again there was in my 
 heart a craving desire for the Beth-Hamedrash, with 
 its hot oven, by which I could sit among my honest 
 people and brood over a folio of Talmud. I also 
 had dreamed, for a certainty. And that day had 
 awakened me, too. 
 
 In the beginning of August or, according to the 
 Jewish calendar, the night of Tisha-B'Ab I strolled 
 sadly, with a drooped head, through the Jewish 
 quarter. Old-fashioned Jews with long beards and 
 scrawny faces, and stooped Jewesses with tears on 
 their wrinkled cheeks, wended their course toward 
 the synagogue. I had not been in a synagogue 
 for nearly six years, and now something like an 
 
 266
 
 I Bid Farewell to My Fatherland 267 
 
 invisible string, attached somewhere within me, 
 drew me close to my brethren, from whom I had so 
 long kept at a distance. 
 
 The synagogue was full. The benches of the 
 house of worship were piled up in a corner, and in 
 lieu of them boards were laid on the floor. Upon 
 these boards the whole congregation sat, shoeless. 
 Each one held a tallow candle that shed a dim light 
 over their Kinos (Book of Lamentations). It was 
 not illumined except by these candles, which 
 appeared like so many blinking stars. 
 
 That Tisha-B'Ab the persecuted people had an 
 abundance of tears to shed. The third temple 
 the temple of hope was destroyed. There were 
 strange visitors in the congregation that night 
 doctors, lawyers, professors, university and gym- 
 nasium students in their fine uniforms and with 
 cockades in their hats, all of whom had probably 
 not visited a synagogue since their early childhood. 
 
 Side by side sat the bearded orthodox Jew and 
 the clean-shaven lawyer and perfumed student, 
 reading Jeremiah's "Lamentations" and shedding 
 bitter tears in commemoration of the destruction of 
 their nationality thousands of years ago. 
 
 I took off my shoes and joined the weeping 
 chorus. Everybody cried men, women, and chil- 
 dren like vagrant orphans who bewailed their 
 parents. My eyes were blurred with tears. I 
 could follow the Kinos no further. The letters 
 in the book before me were run together in a large
 
 268 The Fugitive 
 
 inky blot, and the light of the candles around me 
 shone on my tearful eyes like numberless beams 
 at sunrise. 
 
 The Chazan, a gray old man, burst into a tearful 
 voice: "She dwelleth among the heathen; she 
 findeth no rest; all her persecutors overtook her 
 between two streets." 
 
 They were the words of the prophet more than 
 two thousand years ago. They rang in my ears 
 as if Jeremiah were sitting to-day by the ruins of 
 Jerusalem pouring forth lamentation for the bitter 
 lot of his people. Thoughts and images crowded 
 my mind. Soon the whole congregation, with the 
 burning candles, became to .my eyes a vast black 
 spot studded with golden nails. The hundreds of 
 wailing voices sounded to me like a waterfall rolling 
 over a dam and opposed by a wailing wind. I 
 gazed abstractedly until the Chazan wakened me 
 again. "They ravished the women in Zion and 
 the maidens in the city of Judah the crown is 
 fallen from our heads; woe unto us that we have 
 sinned ! For this our heart is faint, for these 
 things our eyes are dim." 
 
 These words opened fresh wounds in the breasts 
 of the audience. The whole congregation broke 
 into one great groan that rose higher and higher, 
 till it seemed that the very walls of the synagogue 
 moaned in sympathy with my afflicted people. 
 
 About a week later the Zion League, which
 
 I Bid Farewell to My Fatherland 269 
 
 consisted of a large number of students, young 
 doctors and lawyers, journalists and engineers, 
 left for Palestine to establish colonies there and 
 prepare for the coming Messiah. 
 
 I, however, decided to try some country of western 
 Europe. I packed up my belongings, and in the same 
 month bade farewell to the land that gave me life 
 and sought to extinguish it. While I sat in the 
 car that crossed the Russian frontier, and looked 
 without, thick volumes of smoke issued from the; 
 engine-stack and rolled over the vast stretches of 
 stubble-fields and stacks of reaped rye, wheat, and 
 straw. I looked gloomily through the car- window 
 as we traversed woods and forests, flying swiftly 
 across bridges, and allowing me only a glimpse of 
 the waters below and of the broad expanse of 
 Russian territory. I gazed wistfully at the varying 
 panorama through which I sped, and my heart 
 throbbed wildly at the thought that it might be 
 my last look at Russia. No matter how cruelly I 
 had been treated in that land, it was the land in 
 which I roamed barefoot in my childhood, and was 
 ever to be remembered with yearning. 
 
 As the train hurried toward the German frontier 
 I continued to look through the window, which was 
 frequently clouded with a blast of black smoke, 
 and I thought of Litwinoff, one of TurgeniefFs 
 creations: "All is but smoke and vapour; every- 
 thing is constantly changing; one shape dissolves 
 itself into another, one event succeeds another, but
 
 270 The Fugitive 
 
 in reality everything remains the same. There is 
 much stir and confusion, but all these clouds vanish 
 at last without leaving any trace, without having 
 accomplished anything. The winds change their 
 direction ; they pass to the other side and there 
 continue their feverish and fruitless motion." 
 
 "Smoke, smoke smoke and vapour," I mut- 
 tered to myself. "Smoke, smoke, and nothing but 
 smoke and vapour,"
 
 BOOK THE THIRD 
 LIBERTY 
 
 " And strangers shall stand and feed their flocks, and the 
 sons of the alien shall be your ploughman and your vine- 
 dresser." ISAIAH.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 IN THE LAND OF LIBERTY 
 
 LIVERY person's life would make an interesting 
 story if the narrator only knew which por- 
 tions to tell and which to omit. In this truism will 
 be found my reason for omitting a detailed account 
 of the two years following my departure from my 
 native soil. Like a restless spirit I wandered from 
 city to city, from country to country, with no definite 
 purpose in view. I travelled through Germany, 
 France, Switzerland, Italy, England. I tried hard 
 to forget the past root it out of my memory but 
 one face remained ever vivid before me. I searched, 
 I inquired, but I sought in vain for my heart's 
 desire. 
 
 One fine frosty morning found me on the deck of 
 a steamer gently beating the waves of New York 
 Bay and slowly moving toward the land of liberty. 
 The deck was spotted with patches of ice, which 
 cracked under the tread of the throng of steerage 
 passengers as they moved about impatiently, shiver- 
 ing with cold. My fellow immigrants were a quaint 
 and picturesque mixture of people blond, flabby 
 Germans; dark Jews with faces that bespoke star- 
 vation; coarse, swarthy Slavonians; delicate, dark- 
 
 273
 
 274 The Fugitive 
 
 brown Frenchmen; mothers with babes at their 
 breasts or with toddling youngsters clinging to 
 their skirts. There was a large number of Russian 
 Jews who had fled from the yoke of tyranny and 
 were now coming to kiss the soil of liberty. There 
 were all sorts of Russian Jews old, stooped, hoary 
 Jews, with shaggy beards and shabby garments; 
 handsomely built students with nothing Jewish 
 about them but thoughtful eyes and the indellible 
 stamp of persecution; faded, decrepit, heavily 
 bewigged Jewesses, with faces that told tragic 
 tales; and healthy, cheerful young maidens, who 
 probably expected to find suitors in America 
 all coming to the Promised Land with hungry 
 stomachs, empty pockets, and heads full of hopes 
 and projects. 
 
 As the steamer approached Castle Garden, the 
 passengers, with bundles in their hands, anxiously 
 gazed toward the shore. The impatience of the 
 crowd grew every moment. The climax of their 
 excitement was reached when the boat was being 
 moored. Handkerchiefs were waved from the dock, 
 and those on deck who recognised friends among 
 the waiting crowd exchanged cries of greeting with 
 them. Leaning against the railing, my head full 
 of strange thoughts, I looked jealously at my fellow 
 passengers. Everybody came to acquaintances, 
 friends, relations, but there was nobody to receive 
 me nobody to send me a shout of welcome. I was 
 again alone, again a vagrant orphan without a
 
 In the Land of Liberty 275 
 
 friend in the world. I thrust my hands into my 
 pockets I had only six dollars and thirty-two cents. 
 
 After a few minutes we began to pour out of the 
 steamer. Leaving the barge office, I stood in the 
 street with my knapsack in my hand. "Where 
 shall I go?" I asked myself. I knew no one in the 
 new land, and my knowledge of English, though 
 not very meager, was not quite sufficient to make 
 me feel at home. After short reflection I decided 
 to repair to the Jewish quarter. Instinctively I 
 sought the poor Jewish settlement near the heart 
 of the city, in the main business portion. 
 
 I inquired in the best English I could command 
 for the quarter, but every one I accosted answered 
 as he hurried on: "Go straight ahead until you 
 reach it." Some other Jewish immigrants, with 
 Americanised friends who had come to receive 
 them, walked ahead of me, so I surmised their 
 destination must be the same as mine, and I sur- 
 rendered myself to their guidance. 
 
 Dirty urchins ran hooting after the Jewish 
 " greenhorns," shouting " Sheeny," " Solomon Ikey," 
 and other epithets, which I divined from the 
 tone and action of the youngsters to be intended 
 for insults. Stones were hurled at us ; one dropped 
 in front of me. " I must be dreaming of Kieff," 
 I thought with a shudder. But it was in the great 
 city of New York the metropolis of the land of 
 liberty. I tried to solace myself with the thought 
 that the little gamins were mocking the immigrants
 
 276 The Fugitive 
 
 because of their foreign costumes and appearance, 
 but I wondered why the people across the street, 
 the Germans and the Slavonians, just as shabby as 
 the poor Jews, were not molested. 
 
 That was my first discouragement. I slackened 
 my pace as if regretting my step, and walked slowly, 
 absorbed in new anxieties. 
 
 However, there was now no turning back. At 
 length I found myself in the Jewish settlement. I 
 then had no further need for inquiry. The muddy, 
 murky, filthy streets; the squalid tenement blocks, 
 with bedclothes on fire-escapes and various Hebrew 
 signs dangling beneath them; stooped and sallow- 
 faced creatures with a "hurry-up" expression in 
 every feature ; the fruit-sellers and fishmongers and 
 hawkers of suspenders and handkerchiefs crying 
 their merchandise all these proclaimed to me that 
 I had arrived in a new Ghetto. It reminded me of 
 Vilno. It was Friday, too, I remembered. 
 
 I wandered about aimlessly for an hour or more, 
 and finally I reached the corner of Hester and 
 Ludlow Streets. The scene made me pause. 
 
 There were thousands of people, and everybody 
 was selling something. The sidewalks, or the 
 planks that served as sidewalks, were decayed; 
 there might have been a pavement years ago, but 
 now the thoroughfare was slushy, and there was a 
 sound like kneading dough as the crowd jostled 
 hither and thither. Some blessed and some cursed, 
 some laughed and some cried, some shrieked and
 
 In the Land of Liberty 277 
 
 some grunted but all in a brotherly and frank 
 manner. What a variety of voices ! Small, piping, 
 baby voices; healthy, sweet contralto voices; sour, 
 quarrelling voices; soft, plaintive voices; harsh, 
 guttural, disagreeable voices. What types of faces 
 and what fashions of dress ! Aged, decrepit Jews 
 with maps of Jerusalem (at the time of the destruc- 
 tion) on their faces; fresh, blooming faces marred 
 only by merciless poverty and suffering; worn-out 
 women with wrinkled cheeks and withered bodies; 
 and young women with lustrous black hair and 
 sparkling eyes for which Fifth Avenue ladies would 
 have gladly exchanged their jewels. 
 
 I looked at this curious and pathetic scene. 
 "This misery is the work of cruel persecution," I 
 murmured to myself. Jewesses with shrivelled 
 faces and dim, once-brilliant eyes, carrying big 
 baskets on their arms, passed me and murmured 
 mechanically in plain Russian- Yiddish and in 
 pitiful tones: "Reb Yid [Mr. Jew], buy something. 
 Everything cheap, almost for nothing." 
 
 A gray-bearded Jew, wrapped up in a big ulster, 
 and with a pair of old Russian boots on his feet, 
 rubbed his hands and begged in a poverty-stricken 
 voice: "Good health to you, Reb Yid. Buy a comb 
 below cost so may the One above help me!" 
 
 Then I heard a voice that made me turn around 
 and stare. " Women ! women ! candles for Shabbos ! 
 Six for five cents for Shabbos ! " 
 
 The candle-vender was a tall man with a white
 
 278 The Fugitive 
 
 beard, dressed in a threadbare coat that had once 
 been of good quality, and a costly Russian fur hat 
 that betrayed long wear. From his shoulder hung 
 a box by a strap. "Women ! candles for Shabbos ! 
 Six for five cents for Shabbos ! " he repeated auto- 
 matically 
 
 I observed him closely. "Is it possible Mr. 
 Takiff?" I asked myself incredulously. 
 
 He seemed to feel my scrutiny and raised his 
 eyes. His face was marred by deep furrows of 
 sorrow, and his eyes looked melancholy. 
 
 "Mr. Takiff?" I said. 
 
 He looked at me studiously. "Israel?" he 
 answered hesitatingly. 
 
 I nodded my head; I was overwhelmed with 
 emotion. 
 
 "Mr. Takiff?" I repeated. 
 
 "Call me not Naomi, call me Mara; for the 
 Almighty has dealt very bitterly with me," he 
 answered in the words of Naomi, shaking my hand 
 affectionately. 
 
 "How long have you been here?" he questioned. 
 
 I told him. 
 
 He quickly thrust his merchandise into his box 
 and said: "Come to my house. She will be glad 
 to see you." 
 
 I divined who "she" was. 
 
 " Do not trouble yourself on my account. I do 
 not want you to lose to-day's profit," I urged. 
 
 "Let the whole business go to blazes !" he answered
 
 In the Land of Liberty 279 
 
 bitterly. " I stay here all day and make thirty or 
 forty cents, and sometimes I must give away half 
 of my profit to that tall policeman, who often 
 threatens to make me move. This is American 
 business," he added with a sigh. 
 
 " How delighted I am to see you, my good Israel !" 
 he said with manifest pleasure, as we pressed 
 through the busy crowd. "You will excuse me for 
 calling you Israel; in America you will be Mister," 
 he explained ironically. " Oh, she will be so pleased 
 to see you!" he repeated without mentioning her 
 name. "We are not far from my home; we live 
 on Ludluff [Ludlow] Street." 
 
 "Here we are," he said a few minutes later, 
 stopping before a dingy, five-story tenement house. 
 "We live high up on the fourth." 
 
 The entrance was filthy and reeky; the stench 
 almost stopped my breathing. An old hag, her 
 withered breast bare and a dilapidated wig 
 cocked on one side, sat on the first step of the 
 rickety flight of stairs, with her mouth wide 
 open and her hands supporting her head. She 
 stared idiotically in front of her, without looking 
 at anything in particular. She did not move 
 aside or budge when we walked up the stair- 
 case. I observed that her eyes did not wink or 
 stir when we passed by her; they were like those 
 of a mummy. 
 
 The stairs were narrow, and the baluster was so 
 nasty that I could not lay my hands on it. When
 
 280 The Fugitive 
 
 we reached the top of the first flight the old man 
 groaned. I was also tired. 
 
 At the top of the second flight he groaned again, 
 spat, and muttered something to himself. 
 
 We mounted the stairs of the next story, pick- 
 ing our way through the children that obstructed 
 the way. My aged companion muttered something 
 like a curse between his teeth. The door of one 
 of the apartments on this floor opened and a young 
 woman protruded her tousled head and called: 
 "Yankele, where are you? A cholera into your 
 bones ! It is Friday, and he does not mind it at 
 all. Quick fetch me two cents' worth of pepper 
 and raisins and a penny's worth of almonds." 
 
 Finally we reached the fourth floor. The gray- 
 headed Mr. Takiff burst out: "Let the devil take 
 the American stairs ! They take my breath away." 
 He tried to open one of the several doors in the 
 dark hall. It was locked. "She must have gone 
 out. We'll go into my sister's until she gets back." 
 
 He knocked at the other door on the same 
 floor. "Gittele, we have a guest. Can you recog- 
 nise him?" he said to the woman who responded 
 to his knock. 
 
 I recognised her instantly. She was the same 
 Gittele I had seen years before, buxom and healthy, 
 but her face bore the marks of suffering. 
 
 She looked at me and smiled, saying she could 
 not recall me. When my host told her who I was 
 she seemed delighted at seeing me again.
 
 In the Land of Liberty 281 
 
 "Are you long from home [meaning Russia]?" 
 
 I told her how long. 
 
 "Blessed are those who know not of this cursed 
 land!" she said with a sigh. "At home we were 
 somebody. Every one knew of us and we [she always 
 spoke for her husband, too] lived in comfort ; but 
 here would that Columbus had never been born, 
 so that we had been spared from coming to this 
 land of rigorous service ! Woe to Reb Dovidle, at 
 whose table every needy person found food and 
 assistance ! 
 
 "On Friday night," she continued plaintively, 
 "my baal-bos never 'made Kiddush' without three 
 strangers at the table. And in this cursed America, 
 woe to us what we have come to ! My husband has 
 a little tailor shop and Yankil, Beril, and Shmeril 
 [Yiddish equivalent for Tom, Dick, and Harry] are 
 his equals ! Well, the dollar is their god in this 
 country, and people are estimated by their bank 
 accounts, not by their real value. Talking between 
 ourselves" this in a lower voice, as if she feared to 
 be overheard by somebody "who came over to 
 this country from Russia before the ' riots ' ? Any 
 fine people? Any educated or learned Jews? 
 None but shoemakers, tailors, water-carriers, 
 'Nicholas' soldiers, and some with prison badges 
 on their backs. Now these people are presidents 
 in synagogues, and they have the matbaeh [coin]. 
 As the saying goes, he who has the matbaeh has the 
 daeh [say]. Woe is me" she suddenly checked
 
 282 The Fugitive 
 
 herself " while emptying my bitter heart I forgot 
 to offer the guest a glass of tea. No doubt you're 
 hungry," and she hurried to the adjoining room. 
 
 While his sister was thus "emptying her bitter 
 heart" Mr. Takiff continually shook his bowed 
 head. 
 
 In the meantime I cast a glance about the house. 
 There were only three rooms. The one we sat in 
 was the kitchen and dining-room, the furniture 
 of which consisted of a small table covered with 
 oilcloth, a stove near the sink, dish-shelves on 
 which I noticed a samovar and six candlesticks; 
 on the walls were a picture of the President of the 
 United States at an inauguration, and certificates 
 of several lodges, to which, I presumed, the head 
 of the family belonged. The room, though small, 
 was neat and tidy. 
 
 "Make yourself at home, Mr. Russakoff," Gittele 
 said to me, returning with a white cloth, which she 
 laid on the table. "My brother's guest is also my 
 guest; and besides, we are old friends, too." 
 
 She poured out tea for me, remarking: "Ameri- 
 can tea ! Does it have any taste or flavour ? I 
 brought a samovar from home, but where can 
 you get the proper coals in this country, and who 
 has the time to bother with it? My husband 
 advised me not to bring it here at all, but I could 
 not part with it ; we had three, and I sold the others. 
 I also brought a Shaas [the Talmud], but who gives 
 a glance into the Talmud in this treif America?
 
 In the Land of Liberty 283 
 
 There it lies packed up over my bed. At home 
 my children would be rabbis, perhaps, but 
 here oi and woe is me ! no one cares for such 
 things. My children do not want to answer 
 in Yiddish when I talk to them nothing but 
 English. 
 
 "No use talking," she resumed while I was 
 drinking tea. "In America everything is treif 
 the very water we drink is treif, and who talks of 
 meat ? Only the other day it was discovered that 
 our butcher used to sell treif meat for kosher! 
 Well, how can one live in such a land? At home 
 we suffered, but we had hopes for Gan-Eden. But 
 here everything is forfeited, and we have to roast 
 some day in the blazes of hell like the wicked." 
 Here she sighed deeply, as if she beheld the rising 
 flames before her. "And our children will not even 
 say Kaddish after our death, and all our labour will 
 be wasted." 
 
 She recited her monologue uninterrupted, while 
 I partook of the bread, cheese, and butter that she 
 had set before me. "America!" she proceeded 
 after a short pause. " Does any one live here as at 
 home? Everybody is labouring in sweat for a 
 mean, scanty living. At home I had two Jewish 
 servant girls and a gentile girl, and I was a lady; 
 while here I work and scrub the floors like a prisoner 
 in Siberia Shone Zion [enemies of Zion idio- 
 matic would that Israel's enemies were in such 
 condition]. At home we had fine furniture, and
 
 2 84 The Fugitive 
 
 here all we have is a bureau and that old Washington 
 [wash-stand]." 
 
 "Let us go to the front room," said Mr. Takiff 
 after I had finished eating. "We will talk over old 
 stories until 'she' comes." 
 
 We went to the parlour, or front room, as they 
 called it. Besides a folding-bed there were a set 
 of second-hand plush-covered furniture, a small 
 case crammed with books, and an old organ. 
 
 We sat down. A short pause ensued. I could 
 see that he wished to tell me about Malke, so I 
 waited for him to begin. 
 
 "She will be so glad to see you," he repeated 
 again. "My sister grumbles all the time, but I 
 bear my wounds silently." He was approaching 
 the subject gently, I observed. His careworn face 
 showed inner grief. 
 
 " It would be a sin for me to complain. I have to 
 praise the Lord for His favours to me in my old age. 
 Why should I bewail my lost wealth, so long as I 
 have saved my daughter? Her name here is 
 Regina Wigodski. Yes, I wrested her from that 
 scoundrel's hands," he said to me as if he were 
 talking to himself. "He threatened to shoot me; 
 he even aimed at me. But what a foolish count ! 
 I would rather have the bullet pierce my brain than 
 leave her in his house. But I saved her. I found 
 out that she was with him on his estate near Mohilev. 
 I went there about a month after you left us. His 
 servants would not let me in. But I got in. He
 
 In the Land of Liberty 285 
 
 stood in the veranda of his palace and set his dogs 
 on me, but they only tore my clothes and bruised 
 my hand here." He showed me a deep scar. " But 
 I did get into his palace in spite of all his threats. 
 I implored him to give me back my daughter, 
 and fell on my knees before him. I kissed his 
 boots, but he only kicked me. He threatened to 
 throw me out of his inn and ruin me. ' Malke, my 
 daughter !' I cried with all my voice, so she could 
 not help hearing me. He ordered his servants to 
 throw me out. They beat me, they flogged me, 
 they almost crushed me. But I heard somebody 
 weeping in an adjoining room. I knew her voice. 
 I knew she would come back to me ; I was cer- 
 tain that now she must come. So I waited. I 
 knew she would come, and come she did. 
 
 " It was in the middle of winter. I had neglected 
 my business and the inn was less frequented, for 
 I was practically alone and could not attend to it. 
 My wife had died just a week before." This last 
 he said as if in answer to my inquisitive look. 
 "Late one night I was sitting alone in the house. 
 My little boy was asleep. Snow had drifted around 
 the inn as high as the window-sills and a storm was 
 raging. I sat by the hot oven warming myself 
 and looking into a book, though my thoughts were 
 far away. My wife's ghost peace be with her ! had 
 come to me in a dream the night before and said: 
 ' Nosen, Malke is coming home; forgive her.' I was 
 thinking about this, when I thought the latch of
 
 286 The Fugitive 
 
 the door clicked. It must be caused by the wind, 
 I decided. A few minutes later the latch clicked 
 again, as if some one were trying to lift it. The 
 blasts of the wind made frightful noises, as if they 
 were going to upset the inn. Then everything 
 was quiet for a minute or so. I closed my book 
 and paced up and down the room. I heard some- 
 thing bump up against the door. I hurried to the 
 door and opened it. A figure lay prostrate before 
 me. I fetched the lamp and looked at it. I need 
 not tell you the rest. She had returned to the God 
 of Israel." 
 
 He heaved a deep sigh and proceeded: 
 
 "That scoundrel took the inn away from me and 
 ruined me, as he had threatened to do, but I was 
 prepared for it. I sold out what little was left me 
 and sailed for America. I left my son with a 
 wealthy brother of mine in Kovno. At home it 
 would be hard for her to get married, I thought, 
 so I decided to come to this country. I am not 
 sorry for it. 
 
 " Coming over here I had a little money yet, and 
 I did not let her go to work in a shop. I peddled and 
 made my three or four dollars a week. But she 
 insisted on going to work, and she found a place in 
 a. shirt factory, where she made the acquaintance 
 of Mr. Wigodski, whom she married a year ago. 
 He is also a student from home, and he expects to 
 take up a profession after a while." 
 
 As he finished tears were rolling down his wrinkled
 
 In the Land of Liberty 287 
 
 face, but I could not tell whether they were tears 
 of joy or grief. 
 
 The door opened and a middle-aged man with a 
 black beard and a jovial face entered. I recognised 
 him the same Reb Dovidle I had met six years 
 before. He was not as well dressed as he was then, 
 and hard work had made deep marks in his counte- 
 nance. 
 
 "Well, Gittele, God be praised!" he said in 
 Yiddish to his wife. "Business is improving from 
 day to day." 
 
 He took off his stiff hat, put on his skull-cap, and 
 came into the "front room." 
 
 "You are home early to-day, Nosen. Oh, I see, 
 you've found an old friend. Sholom-Aleichem." 
 He stretched out his hand to me cordially. "I can 
 always tell a 'greener* as soon as I look at him," 
 he added, without waiting for a formal introduction. 
 "Any news in Russia? How is the treatment of 
 the Jews? As severe as ever?" and added a few 
 more questions without giving me a chance to reply 
 to the first. 
 
 "Do you recognise him, David?" (Dovidle being 
 a diminutive of David) asked Mr. Takiff . 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and the smile that 
 spread over his face plainly signified "no." 
 
 "Israel a Russ " his brother-in-law tried 
 
 to help him out. (I had adopted the second name 
 of my Russian passport.) 
 
 He shook his head negatively.
 
 288 The Fugitive 
 
 "I had the pleasure of eating at your table one 
 Friday night," I struck in. 
 
 At my remark his countenance beamed with 
 gratification. "Many ate at my table at home," 
 he said, nodding his head with a touch of pride. 
 
 I recalled to his mind the occasion on which I 
 had profited by his hospitality. 
 
 A little later I told them that, much as I appre- 
 ciated their kindness, I would not intrude on them 
 longer, but would go at once and look for lodgings. 
 
 " Really, you must think we came from Sodom or 
 Gemoro," said Gittele, with just a little bit of in- 
 dignation in her voice. "Do you think we will let 
 you go away Erev-Shabbos ? We are just as good 
 Jews here as we were at home." 
 
 "Why, you don't know anybody else here in 
 America," put in Mr. Takiff. "Stay here over 
 Shabbos, and Sunday I will find you a lodging." 
 
 This Ghetto life appeared very strange to me 
 after I had been away from it so long. I had come 
 to dislike it at times I even detested it. Yet now 
 I found it pleasant ; their friendly talk, their cordial 
 welcome, their sincere hospitality warmed my for- 
 lorn heart. 
 
 "That's my daughter," Mr. Takiff said a few 
 minutes later, when we heard footsteps in the hall. 
 
 He opened the door and called, and the next 
 instant the same Malke stood before me the same 
 brunette with the same large, pensive, dark eyes, 
 with the same warm colour that spoke of life and
 
 In the Land of Liberty 289 
 
 passion. Only she was a trifle stouter, and there was 
 a look in her eyes that told of experience. 
 
 "Do you know this gentleman?" her father 
 asked, glancing from her to me. 
 
 She blushed and stretched out her hand . ' ' Israel, ' ' 
 she said in a very low voice. The same sweet voice, 
 but with a slight note of sorrow in it. 
 
 We did not refer to old Dubrooka days; we only 
 spoke of the present and future.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SHMUNKE MENKE SHMUNKE'S 
 
 THIS is my third birth, I said to myself that night 
 as I tossed sleeplessly from side to side. I was a 
 babe again. My proficiency in languages, my 
 literary skill, my ideas none of these was of avail 
 to me here. Again I was babbling the Jewish 
 jargon as in the beginning of my miserable child- 
 hood; again an orphan without a fatherland a 
 wanderer, a vagabond in a strange land. I had 
 to start life anew from its very beginning. Again 
 I was in the Ghetto I so much despised. It seemed 
 that the Ghetto was foreordained for me. In vain 
 had I struggled to free myself from it; futile had 
 been my strenuous efforts to break away from the 
 narrow confinement of the Jewry. By a force 
 stronger than my will I was drawn back to it. 
 
 Mr. Takiff found me lodgings with a family that 
 he said he had known in Russia, and on the fol- 
 lowing Sunday morning I climbed the four flights 
 of dirty stairs that led to my new home and knocked 
 gently at the door. 
 
 It opened, and a heavily bewigged woman, with 
 long earrings dangling down her cheeks, thrust out 
 
 290
 
 2QI 
 
 her head and asked in Yiddish: "Well, what do 
 you want?" 
 
 I retreated a step in surprise. Instead of an- 
 nouncing myself as her new lodger, I asked: "If 
 you please, aren't you from Javolin?" 
 
 " Where should I come from if not from Javolin ?" 
 she answered with a question. 
 
 "Is not your name Groone?" I ventured to ask 
 again, smiling at the grimace on her face. 
 
 "What, then, is my name Sprinze?" she flung 
 another question instead of a reply, and swung the 
 door as if to give me a hint. 
 
 "And your husband's name is Menke," I con- 
 tinued tantalisingly, holding the door to keep her 
 from shutting it in my face. 
 
 "What, then, should his name be Todres?" 
 came another interrogation, quick as lightning. 
 Then she added: "I don't understand you, young 
 man. My father was just as nice a man as yours, 
 and don't you come to insult me in my own house." 
 
 " Don't you know me, Groone ? " I smiled, moving 
 a little forward. 
 
 My tone seemed to have gained favour, for she 
 said with rather less sharpness: "Where do you 
 come from?" 
 
 I thought this enough dilly-dallying and told 
 her who I was. 
 
 " God be with you ! Come in, Reb Israel, come in. 
 Who would have ever believed that you would grow 
 so tall and nice and in America ! Ach, mein Gott !
 
 292 The Fugitive 
 
 You also in America ! Tell me, Reb Israel, how 
 do you come to this country?" 
 
 "I could not come by rail, so I came by boat," 
 I answered, with rather a weak attempt at 
 humour. 
 
 "Upon my word, the same Israel, with the 
 same old jokes. When did you get here?" 
 
 I told her. 
 
 " Did you leave your wife and children at home ?" 
 
 I said I had neither. 
 
 "Upon my word in honour, you're making fun 
 of me. How is it without a wife?" she asked 
 incredulously. 
 
 "But why am I standing here? " she said before 
 I could answer. "Such a guest! and I do not so 
 much as invite you to a glass of tea. Would you 
 not have a 'warm glass'? Do have a glass of tea, 
 and don't stand on any ceremonies." 
 
 I had great difficulty in declining this invitation. 
 "How does a person refuse a glass of tea? How 
 is it that a Jew doesn't drink a glass of tea ? When 
 does a person not want a glass of tea? How is it 
 possible? If it won't do any good it surely 
 won't do any harm? What will you lose by it? 
 Do you call this a treat ? One comes into a friend's 
 house, he drinks a glass of tea. How is it without 
 a glass of tea ? An old friend comes in, and there ! 
 he won't taste a little cold water. How can a 
 person say he doesn't want any tea? One drinks." 
 
 With these and like arguments I was assailed,
 
 Shmunke Menke Shmunke's 293 
 
 and would perhaps have surrendered had not 
 Menke fortunately come in. 
 
 "S-h!" Groone warned me, then folded her 
 hands in maternal easiness. "Menke, will you 
 recognise this young man?" 
 
 Menke remained standing as if suddenly pushed 
 under a shower-bath, with a half-idiotic smile on his 
 face, his "American hat" a trifle inclined to one 
 side. 
 
 " I do remember him, but I can't recall his name," 
 he stammered in his nasal voice, shrugging his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Then say you don't know him," his spouse 
 burst out. "Why are you chewing and pretending 
 that you do know him ? Long shall live this head !" 
 She patted her wig with her hand. "The moment 
 he opened the door I cried out ' Israel ! ' ' 
 
 Menke was abashed at this ; he continued to look 
 at me with a perplexed and foolish smile. 
 
 "Why don't you give him Sholom-Aleichem ? 
 Would that I may have sorrows in plagues in my 
 house if he recognised him now, either"; and then 
 she added metaphorically: "If you will put your 
 fingers into his mouth he will not bite them off. 
 Don't you remember Israel, who had lodgings with 
 us in Javolin?" 
 
 "The one which Rabbi Brill a " 
 
 Groone gave him a look that would have scared 
 any one. 
 
 But I came to his relief and finished the sentence.
 
 294 The Fugitive 
 
 "Yes, the one whom Rabbi Brill expelled from the 
 Yeshiva." 
 
 Then Groone told me how they happened to be 
 in this country. It was all on account of Shmunke. 
 He was called to the army because the death of 
 an older brother by her husband's first wife was 
 not recorded, and he was therefore alive as far as 
 the Government was concerned, and hence Shmunke 
 was not the oldest and was obliged to serve the 
 Czar five years. Groone said she would rather go 
 to America than to see Shmunke wearing a military 
 uniform, and so they sold their hut and sailed for 
 the "golden land," where she hoped her son would 
 become a rabbi. But as Groone expressed it: 
 "A man thinks and God blinks." 
 
 As I was talking with these people, or rather as 
 Groone talked and we listened, the door opened 
 and a tall, bony fellow, smooth-shaven, with glasses 
 on his nose, came in, and without looking at us 
 passed through the room into the next one. 
 
 "Shmunke!" Groone called after him. 
 
 " I have told you a million times," the young man 
 said, turning about, "that my name is Dzames, 
 and don't you call me by your dirty sheeny names." 
 And he disappeared wrathfully into the adjoining 
 room. 
 
 " That is America for you ! " Groone nodded her 
 head and waved her hand toward Shmunke, and 
 Menke puffed at his pipe indifferently. "'At 
 home* Rabbi Brill consulted him whenever he had
 
 Shmimke Menfcc Shmtmke's 295 
 
 a knotty point in the Talmud, and here he would 
 throw stones at a Jew. Oi and woe is me what I 
 have lived to see!" 
 
 "What are you jabbering there?" Shmunke 
 appeared in the doorway with a sneer on his face. 
 "Your Jewish nonsense over again? How many 
 times have I told you to leave me out of your 
 lamentation after your rotten Judaism? I'll leave 
 home to-night if you go on with this." He dis- 
 appeared again, and I heard him strike a match in 
 the next room. 
 
 "This is my reward for all my toil and labour," 
 complained the mother in a hushed tone, shaking 
 her head disconsolately. "How many nights did I 
 deprive myself of sleep on his account ! How many 
 times did I not eat so that he could have the very 
 best of food ! And these are the thanks he gives me ! 
 Oi, America ! America !" She shook her head as if 
 in great distress. " Would that Columbus had been 
 drowned before he discovered it!" 
 
 " I have nothing against Shmunke," she whispered 
 to me the next instant; "if it had not been for us 
 he would not have come here. What is the use of 
 talking ? We must keep quiet. He pays his board, 
 and I make on him a dollar or a dollar and a half 
 a week." 
 
 Then she walked upon her tiptoes to Shmunke's 
 room, and opening the door timidly said : 
 
 " Shmu a Dzames, we have a guest, a student of 
 Javolin
 
 296 The Fugitive 
 
 Without answering her he appeared with a 
 lighted cigarette between his lips. With his chest 
 thrust forward he stepped up to me and said in 
 English, in a tone as if addressing an inferior: "So 
 you are from Javolin. My name is Dzames Connally. 
 I vas also a student of dat place." 
 
 When I had told him my name he shook my 
 hand cordially and rattled off the following speech: 
 " How t'ings turn ! Before you vas de intelligence 
 boy and I vas de fanatic, and yet [meaning now] 
 you are, of course, a good orthodoxian Jewish and 
 I am a free-t' inker. Dis ignorant Jewish makes me 
 seeck vit deir religion." He spoke contemptuously, 
 swinging his long arms and puffing out clouds of 
 cigarette smoke. "And, besides, deir manners are 
 awful, vit de beards and shabby clo'es, and dey 
 talks not'ing but Yiddish. Deir condition is awful ! 
 And all because of deir fanaticcism and super- 
 stitiousness. Vere God vat God ? ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Dey goes to shoollike in Russia and pray to whom? 
 Not'ing; dey pray. Is dere a God? Is it not 
 nature everyt'ing nature, as Spinoza believed? 
 Dere is not'ing but nature. And if de Jewish vould 
 believe in Sotzialism and read Karl Marx and 
 Lassalle, or at least read de Arbeiter Zeitung or 
 Dem Ernes, dey vould too become delightened 
 and educated like us culturised peoples." 
 
 He suddenly checked himself with a broad laugh. 
 "Ha! ha! I forgotten myself dat you are a 
 ' greener,' " and he changed into Yiddish. " It won't
 
 Shmtmfce Menfcc Shmunfce's 297 
 
 take you long, and you will also speak English as 
 good as I. I spoke English as good as now when 
 I had been here only six months, and when a 
 year passed nobody could tell that I was not born 
 in America. Ha ! ha ! ha !" He drifted off again 
 into English. "I comes in abigclodinghoi'se and 
 de proprietor says to me, ' Mr. Connally, I did not 
 know you vas a Jew at all ; I fought you vas a 
 Yankee indeed, you look like one.' Honest to 
 God, nobody can tell dat I am not born in America, 
 and I am here only a leetle over t'ree year. Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! I forgotten myself again and I talks 
 Engilish to you." 
 
 As Shmunke, or James, was thus "delightening" 
 me, his mother's greenish eyes quickly skipped from 
 her son to me with covert pride, notwithstanding 
 her previous grumblings regarding his infidelity; 
 and Menke, drowsily leaning on his arm, puffed at 
 his pipe unconcernedly. 
 
 A few minutes later Groone and I began to talk 
 business, and after considerable bargaining we 
 came to terms seventy -five cents for lodging, and 
 board to be furnished by her at actual cost. On 
 the same afternoon my trunk was placed in Groone's 
 "front room" and I had become her boarder, sitting 
 in the only rocking-chair in the house and brooding 
 over my sorry circumstances.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 I LOOK FOR A JOB 
 
 ALTHOUGH Dovidle I should say Mr. Levando, 
 as he was best known here by his second name 
 was engaged in shirt-making himself, he said it 
 would break his heart to see a graduate of gym- 
 nasium and university sewing garments, so he 
 advised me to look for more genteel work. There- 
 upon Mr. Takiff suggested cigar-making, but Malke 
 murmured that cigar-making would hurt my lungs 
 and heart. However, Monday morning I decided to 
 make a tour through the small cigar shops on the 
 East Side, to look for a job. After an hour of aimless 
 wandering I stopped before a number of English- 
 Yiddish signs, with a determination to seek work 
 from some of the firms within. One large sign, 
 dangling from a fire-escape landing on a fourth 
 floor, bore the words, " Agudas Achim d'kak Shnipin- 
 koffka" that is, the brotherly congregation of the 
 above-named Russian town. Immediately below 
 it I read: "Here are made the cheapest pants in 
 America by Getzel Simachowitch, clothing manu- 
 facturer. Button-holes, overalls, shirts, knee pants, 
 children's suits, and caps a specialty. Hands 
 wanted." 
 
 298
 
 I Look for a Job 299 
 
 I stood there with my eyes uplifted, studying the 
 puzzling sign and wondering whether the Agudas 
 Achim, etc., was the name of a corporation of which 
 Simachowitch was the manager, or whether there 
 were two firms on this one floor. I might ask 
 some one, I thought. A little Jew with matted 
 beard, dressed in a sack-coat which had done good 
 service to an "uptown" gentleman whose height 
 must have exceeded the present wearer about 
 six inches, and wearing white trousers which had 
 evidently belonged to the same "uptown" gentle- 
 man, and which were now rolled up to fit the 
 present owner's short legs, was rushing by me, 
 carrying a bundle of merchandise under one arm 
 and several old hats in the other hand. 
 
 " Mister," I cried after this thrifty peddler, "what 
 is the meaning of this sign?" 
 
 He looked at me distrustfully. "What is there 
 to puzzle you?" and he continued puffing at his 
 cheroot. 
 
 "Is it a tailor shop or a sh " j. was ashamed 
 
 to utter the word shool, lest he should laugh in my 
 face again. 
 
 " It is very plain. Even a child can read Yiddish 
 and understand it"; and he was about to leave. 
 
 "But " I remonstrated. 
 
 " Can't you see it is a shool ?" he interrupted some- 
 what testily. 
 
 "But the other sign below?" I added. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" he laughed, displaying two rows of
 
 300 The Fugitive 
 
 rotten teeth. "A green animal," he said to another 
 hawker who was just passing with a big bundle, 
 and he sped away, with a trail of smoke after 
 him, like a "night express." 
 
 I looked at some more signs. One read: "Aaron 
 Swalski, from Barditschev. Chazan, fowl-killer, 
 circumciser, matchmaker; officiates at weddings; 
 dealer in all kinds of Hebrew books; Hebrew 
 teacher. Everything, as at home in Russia, at the 
 lowest prices." 
 
 On the third story I noticed another sign of a 
 clothing manufacturer, and I decided to go in and 
 offer my services. 
 
 I walked up two flights of stairs and found myself 
 in a hallway so dark that I could see no door. 
 Sewing-machines worked speedily somewhere within 
 and made the floor tremble. As I stood wondering 
 where the door could be, it swung open, and I was 
 almost knocked over by a boy with sleeves rolled 
 up, who darted past me and down the stairs. I 
 entered the door and found myself in a square room, 
 the dimensions of which could not have been more 
 than sixteen feet. Two girls sat stooped over 
 sewing-machines, with their eyes fixed upon the 
 pieces of cloth that they pushed under the needles. 
 
 "Whr-r whr-r whr-r-r-r-r " the machines 
 
 hummed busily. At another machine sat an 
 elderly man with spectacles, and one machine stood 
 unoccupied, which I surmised belonged to the boy 
 who had almost caused my overthrow at the door.
 
 I Look for a Job 301 
 
 There was only one window ; a small gaslight burned 
 over the elderly man's machine, which was farthest 
 from the window. A woman whose forehead was 
 half -covered with a wig was pulling the thread from 
 seams; next to her stood a presser, whose face was 
 bathed in perspiration, which he frequently wiped off 
 with his rolled-up shirt-sleeves ; and by his side was a 
 gasoline stove on which the irons were heating. 
 
 No one noticed me as I entered, except the be- 
 wigged woman, who gave me a furtive glance and 
 dropped her eyes back to the seam. 
 
 A few minutes later the boy who had passed me 
 in the hall returned. He was the boss's son, he 
 informed me, and, the boss being away, he would 
 attend to my wants. 
 
 One girl nudged her neighbour with her elbow, 
 and both cast glances at my feet. The two of them 
 began to giggle. The blood ascended to my face; 
 my feelings were wounded. In my native land I 
 was respected as a student; here working-girls 
 laughed at me. 
 
 "I can tell a greener by his shoes," I overheard 
 one say. 
 
 It was only my foreign shoes they laughed at. 
 However, it hurt me. We are so egotistic that we 
 even feel the insults directed at our belongings. 
 
 The presser rolled up his sleeves a little higher 
 anct started a Yiddish song. One girl hummed 
 after him and the machines after her. The other 
 girl raised her eyes to me. Both of us blushed.
 
 302 The Fugitive 
 
 To hide her blush, I suppose, she said: "Joe, don't 
 show off your musical talents." 
 
 All this attention from the hands of the shop I 
 had observed while telling the boss's son that I was 
 looking for work. "Are you a tailor from home?" 
 the boy asked me with what seemed to me an 
 impudent air. 
 
 That again hurt me not a little. Could he not see 
 that I did not look like a tailor from home ? 
 
 "No," I answered curtly. 
 
 "Then we need no 'greeners," he said arro- 
 gantly. "We can get enough experienced hands." 
 
 I closed the door. A shrill laugh followed 
 me. 
 
 I decided to go up another flight and see Simacho- 
 witch. When I reached the door of the manufac- 
 turer of pants, overalls, skirts, and children's suits 
 I could hear no sound within except a slight click, 
 between that of a sewing-machine and that of a 
 slot-machine. 
 
 I entered the room hesitatingly and remained 
 standing near the door. There was only one person 
 in the room a middle-aged man, bending over a 
 button-hole machine. 
 
 At the farther end of the room stood a red-painted 
 box, the size of a coffin, in which the scrolls of the 
 Torah were buried, I supposed, and which was 
 overhung by a curtain with a "Yahweh star" in 
 the center. It was a house of worship, surely. 
 There also stood near the ark a crazy book-case
 
 I Look for a Job 303 
 
 with some old books in it. Surely a house of 
 worship, I said to myself. 
 
 Although I could tell from the expression of the 
 man making button-holes that he was aware of my 
 presence, he did not raise his eyes, but kept them 
 fixed on the machine. His beard struck my fancy 
 first ; it was of a quaint colour : the sides were almost 
 red, the lower part almost dark, his mustache fairly 
 brown. His eyes were dim and watery; his fore- 
 head was high and broad ; a skull-cap rested peace- 
 fully on his head. This was Simachowitch, "the 
 cheapest clothing manufacturer in America, " whose 
 specialties were button-holes, overalls, shirts, knee 
 pants, etc. 
 
 When he had finished a button-hole the machine 
 jerked and stopped, and the operator raised his 
 head questioningly. I repeated what I had said 
 on the floor below. 
 
 Squinting his eyes and contracting the muscles of 
 his face, he asked in a voice that sounded like a 
 stuffed-up whistle, evidently without having heard 
 my question: "What do you wish?" 
 
 I told him again. 
 
 "I thank my stars that I have enough work for 
 myself, and that is not steady"; and he went on 
 with the making of another button-hole. 
 
 "But your sign reads that you manufacture 
 pants." 
 
 "Why, do you want to buy any pants?" He 
 rose as if to wait on me.
 
 304 The Fugitive 
 
 "No, but I thought you needed hands. So you 
 don't manufacture at all?" 
 
 "No; I make button -holes. But I sell pants, 
 too." 
 
 "But the sign " I insisted, with my natural 
 
 proneness to argue. 
 
 "I see you are a 'greener,'" he answered, smiling 
 and wiping his watery eyes. "Look here, it is 
 business. I bought the sign of a party who manu- 
 factured everything there is on that, and I erased 
 that party's name and put on mine instead. Besides, 
 it looks nicer." 
 
 I was a "greener," and did not understand. 
 
 "Is this a synagogue also?" my curiosity 
 prompted me to ask. 
 
 "Why, do you have Yahrzeit [death anniversary 
 of either parent]? I am the sexton here." 
 
 I thought I had seen this man before, but I could 
 not place him. The voice in particular sounded 
 familiar. So I made another attempt to make 
 him reveal his identity. 
 
 "Is tailoring a good trade here?" 
 
 "Are you a tailor from home?" he answered with 
 a question, unintentionally wounding my pride. 
 
 "No. How is cigar-making?" I tried again. 
 
 "Are you going to learn the cigar trade? I'll 
 sell you a cigar-cutter and a board dirt cheap," 
 he said, emphasising the last word. "I tried to 
 learn it myself, but have given it up. It did not 
 agree with my lungs very well." And he coughed,
 
 I Look for a Job 305 
 
 as if he wished to show me how much it had affected 
 him, and then he resumed his work on the button- 
 holes. 
 
 After I had looked at the man for a minute or 
 two something like a flash of lightning brightened 
 my memory Getzel Gorgle ! My heart beat faster ; 
 the consciousness of another acquaintance sent a 
 thrill of delight through my heart. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," I began apologetically. 
 "Weren't you the teacher of the Talmud Torah 
 
 of 
 
 CvV 
 
 The machine stopped abruptly with a click, and 
 raising his head inquisitively he said in a soft tone: 
 "And who are you from home? Sit down, please." 
 He wiped the dust from a chair without a back, 
 remarking: "I can see that you are not one of the 
 common people." 
 
 I told him who I was. 
 
 "Shrolke!" He sprang up with joy. "I am so 
 glad to see you as my own child. Shone Zion! 
 They told me that you went to the gymnasium, 
 and that you were baptised long ago. May your 
 enemies bite off their tongues for uttering such 
 calumnies!" 
 
 "And how long have you been here?" I asked. 
 
 "About eight years. I have tried everything, 
 but I find button-holing the best business for me. 
 And why did I leave home?" He shrugged his 
 shoulders, answering a question I had in my mind. 
 "The town burned down a second time and left
 
 306 The Fugitive 
 
 me without a position. What could I do at home ? 
 I sailed for America." 
 
 After he had urged me a number of times to call 
 at his house, or if I did not care to honour him 
 in that way, at least to call at Saturday's service 
 in Shool, I promised to see him again, and left him 
 clicking at his machine. 
 
 Coming into the street, I lifted my eyes to read 
 another sign. I had some experience now, and 
 knew that not everything on the sign was true. 
 However, noticing a placard in a window that read, 
 "Ten thousand hands wanted," and realising that 
 I could supply two of these, I opened the door of 
 the shop. 
 
 "Any work?" I asked. 
 
 Here again I found one man bent almost double 
 over a sewing-machine and pushing a piece of skin 
 under the needle. 
 
 "No," he answered. 
 
 "Whrr whrr whrr rrrr," the machine whirled 
 and hummed. 
 
 I pointed to the placard in the window. 
 
 He glanced at me, scrutinising me from the 
 crown of my head to the narrow-pointed tips of 
 my foreign shoes, and laughed. "Oh, I see you're a 
 'greener.' Of course I want ten thousand hands 
 to wear my gloves." 
 
 I went to my lodging and stretched myself upon 
 my bed, lost in a sea of despairing thoughts.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 IN A "SWEAT-SHOP" 
 
 THE same evening I had a long consultation with 
 Mr. Takiff and Malke (her husband being out for 
 business most of the time), and though the latter 
 strenuously objected and the former grumbled that 
 the handicraft of a plain workman was altogether 
 unbecoming for me, I decided to learn shirt-making 
 at Mr. Levando's. I realised that at present I 
 could not depend on my knowledge of languages 
 to make a living. 
 
 Mr. Levando's shirt factory was on the third 
 floor of a rickety old frame house among the tall 
 tenements of Suffolk Street, in the heart of New 
 York's Jewry. The dingy building, once red, but 
 now the colour of the gutters, stood prominent 
 among the other buildings by reason of its very 
 humbleness. Under one of the windows was 
 nailed an unassuming square sign bearing the 
 inscription: "D. Levando, shirt manufacturer." 
 
 After jumping over a number of little ones that 
 blocked the passage, rolling about like kittens, I 
 reached the factory. It occupied a room perhaps 
 fifteen feet square, with two windows, both on the 
 same side. The seven sewing-machines filled the 
 
 37
 
 308 The Fugitive 
 
 room with a whirring noise that made the windows 
 and the door tremble. 
 
 At sight of me Mr. Levando dropped the shirt 
 on which he was working and came forward with 
 a beam of welcome in his eyes. "Well!" he said 
 with a sigh, "though it grieves me to see a univer- 
 sity graduate taking up a handicraft, I'll be glad to 
 teach you the trade, since you can do nothing 
 better." 
 
 While he was speaking I glanced at the operators. 
 There were two boys, Mr. Levando's sons, whom 
 I knew Daniel, a boy of sixteen, with disorderly 
 dark-brown hair and dreamy brown eyes, and 
 Jacob, an older boy of rather commonplace appear- 
 ance ; a scholarly looking young man with a scanty 
 beard and big black eyes; and four girls. 
 
 " But one consolation I can give you your 
 co-workers here belong to the same class you do," 
 he went on gloomily. 
 
 "That young man with the small beard" he 
 lowered his voice "held a rabbinical position for over 
 two years, and has read Spinoza and Kant at that. 
 My two boys were both bright students at home, and 
 
 here " He did not finish the sentence, but 
 
 instead wiped away a tear. 
 
 "What can I do?" he resumed in a stifled tone. 
 "They must help me till I am able to support my 
 family without their assistance. We have been 
 here only two years, and taking into consideration 
 my limited experience in this business, as well as
 
 In a "Sweat-Shop" 309 
 
 my foreign tongue, I have done very well indeed. 
 But my heart bleeds when I think of their being 
 cut off from education, for which they have aspired 
 and striven so hard." 
 
 He paused ; his grief made me forget my own ; the 
 noisy hum human and metallic told me more 
 than he could express. 
 
 "This is the fruit of Russian kindness," he added 
 ironically. 
 
 The next day I started on my new career. Daniel, 
 Mr. Levando's youngest son, was my instructor. 
 After a few days' practice I was able to work and 
 talk at the same time. I found the small company 
 exceedingly pleasant. Occasionally we would 
 indulge in long discussions. We talked philosophy, 
 poetry, religion, economics of Russia (with a 
 pang at my heart), of her literature, of her Jews, 
 and of her inhumanity. 
 
 Daniel Levando was of a quiet disposition; he 
 always looked sad and dreamy. His eyes showed 
 that he was keenly critical, but the lower part of 
 his face told that he was easily moved by emotions 
 by pity, sympathy, love. Though his profile, 
 his thoughtfulness, and his peculiar sadness showed 
 his Hebrew lineage clearly enough, his type was 
 not purely Semitic. 
 
 When he was not working he was thinking deeply. 
 This struck me as odd, considering that he was 
 scarcely sixteen years old, though to be sure his 
 steady, penetrating look was of one ten years his
 
 310 The Fugitive 
 
 senior. However, he was the fastest hand in tne 
 shop. His hands were small and soft, of the 
 artistic type ; observing them, no one would suspect 
 that he had ever done manual work. There was 
 only one blister on his right palm (from cutting 
 cloth), and he used to say hopefully: "This will 
 disappear in two weeks when I stop using the 
 knife." 
 
 His silence at times was intense, but a close 
 observer would have detected lines of eloquence in 
 that tightly closed mouth. Most people are silent 
 because they have nothing to say; some keep quiet 
 because they have too much to say. Like a volcano 
 they burn inside, and emit fire and lava only at 
 intervals. When Daniel began to speak he was 
 changed into a different being. His brown eyes 
 shot fire, his usually calm face glowed with a fine 
 heat, and his body fairly quivered from nervous 
 emotion. Every argument came from sincere con- 
 viction, every word from the depths of his heart. 
 As soon as he ceased talking he would work on 
 quietly, without uttering a word thinking and 
 dreaming. 
 
 Any one who would have met young Daniel 
 rambling in the Ghetto, his head slightly dropped 
 and looking abstractedly in the shop windows, or 
 studying the ground as he walked, would perhaps 
 have taken him for a disciple of Fagin looking for 
 spoil. Few indeed would have suspected that the 
 poor little martyr, sauntering about the sordid
 
 In a "Sweat-Shop" 311 
 
 Ghetto, was thinking of something higher than 
 earthly things ! But that boy did think, as I 
 found out from his talk, and was pondering on 
 difficult problems of religion, philosophy, and 
 economics, and I learned, too, that he wrote beau- 
 tiful verses in the sacred tongue, which was his 
 favourite language. 
 
 When Daniel would lose himself in some re very, 
 bent over the whirring machine, the "professional 
 Rabbi," as we called Mr. Rabbinowitz, would 
 nudge him and say: "Enough of your dreams and 
 reveries, Daniel. Be a business man like your 
 father; no dreaming in practical America. Here 
 the dollar is the best dream, if you wake up and 
 find it a reality. Work, Dan, work; you will make 
 a shrewd business man some day; you have enough 
 ambition and brains." 
 
 To me he would whisper: "Russia lost a poet, 
 perhaps a novelist like Turgenieff, in this youth." 
 
 Several months passed, full of exhausting 
 work, but made almost pleasant by agreeable com- 
 panionship. I had almost become accustomed to 
 the sweat-shop and to work with my hands, but I 
 felt that the machine was gradually undermining 
 my constitution. My cheeks faded, and I coughed 
 quite often, especially at night. I realised I ought 
 to give up shirt-making, but at the same time I 
 felt it discreet not to do so until I saw better pros- 
 pects ahead. 
 
 Mr. Levando sold most of his product to one firm,
 
 312 The Fugitive 
 
 Mark Fetter & Company, prominent wholesale 
 dealers in men's furnishing goods, and the tenement 
 where the Levando family worked and lived was 
 owned by the head of the firm, Mark Fetter, a 
 German Jew. This firm was far from popular with 
 the Levandos. "I would rather go to a pack of 
 wild dogs than on these errands," Daniel would 
 often confide to me when his father sent him to 
 deliver shirts. And Daniel's opinion was the 
 opinion of his father and brother. 
 
 One warm afternoon in the early fall, when we 
 were driving our machines at full speed, Mr. Levando 
 returned from a call upon Mark Fetter & Company 
 in a very happy frame of mind. "I have a big 
 order, and I hope we shall have steady work all 
 winter," he announced joyfully as soon as he was 
 in the shop. 
 
 "Were you at Fetter's?" asked his eldest son. 
 
 Mr. Levando's happiness subsided very suddenly. 
 "Yes. He tried to squeeze us again." 
 
 "Oh, that Mark Fetter !" muttered Daniel. " I'd 
 rather starve than take work from that fellow." 
 
 "Daniel," replied the father softly, "you know 
 how much I love that haughty fool with the glasses, 
 but what can we do at present? He buys most of 
 our goods, and we must endure him till we have 
 worked ourselves up a little, and then we can shake 
 him off entirely." 
 
 "Whrrr whrrr whrrr rrr whzzz, " went the 
 machines, and we fell to work again at full speed.
 
 In a ** Sweat-Shop " 313 
 
 One of the girls, about seventeen and very pretty, 
 began to sing a popular love song. Several of us 
 tried to join in, but she sang so much better than 
 any of us that we stopped and let her carry the 
 song alone. It brought back to me recollections 
 that were sweetly painful, and unconsciously I let my 
 foot rest quietly on the treadle. The singer, how- 
 ever, worked on automatically as she poured forth 
 her soul in the song. 
 
 "Stop!" cried Mr. Levando suddenly. 
 
 The song broke off abruptly, and we all looked 
 up. A tall, solidly built man, with a hooked nose 
 and piercing black eyes that glared behind glasses, 
 stood by the door, like a tyrannical general survey- 
 ing an army. He was bandy-legged, with a crop of 
 curly jet-black hair, bushy black mustache, and 
 narrow forehead. He looked fiercely around him 
 without a stir, not even a bow to Mr. Levando. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mr. Fetter." The "boss" 
 bowed obsequiously, but the visitor did not respond 
 by even so much as a nod of his head. 
 
 "How many dozen shirts do you make a day, 
 Levando?" asked Mr. Fetter superciliously, his 
 glance not upon the one he addressed, but wandering 
 about the room, scrutinising everything and every- 
 body in the small shop. 
 
 Mr. Levando answered humbly. Then he added : 
 " You buy most of them, and the rest I sell to another 
 house." 
 
 "You Russians want the earth with the fence
 
 314 The Fugitive 
 
 around it," Mr. Fetter said harshly. "When one 
 gives you one hair you want the whole beard hey, 
 Pullack?" (The German Jews and their American 
 extraction call any co-religionist Pullack who was 
 not fortunate enough to have been born in Ger- 
 many.) 
 
 " I gave you the first ten dollars to buy material," 
 he continued, "and pledged my credit for your 
 machinery and tools, and rented you these rooms 
 for twenty-two dollars which are worth twenty-five 
 dollars at least, with the clear understanding that 
 you must not sell your goods to any one else. I 
 found out the other day that you sell goods to 
 another firm at the same prices you do to me." 
 He spoke cruelly and moved his fierce black eyes 
 right and left. 
 
 "But judge for yourself, sir," said Mr. Levando 
 in self -justification. "We made no agreement to 
 this effect, and how could I possibly make a decent 
 living for my family by depending solely upon you ? 
 And your prices are so low." 
 
 "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven hands," 
 Mr. Fetter counted off, pointing at each one with his 
 finger, on which glittered a costly diamond ring. 
 " What do you want all these people for ? Your two 
 sons and a girl would make just enough for my use, 
 and I think you could make a respectable living and 
 have herring and potatoes to your heart's con- 
 tent, especially by this cheap rent you pay me." 
 
 " But, Mr. Fetter," pleaded the other in humilia-
 
 In a "Sweat-Shop" 315 
 
 tion, and tears stood in his grayish-blue eyes, "you 
 know well enough what low prices you pay me. 
 Lately you have pressed the prices down so far 
 that I can scarcely make a living by the work of 
 all of us." A tear trickled down the sweater's face 
 into his thick black beard. 
 
 "Why, your boys make about eight dollars a 
 week, you told me, and your work is worth about 
 the same. Isn't that enough for a livelihood ? " Mr. 
 Fetter asked this with an air of astonishment, as he 
 might wonder at the income of the Rothschilds not 
 being enough for a family's support. "Did you 
 make more in Russia or Poland, wherever the devil 
 you came from?" 
 
 "Oh, in Russia," sighed Mr. Levando, as if that 
 word wounded him "in Russia I had my own 
 houses, and did not have to pay twenty-two dollars 
 for five small rooms." 
 
 "You Pullacks become actually wild when you 
 come over to this country. No wonder the Czar is 
 driving you people out. You wish to grab every- 
 thing everything. Have you ever lived in a house 
 in the country where you came from with such big 
 windows as this hey? Here you want nice car- 
 pets and nice stoves and perhaps a piano, too. All 
 your people are a lot of Schnorrers [beggars], one as 
 bad as the other." 
 
 We all kept our faces down and our feet pressing 
 the treadles softly all except Daniel, who had been 
 cutting a thickly folded pad of linen. He now laid
 
 316 The Fugitive 
 
 down his long cutter's knife and moved about rest- 
 lessly, his face glowing with intense agitation. 
 
 "How much do you make a week?" Mr. Fetter 
 asked of our prima donna, who blushed and looked 
 up at the "boss." He gave her a wink, which she 
 evidently interpreted "higher price," but as half a 
 dollar was a big sum to her, she answered: "Six 
 dollars and a half." 
 
 "YouPullack! Schnorrer!" Mr. Fetter shouted 
 indignantly, as if he would play philanthropist. 
 "You only pay six-fifty to such a big grown girl, 
 and you wish to become a millionaire and have a 
 piano in your house hey?" 
 
 "But how can I pay more when the prices I get 
 for my goods are so low? Raise the prices on my 
 shirts, and I'll raise wages." Mr. Levando's face 
 grew red with subdued anger. 
 
 "A discount of four per cent, will be my terms 
 for your goods henceforth. Who will buy of you 
 shabby Pullack, and who will understand your 
 broken English and jabbering German?" 
 
 I noticed that Daniel's face burned and that he 
 quivered in every limb. 
 
 " But how can I live ? The prices are low enough 
 as they are," the poor "sweater" said imploringly. 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Fetter in a slow, staccato-like 
 tone, "if you don't agree I'll bundle you out with 
 your cockroaches, take away the machines, and put 
 in some other lousy Pull 
 
 "You dirty scoundrel! Get out of here! and
 
 In a " Sweat-Shop " 317 
 
 quick!" Daniel shouted, jumping up, with his cut- 
 ter's knife flashing in his trembling hand like a 
 sword. He looked fierce, almost wild like a young 
 Italian bandit. 
 
 " Daniel !" cried his father in consternation. 
 
 Mr. Fetter stepped toward the door in alarm. 
 "Keep that dog off," he ordered with a sneer. 
 
 "Get out, or " shrieked the raging youth. 
 
 "I'll teach you a lesson," Mr. Fetter said fiercely 
 between his teeth and rushed out. 
 
 Perfect quiet reigned in the shop. No one 
 uttered a word. Mr. Levando remained standing, 
 speechless, in the middle of the room, his skull-cap 
 pushed back, exposing his high and broad forehead, 
 on which wrinkles appeared and disappeared, and 
 his shrewd, almond-shaped grayish-blue eyes filled 
 with tears. His eldest son, being of a very peace- 
 ful nature, looked a little angry with his younger 
 brother for his rashness, but there was at the same 
 time some satisfaction in his eyes. Fannie, our 
 prima donna, stole admiring glances through the 
 corners of her eyes at Daniel, and all of us regarded 
 him with a new respect in which there was a little 
 of fear. He sat down in his chair and leaned his 
 head on his bare arm, the knife still clenched in his 
 hand, and his tears flowed profusely upon the table 
 littered with pieces of linen and muslin.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 THE END OF THE SWEAT-SHOP 
 
 THE following morning, just after we had sat 
 down to work, two men opened the door and asked 
 for David Levando. Mr. Levando, who was stooping 
 over a large bundle of finished goods which he was 
 preparing for delivery, straightened up, a trifle 
 frightened, and asked what was their wish. The 
 younger of the two men said he was a lawyer, 
 and that his companion was a constable, and there- 
 upon he produced a writ of replevin. Mr. Levando 
 stared dazedly at the two, and the rest of us sat 
 bewildered, with our feet motionless on the treadles. 
 Daniel was the first to ask the attorney to explain 
 what the trouble was, to whose question the latter 
 explained very explicitly: "Mark Fetter, who holds 
 a chattel mortgage on all of your belongings, re- 
 plevins the goods instead of commencing foreclosure 
 proceedings." 
 
 " But, if you please," the poor mortgagor pleaded 
 with the lawyer, " I only owe Mr. Fetter forty-five 
 dollars on this mortgage, and my machines and other 
 goods are well-nigh worth one thousand dollars." 
 
 "Well, you will have the chance to prove this in 
 court," the attorney replied with a smile, as if to 
 
 318
 
 The End of the Sweat-Shop 319 
 
 say: "I knw your tricks." "I have got the notes 
 in my possession, and they show an indebtedness of 
 five hundred and seventy-three dollars, besides inter- 
 est at 8 per cent, for one year and three months." 
 
 "But I have paid all this but forty-five dollars. 
 It was deducted from my bills when I delivered 
 goods to him. The interest was figured in the prin- 
 cipal when he loaned me the money." There were 
 tears in the eyes of the unfortunate "sweater." 
 
 "Well, you'll have your say in court," the 
 attorney replied shortly. And turning to the con- 
 stable he said: "Call up your men and begin 
 to pack up." 
 
 The constable opened the door and shouted down 
 the stairs: "Oh, Bill! Come up!" Two men 
 immediately appeared. 
 
 " Youse ladies and gentlemen will have to get up," 
 the constable said, turning to us operators. 
 
 All of us arose instantly ; some of us trembled, for 
 the fear of legal authority generated by Russian 
 tyranny and oppression was still strong in those of 
 us who were not long from our native land of bar- 
 barism. We stood huddled together in a corner, 
 full of pity and sympathy for our poor employer, 
 who remained standing in the middle of the room, 
 with his skull-cap on the back of his head, his hands 
 clasped in front of him, and tears gathering in his 
 almond-shaped eyes. 
 
 "You may still have the goods," said the lawyer 
 philanthropically, "if you pay us the full amount
 
 320 The Fugitive 
 
 of these notes, and for your sake I'll throw off half 
 the interest." 
 
 "But I only owe him forty-five dollars!" Mr. 
 Levando returned imploringly. "And even those 
 forty-five dollars I can't pay him to-day. We 
 agreed that Mr. Fetter should deduct this sum 
 from the next five bills of goods." 
 
 "Well, you'll tell your tale in court," the lawyer 
 responded nonchalantly. "Hurry up and get 
 these things out," he said to the constable and 
 his assistant. 
 
 While we were all watching them carry out Mr. 
 Levando's machines our bread-winners a police- 
 man entered and asked for Daniel. The officer read 
 to the trembling youth a warrant which charged 
 him with assault with intent to kill. A sad smile 
 played on the boy's lips as the officer took him by 
 the arm and led him away. 
 
 Mr. Levando left all his belongings to the mercy 
 of the constable and followed the officer and his son. 
 And a short while later the little sweat-shop was 
 quiet without a whirr of a machine, without a click, 
 without the sound of a voice quiet and empty !
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 I APPLY FOR AID AND GET SOMETHING ELSE 
 
 IN the afternoon I went to Mr. Levando's home. 
 He was utterly exhausted from running about to 
 procure the release of his son, whose bail had been 
 fixed at one thousand dollars. Those of his friends 
 who were willing to give bail had no property, and 
 those who had feared to stake it. The family was a 
 picture of distress. Mrs. Levando lay on a couch, 
 moaning and crying; the oldest son sat helplessly 
 on the arm of a rocking-chair, with his head drooped 
 and his hands clasped around his knees, and Mr. 
 Takiff puffed at his pipe and cursed the "golden 
 land," its people and its laws. 
 
 "Blazes to this country with her justice!" he 
 complained bitterly. " It's worse than Russia " 
 
 "A thousand times worse," struck in Mrs. Le- 
 vando. 
 
 "Who ever heard," resumed Mr. Takiff wrath- 
 fully, "that a boy of seventeen years should be 
 locked up under one thousand dollars bail?" 
 
 Mrs. Levando groaned, "Oi, my dear child my 
 Daniel, he will have to stay in jail overnight ! " and 
 she burst anew into a flood of tears. 
 
 "And he says America is a good country." Mr. 
 321
 
 322 The Fugitive 
 
 Takiff turned to his brother-in-law, his eyes full of 
 anger. 
 
 "I don't blame this country at all," said David 
 Levando calmly. "It is that rascal, Mark Fetter, 
 who is bad. He wants to ruin us. Well, we'll start 
 over again. Let us suppose we have just landed 
 here, and Daniel is kept back for some reason or 
 other at Castle Garden. A few days will pass by 
 and we'll be ourselves again." Though despair 
 dwelt in every feature of his countenance, he forced 
 a smile. 
 
 "What's the use of talking to him?" said his 
 wife disconsolately, turning to me and her brother. 
 "One way or the other, he will always find some 
 justification for this country." 
 
 "And you claim to be a pious Jewess," said Mr. 
 Levando, with an attempt to be humorous. " Does 
 not the Talmud say, ' Just as we praise God for His 
 goodness, we should also praise Him for His un- 
 kindness'?" 
 
 I slipped out of this house of sorrow and walked 
 along Canal Street, thinking how I could be of 
 some assistance to them. First the idea of my 
 helping them seemed absurd, as I had only a dollar 
 and some cents in my possession. Then a hopeful 
 thought cleared the gloom from my mind. "The 
 Jews in general have always been charitable." 
 But to whom could I apply? I scarcely knew 
 any one. Of course I had heard of Jewish philan- 
 thropists in New York, but how could I reach those
 
 I Apply for Aid and Get Something; Else 323 
 
 magnanimous men ? Then I thought of the rabbis. 
 Surely I could find some rabbi who would help 
 Mr. Levando, with a recommendation at least, or 
 influence Mark Fetter to drop his proceedings. 
 
 I had heard of Doctor Fuchs, who was the rabbi 
 of a gorgeous uptown synagogue, and who was 
 renowned for his erudition. I determined to apply 
 to him for assistance. If he won't help he won't 
 harm, I assured myself. On looking up his address 
 in the Directory I found he lived far uptown, and 
 my capital was so scanty that I could hardly afford 
 to spend ten cents for car-fare. I hesitated long 
 before I decided to take a Third Avenue elevated 
 train. "If I do not find the Rabbi it means ten 
 cents wasted," I reflected, and started out on foot. 
 I walked several squares and stopped. "Nearly 
 ninety squares. " I hesitated and again fumbled the 
 "dime" in my pocket, whirled it, fondled it, and 
 unconsciously began climbing the stairs to the 
 elevated station. A minute later I pushed a nickel 
 through the ticket window. 
 
 Sitting in the car and gazing out at the flying 
 buildings, I was startled by the thought that I 
 had not changed my collar and that my clothes did 
 not look decent. But I had no other clothes. I 
 was poor, and "poverty is no disgrace," is a saying 
 among the poor, and thus found some comfort. 
 
 Finally the conductor choked down his throat the 
 name of my station. I got off and slowly descended 
 the stairs leading to the street. I walked slowly
 
 324 The Fugitive 
 
 along, looking for the number of Doctor Fuchs's 
 residence. The neighbourhood gave every evidence 
 of being fashionable. Having lived about a year 
 in the filthy, narrow streets of the Ghetto, I felt as if 
 I had no right to breathe the air of this region or 
 to tramp on its clean sidewalks. In that year I 
 had lost all my manly pride, my courage, my 
 self-possession; a capital "I" was no longer a 
 pronoun for me. 
 
 I walked as if I were treading on forbidden ground. 
 When I noticed a pretty girl looking through the 
 window between the lattice of costly curtains, or a 
 well-dressed man descending the broad, clean stairs 
 of his mansion and puffing at his fragrant cigar, I 
 was inclined to bow and beg pardon for intruding 
 upon the high personage. 
 
 I found the house that I sought, but its 
 elegance frightened me, so I walked past it to 
 the next corner. Then I plucked up courage, 
 and returning I ascended the stoop and timidly 
 pulled the knob of the door-bell. I heard its 
 tinkling deep within the house, and an echo, I 
 thought, sounded deep within me. I felt awkward, 
 and stood before the house like a tramp waiting 
 for a sandwich. 
 
 The door opened, and a pretty German servant- 
 girl (I could not help thinking of her beauty) stuck 
 out her head and glanced at me, and asked me what 
 I wished. In much embarrassment I told her that 
 I wished to see Reverend Doctor Fuchs. She
 
 I Apply for Aid and Get Something Else 325 
 
 showed me into the reception room and disap- 
 peared with my request. 
 
 In a few minutes, which seemed double their 
 number, a middle-aged, obese woman of medium 
 height, with a flat nose, double chin, and green 
 eyes, rustled into the room, panting as she walked, 
 her diamond earrings bobbing and twinkling. She 
 contracted her eyelids, as if to get a better look at 
 me, in order to judge what reception to give me. 
 Evidently the impression was not favourable, for 
 her face assumed a sour expression as she said to 
 me: "Doctor Fuchs iss taking hiss avternun nap 
 from one to two." 
 
 "I'll wait until the Doctor gets up," I said in a 
 humble tone. 
 
 She opened her mouth to respond, but closed it 
 without saying a word. She then turned around 
 as if to depart, but did not go; she opened her 
 mouth, and closed it again without speech. All 
 this increased my embarrassment. 
 
 " Vait for him in de liprary," she said at last, and 
 drew a velvet curtain aside. 
 
 I sat down in the room designated near the door, 
 with my hat in both hands. She disappeared, and 
 I heard the rustling of her dress sweeping over the 
 thick velvet carpet. 
 
 I began to wonder just how to start my tale of 
 woe. I also wondered what language to use. At 
 length I decided upon English, for I had learned 
 that he was imported from Germany, and I knew
 
 326 The Fugitive 
 
 these German Jews preferred to speak English to 
 an inferior, and especially to a Russian of their 
 race. 
 
 At the end of the room was a desk, behind which 
 stood two high cases filled with hundreds of volumes. 
 But, I observed, no Talmud was there. The library 
 opened into another room, partitioned by curtains, 
 between the folds of which frequently appeared a 
 flat nose and two green eyes. 
 
 I waited and yawned and waited. I studied the 
 colour of the carpet, the wall-paper, and counted 
 the books in the two cases. I noticed a paper 
 lying on a chair close to mine, and I picked it up. 
 At this movement on my part the flat nose and 
 green eyes were again framed between the curtains. 
 
 Finally, after I had scrutinised everything about 
 me, heavy steps reached my ears. I divined the 
 coming of Rabbi Fuchs. I cleared my throat, 
 passed my hand down over the buttons of my 
 waistcoat, passed my slim fingers through my hair 
 to arrange it in poetic disarrangement, and awaited 
 his arrival. He appeared at the door and measured 
 me from the soles of my torn shoes to the top of 
 my untrimmed hair in one glance from his steady, 
 cold eyes. He was a little taller than his wife and 
 almost as fat, and his grayish beard was closely 
 trimmed. His nose was aquiline, and purple at the 
 end, which I thought (mistakenly, perhaps) resulted 
 from a too zealous worship of Bacchus. He wore 
 a white tie and a high waistcoat, which so my fancy
 
 I Apply for Aid and Get Something Else 327 
 
 struck me gave him the full appearance of the 
 Almighty's coachman. His forehead was originally 
 not high, but it was heightened and broadened by 
 his partial baldness. 
 
 I rose and bade him "good afternoon," to which 
 he bowed perfunctorily. 
 
 He did not ask me to sit down, so I told him my 
 story standing, expatiating especially on the high 
 position of the Levandos in former days. He 
 listened as members of his congregation listen to his 
 sermons, I thought; but he did not fall asleep. 
 He stood with his hands in his trousers pockets, 
 unmoved by my tale of woe as his congregation by 
 his lectures, I fancied. Several times I noticed a 
 spasmodic shake of his head, as if he wished to inter- 
 rupt me, but he waited without a word to the end 
 of my speech. This politeness, flashed through my 
 mind, he had also learned from his flock. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you Russians are ever dissatisfied with 
 work and look for something easy," he said coldly. 
 "Anarchism, Socialism, Nihilism, and all kinds of 
 isms that's all you care about. I can't do anything 
 for you. There are Hebrew charity societies and 
 hospitals which do all they can for paupers and 
 immigrants." 
 
 " But you must realise," I pleaded, almost with 
 tears in my eyes, "the injustice of Mr. Fetter in 
 trying to ruin this noble family, that has worked in 
 a ' sweat-shop ' in order to make an honest living. 
 I do not ask of you anything but merely to go
 
 328 The Fugitive 
 
 and see Mr. Fetter on behalf of these unfortunate 
 people, and he will not be so hard upon them." 
 
 "I know you Russians," he said impatiently. 
 "Well, this you have for your trouble," he added 
 with a meaning smile, drawing half a dollar from 
 his pocket and handing it to me. 
 
 At this I lost my control. I spat on his out- 
 stretched hand and shrieked at the highest pitch 
 of my voice: "Hypocrite! high-toned beggar! I 
 ask no alms of you, stone-hearted rabbi in Israel !" 
 He grew as white as the tie he wore around his neck, 
 and his fat wife, who had been watching us between 
 the curtains, rushed to the front door and cried: 
 "Police! Police!" 
 
 An officer answered the call with a promptness 
 that ought to be recorded in the history of the police 
 department. 
 
 " Dis Russian anarchist vanted to sjhoot my 
 husband if he vouldn't give him a t'ousand t'alers," 
 Mrs. Fuchs explained to the officer. Rabbi Fuchs 
 stood dumfounded and trembling. 
 
 "Come along come along," said the officer, 
 giving me a few touches from his club. "We have 
 a good place for anarchists who throw bombs." 
 He laid hold of my arm, gripped it tightly, and led 
 me out of the house. 
 
 Some people appeared on the neighbouring stoops ; 
 servant-girls stood in the doors and windows, with 
 their aprons rolled around their clasped hands, 
 looking at the officer and his prisoner. A driver
 
 I Apply for Aid and Get Something Else 329 
 
 jumped off his wagon, and leaving his horses stand- 
 ing in the middle of the street eagerly inquired: 
 "What's the matter?" An increasing crowd of 
 boys followed us excitedly as we walked toward 
 the corner. 
 
 The policeman telephoned for another officer to 
 take me to the station, and while we waited for his 
 arrival a large crowd gathered around us, asking 
 one another: "What's the matter?" I heard 
 several voices answer: "An anarchist. " "He was 
 going to shoot Doctor Fuchs." 
 
 I heard all this as if in a dream. I became so 
 confused that I lost my memory and did not know 
 what had happened. A cold drizzle began to fall. 
 I kept my eyes on the ground and wished for some 
 open grave below. One of the crowd shouted: 
 "Look at his face! Look at his eyes! He shot 
 Rabbi Fuchs!" 
 
 "Did I?" I asked myself. I did not know then. 
 Perhaps I had shot him. 
 
 In a comparatively short time another officer 
 arrived and took me to the station. The desk- 
 sergeant asked my name (which I had given as Russ) 
 and inquired regarding my nationality. They 
 searched my pockets, in which they found a dollar 
 and a few cents. Then I was locked up. 
 
 When I sat down on the bunk in my dark room 
 I realised what had happened to me that afternoon. 
 My expectations were gone, and now I was confined 
 in a murky cell with a lot of criminals. Criminals,
 
 33 The Fugitive 
 
 did I say? They were, perhaps, just as much 
 criminals as I. 
 
 How I spent that night I leave to the reader's 
 imagination. 
 
 The next morning about ten o'clock I was taken 
 to the police court and there brought before the 
 magistrate. Now I could see who my mates were. 
 On the prisoners' bench sat a thin, emaciated, 
 unwashed, unkempt boy, who looked to be about 
 sixteen years of age, whereas according to his 
 statement he was twenty-two. He had a bruised 
 eye, which he claimed was caused by the friendly 
 caress of the officer who had arrested him. He 
 wore a tattered jacket, and parts of his bare body 
 were exposed through the rents in his trousers, and 
 one big toe peeped curiously through a hole in his 
 shoe. This prisoner was accused of vagrancy and 
 of trying to "steal" a night's sleep in the corridor 
 of a fashionable residence. 
 
 Another prisoner was a young woman about 
 twenty-five years old who wore a dark veil, through 
 which I observed, however, that her face, though 
 handsome, was dissipated. When she uttered the 
 word "Guilty" to the charge of vagrancy and dis- 
 orderly conduct I heard the echo of a sad tragedy 
 in her voice. Another victim, whose name was 
 Finnigan, had tasted a little more "whishky" than 
 he could stand, which was a crime under the New 
 York code. There were a few more interesting 
 prisoners whom I had no time to study before my
 
 I Apply for Aid and Get Something Eke 331 
 
 name was called and I was pushed up before the 
 magistrate. 
 
 The prosecutor read a long list of accusations 
 against me in a voice like the conductors' who call 
 out streets, and I could only catch: " What have you 
 got to say for yourself?" 
 
 "Not guilty," I stammered. 
 
 The officer who had arrested me was called to the 
 witness-stand and stated all he knew, or rather all 
 he did not know. 
 
 The Rabbi did not appear, so there was no evidence 
 against me. 
 
 However, the judge dipped his pen in the ink- 
 stand and, looking at me over his spectacles, said: 
 "Thirty days and costs." 
 
 My trial was finished. An officer tapped me on 
 the shoulder and told me to follow him. In the 
 lobby my conductor stopped to talk with a brother 
 officer, and while they chatted I noticed a news- 
 paper of the previous night on the floor. I picked 
 it up. My eyes were instantly caught by the fol- 
 lowing headlines in startling black letters : 
 
 ANARCHIST MAKES ATTEMPT ON LIFE OF 
 REVEREND DOCTOR FUCHS 
 
 Eminent Divine Alive Only Because Revolver 
 Failed to Work 
 
 OFFICER BRAVELY INTERFERES AND WOULD-BE MURDERER 
 IS NOW SAFELY BEHIND PRISON BARS
 
 33 2 The Fugitive 
 
 A picture of a big head covered with massive 
 hair, staring eyes (which were supposed to be mine) , 
 and that of a revolver followed. The revolver 
 was supposed to be the identical one with which I 
 had attempted to kill Rabbi Fuchs. A long three- 
 column article described how I had attacked the 
 Rabbi, how the revolver would not go off, and how 
 the officer heroically wrested the weapon from my 
 hands. It related also that neighbours for several 
 days previous had noticed me loitering about the 
 Doctor's house, and that they had suspected the 
 "young man with the long hair and wildly staring 
 eyes" was looking for mischief; that the officer 
 passed a number of sleepless nights in watching 
 the suspected anarchist; that he was standing 
 outside and waiting when the anarchist entered 
 the Rabbi's house; that the anarchist tried to 
 play the old "insanity trick" and laughed in the 
 face of the officer ; that the anarchist was a member 
 of a secret society whose purpose was to blow up 
 Broadway and Fifth Avenue, and so forth, and so 
 forth. In conclusion, the writer stated that the 
 Russian Jewish element on the East Side, other- 
 wise peaceful citizens, must have a dangerous 
 gang of anarchists among them, and he suggested 
 that Levando's sweat-shop (for a highly coloured 
 account of Daniel's outbreak had got into print) 
 was very likely the place of meeting. Then fol- 
 lowed a long interview with one of the city's most 
 prominent business men, who takes much interest
 
 I Apply for Aid and Get Something Else 333 
 
 in Jewish charities, Mr. Mark Fetter by name, 
 who expressed himself as having knowledge that 
 the Levandos were revolutionists. 
 
 The officer finished his friendly chat and pulled 
 me after him to another cell, where I stayed a 
 short time before I was taken to the workhouse 
 to serve out my sentence.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 AN OLD PRI E ND 
 
 As SOON as I was set free I repaired to Mr. 
 Levando's home, but found another family in 
 their place. After some inquiries I was informed 
 that some kind of a settlement had been effected 
 between Mr. Levando and Mr. Fetter, and the former, 
 in company with his brother-in-law, had left the 
 city. I did not care to go back to my old boarding- 
 place, for I was utterly weary of Shmunke, so I 
 found new lodgings. I was again without friends 
 in the sordid Ghetto. 
 
 My five weeks of imprisonment had left a deep 
 impression upon me. I had been getting thin 
 while I worked at the sweat-shop, and now I began 
 to spit blood. I consulted a physician, who admon- 
 ished me not to take up my old trade again. But 
 he encouraged me and said there was no immediate 
 danger if I should take good care of myself. 
 
 One night, after I had spent two or three 
 hours in aimless wandering, I decided to go to a 
 cafe on East Broadway which I frequented and 
 rest for a while over a glass of tea. One could get 
 here a good glass of tea for five cents and read 
 Russian, German, and English papers to his heart's 
 
 334
 
 An Old Friend 335 
 
 content; and here one was likely to meet at any 
 time of the day and before two o'clock in the morn- 
 ing Russian Jewish students who fled from gym- 
 nasiums and universities, and some from Siberia, 
 discussing Socialism, Anarchism, philosophy, religion, 
 and poetry. The restaurant was owned by a 
 Russian, who, while waiting on customers, usually 
 took part in all the discussions, and could not 
 determine himself whether he was an anarchist, 
 socialist, pessimist, or philosopher. He had been 
 a student at Lodj, Poland, and later had tilled the 
 stony fields of Palestine a few years. 
 
 Coming in now, I found the cafe well filled. I 
 settled myself at my favourite table in the rear, 
 ordered a cup of tea, and lighted my cigarette. People 
 passed in and out, but I paid no attention to them. 
 The restaurateur stood behind the counter and 
 took part in a discussion on literature which was 
 carried on by several young men, who dwelt prin- 
 cipally on Dostoyevski. Some compared him to 
 Victor Hugo and others to Edgar Allan Poe. I 
 thought that this Russian novelist had some quali- 
 ties of both, but I said nothing. The same young 
 men had discussed the same subject a few nights 
 before. I took up a paper and began to read, but 
 occasionally raised my eyes and listened to the 
 discussion. Presently when I looked up my eyes 
 were caught immediately by a newcomer who had 
 just joined the group of young men. His back 
 was toward me, but a glance at him was sufficient.
 
 33 6 The Fugitive 
 
 I hurriedly rose from my chair and clapped my 
 hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 "Ephraim!" I cried joyously. 
 
 He looked about, then sprang to his feet. "Why, 
 Israel! You in America?" 
 
 Without waiting for my reply, he excused him- 
 self, and we went off to his room, talking volubly 
 all the while. 
 
 " I thought you were digging gold for the Czar," 
 I remarked when we had taken off our hats and 
 settled into comfortable chairs. 
 
 "No, I knew better," he smiled, "and thought 
 Siberia would be too cold for me." 
 
 He coughed violently, and took off his glasses, 
 which he put carefully on his desk. 
 
 I observed his face by the yellowish light of the 
 lamp that burned on the desk, and a shudder 
 passed through me. It was thin and haggard; his 
 long hair was neglected; his mustache was heavy 
 and long, which made his cheeks appear still more 
 hollow. But his eyes glittered with the same old 
 fire. 
 
 "How did you escape? How did you come 
 here? What have you been doing since?" I 
 showered questions at him. 
 
 "I have not as many adventures to tell of as 
 you imagine," Ephraim said, feigning to smile. "I 
 was confined about seven months in a dark and 
 filthy cell, in which big rats kept me company 
 and had occasional fights over a crust of bread
 
 An Old Friend 337 
 
 that the turnkey had brought me. They claimed 
 share and share alike, and I never denied them 
 their rights. 
 
 "At first I felt lonesome, but after several days 
 of confinement I grew accustomed to the foul 
 atmosphere, and should not have felt so bad had 
 they only let me have enough books to read. But 
 I spent most of the time in thinking and brooding 
 over ideas which I had entertained before I was 
 locked up. I had no hopes of seeing the light of the 
 world again, and now I wish I had not seen it. 
 After all, prison life is not so bad as it is pictured, and 
 I think that one with a clear conscience can breathe 
 more freely in the oppressive prison cells than in 
 this open, large, and treacherous world. Was I 
 not more happy in prison than you, who had to 
 witness the bloody riots the disgrace of humanity ? 
 I considered myself an innocent victim a martyr, 
 so to speak, who suffered for the good of my father- 
 land. I loved Russia and her people, and was 
 glad to make any sacrifice for them, thinking that 
 it would further the cause of liberty. I admit 
 that I lived in a delusion, but so long as I was of 
 that opinion and it made me happy, what difference 
 whether I was deceived or otherwise?" 
 
 "So you have at last changed your view, and 
 you believe that not truth, but anything we take 
 for truth, brings happiness?" I interrupted him. 
 
 "Well," he answered a little nervously, "I see 
 you refer to my religious views. But you must
 
 33 8 The Fugitive 
 
 not confound religion with material happiness, just 
 as you must discriminate between philosophy or 
 logic and poetry. Religion is only pretended to lay 
 down a certain hypothesis by which we reach truth. 
 So naturally when we discover the hypothesis is 
 wrong the conclusion must similarly follow. But 
 material happiness is quite different. The enjoy- 
 ment of it is the truth of it, and so long as we enjoy, 
 it answers the purpose. For enjoyment, and not 
 truth, is its aim. 
 
 "But I am straying from my narrative. I 
 would rather have ended my days in prison than 
 to come out as I did and find the recompense which 
 the Russian people have paid us for our love for 
 them." 
 
 He paused, and his face resumed a bitter expres- 
 sion. 
 
 " But I did come out after seven months of 
 brooding and reflection," he resumed. "There 
 was no strong evidence against me, so I was released. 
 As soon as I was set free I hastened to Levinski. 
 'He left for Palestine,' his housekeeper told me. 
 I tried to find friend after friend. ' In Palestine ' 
 or ' in America ' were the answers I got everywhere. 
 I had hardly an acquaintance left in Kieff. I 
 hardly knew what to do. Weak from my long 
 confinement, made friendless by Russian barba- 
 rism, I grew despondent and thought of suicide. 
 I am ashamed of myself now ; but you must remem- 
 ber the condition I was in. I carried poison about
 
 An Old Friend 339 
 
 me for days, but finally I regained control of myself 
 and decided to come to this country. 
 
 "My experiences the first year in America were 
 similar to the experiences you just told me. I 
 made button-holes in a sweat-shop by day and 
 studied English at night. Then I began to con- 
 tribute articles to a Yiddish paper that paid me 
 a little less than a penny a line. I gained success 
 as a jargon writer. I am also writing for the Yid- 
 dish stage, and scrape a livelihood in all sorts of 
 intellectual hack-work. In addition I gave English 
 lessons to some Russian emigrants, who paid 
 poorly but who are eager students. This finishes 
 my history to the present day. No, I must add 
 that I have been promoted to the editorship of 
 my Yiddish paper." 
 
 "So you are writing Yiddish," I laughed, and 
 I noticed that it hurt him. 
 
 "Yes, I write and speak my mother tongue 
 with the blood of my heart and the energy of my 
 brain, and I have succeeded in this kind of 
 literature better than I had first expected. My 
 stories, my dramas, are all tragedies. I see noth- 
 ing but tragedies before me. The world is full 
 of them in Hester Street tenement houses and 
 Fifth Avenue mansions. Perhaps some other 
 class of readers would not tolerate me, but the 
 Russian Jews are so accustomed to tragedy that 
 they find nothing so real, nothing so true as my 
 descriptions. They bear the memory of tragedies,
 
 340 The Fugitive 
 
 and witness tragedies in the New York Jewry 
 every day." 
 
 Later in the evening our talk turned to religion, 
 and I was surprised that he hated reformed Judaism 
 even more than he had hated orthodox Judaism 
 in the old days at Javolin and Kieff. 
 
 "So you are against reformed Judaism and you 
 advocate the old belief," I casually remarked, 
 laughing as I said this. 
 
 He looked at me seriously for a moment and 
 his pale cheeks coloured. Lighting a cigarette, he 
 puffed violently in silence for a while. Then he 
 fixed his fiery eyes upon me and, while spurts of 
 smoke issued rapidly from his mouth, he said: 
 "Yes, I am against American reformed Judaism as 
 such. I don't object to it as a separate creed, or 
 rather the aping of a creed, but it is not religion 
 to be sure, not the religion of Judaism. Religion, 
 and Judaism in particular, is poetry and nothing 
 but poetry. Or rather it is poetry for one and 
 science for another. To the philosopher, searcher 
 after truth, it is dry science ad finem, proved 
 by algebraic formulas, and by the process of 
 elimination gives a big zero. To mankind at 
 large, in its present state of development, it is 
 poetry pure and simple poetry which cannot, 
 must not be analysed by a mathematical process. 
 Religion, no more than the 'Divine Comedy' 
 or ' Paradise Lost,' can be reduced to prosaic 
 accuracy. For as soon as we attempt to inquire
 
 An Old Friend 341 
 
 into their truth Dante and Milton become 
 maniacs." 
 
 He spoke bitterly, brilliantly, puffing at cigarette 
 after cigarette and inhaling all the smoke, his 
 hair tumbled, his eyes darting fire, his body all 
 aquiver from intellectual passion. I listened to him 
 till two o'clock. 
 
 Friendless as I was, I was glad indeed to meet 
 Razovski again. However, he could offer me no 
 aid, so I had to continue my blind search for a 
 job. So my financial condition grew acute and 
 despair began to take hold of me.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 ASSISTANCE COMES UNEXPECTEDLY 
 
 IT must have been a week later that, starting out 
 of my room to get my supper, I happened to recall 
 a cheap Jewish restaurant that had recently been 
 opened in Hester Street, and thither I decided to 
 go. In my better days I had been accustomed to 
 eating in restaurants on East Broadway, but twenty- 
 five cents was the price of a "regular supper" in 
 those eating-places, and this sum I now regarded 
 as extravagant. 
 
 This restaurant was in the basement of a six- 
 story tenement house, and though a new establish- 
 ment, it had won a speedy reputation. Its cheap- 
 ness was its best advertisement. I stopped before 
 a big sign with yellow letters that read in Yiddish: 
 
 " A regular dinner and supper, the 
 best and most relishable Jewish dishes, 
 as those in Poland, with a glass of beer 
 and two cigarettes, for gc. With chicken, 
 ice. Strictly kosher." 
 
 I did not care for its being strictly kosher, but it 
 was strictly cheap, which was enough to attract 
 me. I looked through the window, and finding the 
 
 342
 
 Assistance Comes Unexpectedly 343 
 
 room well filled with shabby people I hesitated to 
 enter. But the "90." on the big sign was an 
 inducement I could not withstand, and I went in 
 and sat down at a small table intended for two. 
 
 The dining-room was long and narrow, poorly 
 furnished, and lighted by six gaslights. The waiter, 
 or rather the restaurateur himself, attended busily 
 to his customers, but he passed my chair several 
 times without paying any attention to me. I was 
 hungry, and thought of leaving the place. But 
 the "QC." held me in my chair. 
 
 The customers came and went. I paid little 
 attention to any of them till I noticed a man in 
 a long, heavy ulster covered with snow, his hat 
 drawn down over his eyes, walking slowly down 
 the restaurant, keenly eying every customer. He 
 was of medium height, with a pointed brown beard, 
 lively dancing eyes that betokened shrewdness, 
 conceit, and suspicion, and a straight nose which 
 gave the owner a certain dignity of appearance. 
 His eyes took me in while he was yet several tables 
 away. He passed two or three vacant places and 
 stopped at my table. He took his big ulster off 
 and hung it on the back of his chair, and then, 
 without removing his hat, sat down, rubbing his 
 hands and emitting a soft sigh. 
 
 "It's getting cold," he said to me in Yiddish. 
 
 "It is," I answered abruptly, for his appearance 
 had aroused my dislike and I did not care to talk 
 to him.
 
 344 The Fugitive 
 
 " ' Tall-OO-Motor ' is just in time this season. 
 Has it begun to-day?" he remarked casually, 
 rubbing his hands again and eying me keenly. 
 (His reference was to some prayer for dew and rain 
 in Palestine, which orthodox Jews offer from about 
 the middle of October until Passover.) 
 
 "I don't pray," I said shortly. 
 
 I glanced at him and noticed a smile pass over 
 his lips. 
 
 "Ya, ya," he said again, rubbing his hands and 
 passing them over his face in a pious manner. 
 "Ya, ya, Jewish children are straying off the 
 righteous path our forefathers marked out for 
 them." Here he sighed softly and rolled his eyes 
 ceilingward. "The footsteps of Moshiach [the 
 Messiah] are almost heard." He shook his head as 
 if in despair, and then quoted from the Talmud: 
 "'For Moshiach is to come when Israel will become 
 wholly righteous or wholly wicked." 
 
 The waiter spared me a reply by asking what 
 soup I liked best, Lokshen or Borsch. I chose 
 the latter; my interlocutor ordered the same, 
 remarking, when the waiter had departed, that it 
 was "a genuine Jewish dish" which reminded him 
 of the good old days in God-fearing Poland, where 
 the Jews were "genuine Jews." He looked at me 
 with a concealed smile in his dancing eyes. 
 
 I was disgusted with his pious talk, and thought 
 to scare him away by saying something that a 
 pious Jew would consider Epicurean. "If I had
 
 Assistance Comes Unexpectedly 345 
 
 known before that Borsch is genuine Jewish I 
 would have ordered something else." And I said 
 it in a tone which clearly conveyed to him that I 
 did not belong to his class. 
 
 The waiter brought me the Borsch, and I hungrily 
 began on the sour soup. My unwelcome table- 
 mate first washed his hands, according to the 
 orthodox ritual. He recited aloud the appropriate 
 benediction over the bread, and took a big bite 
 thereof, trying to draw the attention of other people 
 to his piety. 
 
 "Well," he said to me while I was eating, "you 
 mistake me ; you don't understand me. I was like 
 you some time ago." Here he lowered his voice 
 and bent down his head as he continued: " It breaks 
 my heart to see our brilliant young men who have 
 brains, education, talent, skill, and energy waste 
 their best days in the dirty ' sweat-shops. ' ' 
 
 He now paused, shook his head sympathetically, 
 and resumed his meal. 
 
 His last few words removed something of my 
 antipathy for him. He now touched a subject 
 which had my sympathy. I was willing to hear 
 him talk. 
 
 I suppose he noticed the change in my face, for 
 I observed a satisfactory smile play in his lively 
 eyes. 
 
 He talked about the condition of labour on the 
 East Side for a while, then very deftly shifted the 
 one-sided conversation to religion: "The love for
 
 346 The Fugitive 
 
 Judaism, the religion their fathers valued so 
 preciously, is entirely extinguished from the hearts 
 of the younger generation. The Russo- Jewish 
 intelligent young men who fled or, rather, have 
 been expelled from the colleges and universities 
 despise that old Judaism with its mystic ceremonies 
 and absurd formalities. A pure monotheistic belief, 
 shrouded in a cloud of ceremonies and symbols, 
 may be beautiful, but it is by no means tenacious 
 on the human mind. It may be good philosophy, 
 but it is poor religion. At least, it is too remote 
 for the average brain to grasp. It is belief in some- 
 thing of which we have no conception at all. 
 Don't stare at me so wildly. I know my 
 people. I have lived and suffered with them and for 
 them and from them. I once shared their hopes, 
 their ideas, their beliefs." 
 
 He paused and looked at me steadily for a few 
 seconds. His last words were enigmatic, being 
 so contradictory to his actions at first. 
 
 Then he resumed in a low tone: "These Russian 
 Jewish students despise their ancestral belief; but 
 to accept the more liberal and more human Chris- 
 tian religion in the land of tyranny would be degrad- 
 ing. The Jew likes to do everything voluntarily, 
 but nothing under compulsion. He possesses the 
 true spirit of the poet and the martyr. Coming over 
 to this country and finding most of their country- 
 men in a deplorable condition, and on the other 
 hand the 'reform' Jews, who are of the wealthier
 
 Assistance Comes Unexpectedly 347 
 
 class, repelling them, these young Russians have 
 drifted away from both. The former would not 
 assist them because they are irreligious, and the 
 latter excuse themselves because they claim those 
 Russians have too many ideas. Besides, reformed 
 Judaism cannot attract these enlightened young 
 men. That creed has no life, no vitality, neither 
 as a religion nor as a philosophic theory; and its 
 professors adhere to it from sheer fashion or perhaps 
 because they fear the aversion of their Christian 
 neighbours, who dislike infidels. Some of these 
 young men, in fact, find some solace in Socialism. 
 What are Anarchism and Socialism if not the 
 impulses of ambition that fall short? Anarchism 
 is no idea at all ; it is merely the hatred that springs 
 up in the breast of a stripped rival. When one 
 loses in a race he is more likely to find fault with 
 the winner for his own defeat than with himself. 
 Hence Socialism and Anarchism. 
 
 "The only remedy for these intelligent young 
 men is to adopt a new faith that will stream fresh 
 blood, so to speak, in their veins and resuscitate 
 them I mean Christianity. They would also get 
 some help from Christian philanthropists, and would 
 continue to lead the life they had dreamed of in 
 their native land." 
 
 He stopped talking and cut the meat which the 
 waiter had set before him. 
 
 I divined at last the secret of this masked being. 
 He was a missionary. I had known many mission-
 
 34 8 The Fugitive 
 
 aries who had tried to win Jews to the Christian 
 belief, and all of them I had despised. I noticed 
 "he meant business," and I loathed him more for 
 it. I did not attempt to reply to what he had 
 said, however, but kept on eating my nine-cent meal. 
 
 "I know you," he resumed. "You are one of 
 those students I pictured a little while ago. Your 
 name is Isidor Russ." 
 
 I showed my surprise at this personal knowledge 
 of me by half starting from my chair. 
 
 "There's nothing wonderful about my knowing 
 you," he explained. "I'll be frank with you. I've 
 seen you before; you interested me; I know some 
 of your friends; I asked questions, and so I know 
 much about you. I've been looking for a chance to 
 meet you; I followed you here to-night. 
 
 "You were innocently convicted several weeks 
 ago," he went on. "Who was at fault but the 
 haughty Rabbi? It was not because he hated 
 you individually; he hated your nationality. The 
 wealthy American Jews are retaliating on their 
 own poor coreligionists for the prejudice they 
 suffer from the gentiles. They look down upon 
 you Russians, with all your intelligence, unsur- 
 passed liberality, and broadmindedness, and, if 
 possible, ostracise you from their clubs and societies. 
 But the American gentile has no such feeling. He 
 would be willing to accept your company and friend- 
 ship. In short, my friend, I can help you," he 
 ended significantly, "and you will be able to earn
 
 Assistance Comes Unexpectedly 349 
 
 your livelihood easily and pursue your studies 
 besides if you like." 
 
 He now arose to leave, and finding me silent 
 said: "Think it over. My name is Gavniack. I'll 
 see you to-morrow." 
 
 Saying this, he threw a ten-dollar bill upon the 
 table and hurried out of the restaurant before I 
 could stop him. I ran after him to return his money, 
 but he was lost in the crowded street. 
 
 I realised that this man was a Jewish-Christian 
 missionary who was fishing in the squalid Ghetto 
 for Hebrew souls. Was he indeed a religious fakir, 
 or was he honest in his belief ? At the last he had 
 certainly talked ardently and with the appearance 
 of sincerity. 
 
 I brooded in my room for hours that night. I 
 thought of my miserable health, of my poverty, of 
 what I had suffered through the inhumanity of 
 Rabbi Fuchs. And I thought of my future ah, my 
 future ! That troubled me most. All the time 
 the words of the missionary were repeating them- 
 selves in my mind : " You will be able to earn your 
 livelihood and pursue your studies." Perhaps he 
 was sincere. At any rate, he offered me hope. 
 His promises were vague, but I had nothing to 
 lose by investigation ; and I must return his money. 
 So I decided to see him again.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 THE MISSIONARY AGAIN 
 
 COMING home the following day, I found my land- 
 lady in tears. The youngest girl was sick, and she 
 had not a cent with which to buy the prescribed 
 medicine. I owed her a little over six dollars, but 
 she did not even hint for it. However, I felt myself 
 guilty of a gross wrong ; the little girl might die for 
 want of medicine, and I had money ! I put my 
 hand into my pocket and crumpled the ten-dollar 
 bill, hesitating what to do. "It is not mine," I 
 argued with myself; "how can I give it away?" 
 " But the sick child might die," another thought 
 protested. 
 
 I quickly drew out the money and handed it to 
 the landlady, who was looking at her poor child 
 with tearful eyes. "Here is your six dollars and 
 fifteen cents. You will bring me the change." 
 
 She wiped away her tears and looked at me a 
 trifle abashed, probably wondering how I came 
 by that fortune. 
 
 "God knows the truth, I did not mean to press 
 you," she apologised. "I know that you would 
 have paid me long ago if you had only had it, but I 
 was simply giving vent to my bitter heart." 
 
 35<>
 
 The Missionary Again 351 
 
 Then I worried again because I had used the 
 missionary's money. I began to walk the floor of 
 my room restlessly. The walls, the ceiling, the 
 very air of the enclosure put a certain burden, so to 
 speak, upon my brain and nerves. I wished I could 
 shake off everything from my mind. So I took a 
 stroll through the dingy streets. Razovski's talk 
 and the incident I had experienced with the Rabbi 
 came back to my mind like a past dream. "Juda- 
 ism is declining; reform Judaism is a sham and 
 orthodoxy an absurdity; the Jews are hated by all, 
 and the Russian Jews are prejudiced by the Ameri- 
 can and naturalised German Jews. For shame ! I 
 should beg of Jews to tolerate me. Jews that enter- 
 tain prejudice against any of their brethren deserve 
 no regard, no respect. I should rather starve in the 
 streets of the liberal metropolis than apply for aid 
 to the vain, wealthy merchant who would perhaps 
 scoff and sneer at the despised Russian student 
 before he would condescend to consider his tale of 
 woe." 
 
 "What have I in common with the Jews?" I 
 further asked myself. "Why not cut myself loose 
 from these people? The Christians, indeed, have 
 treated the Jews cruelly in the past, but what is 
 that compared to the prejudice which the well-to-do 
 American Jews have shown against the poor Rus- 
 sian refugees ? No wrong is a wrong by itself ; it is 
 relatively measured by the required right. What 
 have national or race connections to do with me?
 
 35 2 The Fugitive 
 
 I am only a Jew by race, which is simply a term 
 denoting bigotry. I am a philosopher, and true 
 philosophy (not the narrow-minded philosophy of 
 Bismarck) teaches that there is no race or nation- 
 ality. Mankind in its broadest sense is our race and 
 nationality, and the Chinaman is just as much mine 
 or I his as the Jew. Whom shall I fight for ? Why 
 shall I curry the favour of some wealthy Jews when 
 the whole world is before me?" "You will be able 
 to earn your livelihood easily, and pursue your 
 studies if you like" the missionary's words flashed 
 through my mind. "Why should I insist upon 
 bearing this misnomer? What care I for ideas and 
 ideals? They are merely the fruit of vapid brains. 
 What difference is it to me what form of religion 
 the Jews have, however much it may worry Razov- 
 ski ? What care I whether the German, American, or 
 Austrian Jew bears prejudice against me or not, let 
 the question grieve my friend as much as it may ? 
 Why should it hurt me more than any other intelli- 
 gent person that Mr. Cohn, or Jewheimer, was ostra- 
 cised from a certain club because his belief was 
 different from that of the other members ? Further- 
 more, the same Mr. Cohn, or Jewheimer, entertains 
 prejudice against his less fortunate coreligionists 
 and ostracises the Russian and ' Pullack' if he pos- 
 sibly can. The dog is not better than the cane 
 that hits him. Nationality and religion are only 
 relics from ancient barbarity, the terms of which 
 have been coined and perpetuated by egoists and
 
 The Missionary Again 353 
 
 bigots whose sole ambition was to enslave and 
 subjugate others under their yoke. Then why 
 should I suffer for an ancient fiction which injures 
 my present existence ? People like Razovski call it 
 standing by their principles, but with me it has 
 ceased to be a principle." 
 
 That night I went again to the nine-cent restau- 
 rant, but Gavniack did not appear, as his promise 
 had led me to think he would. Every night for a 
 week found me in the restaurant, but the mission- 
 ary did not come. I inquired of the nine-cent 
 restaurant keeper, but he knew nothing about him, 
 he said, though the expression of his face told me a 
 different story. 
 
 All this while I kept up a disheartened search for 
 work, but no one wanted me. Razovski could not 
 help me; he had neither influence nor money, so I 
 did not ask him for assistance. The balance of the 
 missionary's ten dollars gave out. Then my hunger 
 discovered for me a new scheme. On the Bow- 
 ery there were a number of cheap saloons which 
 served free lunch to their patrons. As most of 
 these saloons were always crowded, I found no 
 trouble in sneaking by the lunch-counter and get- 
 ting a little bite of the musty cheese and bread or 
 a roll of cut meat without price. This practice I 
 successfully pursued over a week until a fat 
 bartender detected my petty thefts and punished 
 me with a blow from his huge fist. 
 
 I continued to call daily at the nine-cent restau-
 
 354 The Fugitive 
 
 rant, but could find no clue to the missionary's 
 whereabouts. Such are the contrasts in problem- 
 atic life ; we anxiously search one day for what we 
 rejected the day preceding. 
 
 By this time I was disgusted with life. No one's 
 path is strewn with roses, but when one loses the 
 path altogether what hope is left? "Suicide is the 
 easiest and best method to roll off the burden of life," 
 I determined one afternoon while rambling aim- 
 lessly through the streets. "Why suffer from want 
 of subsistence when we can make that want unnec- 
 essary? Why should I look for a remedy when I 
 can escape the sickness? Once rid of what we call 
 life, we find the end of all our troubles. It is like 
 one carrying a heavy stone and complaining of its 
 weight, when he could simply drop it and be released 
 from its burden." I dwelt upon these thoughts 
 often, but I realised that I was too weak, too cow- 
 ardly. I lived because I could not die. 
 
 One cold December evening I visited the nine- 
 cent restaurant, as usual, and waited 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 to me. I 
 resented his pious manner I resented his appear- 
 ance; but I was starving, and expected help from 
 him. 
 
 He shook my hand warmly, and explained that 
 he had been out of town ever since he saw me last, 
 trying to organise a Christian- Jewish mission in a
 
 The Missionary Again 355 
 
 small town in Connecticut. He invited me to go 
 to a decent restaurant. I accepted his invitation. 
 
 When we had finished the meal, during which he 
 drank heavily of wine, he said in Hebrew, in his 
 lowest possible tone, "Art thou for us or for our 
 adversaries?" and smiled an insinuating smile. 
 
 My answer stuck in my throat. 
 
 "I hope you have by this time appreciated the 
 truth of my statements," he said. He puffed out 
 a thick volume of smoke and looked straight at me 
 with his little eyes, that betrayed the effect of 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 liebt Wein, Weib, und Gesang, 
 Der bleibt ein Narr sein Leben lang.' 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! It takes a poet to say that and a 
 missionary to practise it. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Come 
 we'll have a chat."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 A CHAT 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 fash- 
 ionable apartment house, in which he said he lived. 
 ' In the small corridor he pressed one of a number of 
 electric buttons, and somebody called through the 
 speaking-tube. 
 
 "Open, Martha !" the missionary answered. 
 
 I heard a click, and he opened the door 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 furnished, and entered a room that 
 was half study, half smoking-room. This, like the 
 adjoining room, had been furnished at much expense. 
 There was a long, black leather couch and two arm- 
 chairs; on the wall hung a good picture of the 
 woman who had opened the door for us, and oppo- 
 site it hung a picture of a beautiful little girl, who 
 looked like the miniature of the woman. There 
 
 35 6
 
 A Chat With the Missionary 357 
 
 was also a small, well-filled book-case and a couple 
 of well-executed pieces of marble. 
 
 He excused himself, but returned in a few min- 
 utes. He drew the two arm-chairs close together 
 and placed a small round table between us. We had 
 scarcely seated ourselves when the woman brought 
 in some wine, oysters, and cigars, and placed them 
 on the table. 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 thirty years 
 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 
 nationality. She looked like a charming young 
 Bauerin, full of rustic fascination. However, after 
 close observation I discerned, by her profile and 
 meditative glance, that she must have Jewish blood 
 in her veins. 
 
 She closed the door after her when she left, and 
 Gavniack glanced at me through the corner of his 
 eye a little suspiciously, I thought, though he 
 feigned to be looking at the picture opposite him. 
 
 He filled both of our glasses and said: "Drink. 
 'Wine makes glad the heart of man,'" quoting 
 the Psalm in the original. "The Psalmist, like
 
 35 8 The Fugitive 
 
 Luther, appreciated the mission of Bacchus 
 hey?" 
 
 "Wine enters and secrets come out," I thought, 
 but I said nothing. 
 
 He sipped from his glass slowly and eyed me while 
 I followed his exampje. He was already much the 
 worse for wine. "Did not Jesus bring salvation on 
 earth?" he laughed, and gobbled a raw oyster down 
 his throat. "I am sure he was my Redeemer" 
 winking. "Religion is a milch-cow, friend, if you 
 pursue it in the right way. Enlightenment ? Non- 
 sense!" he ejaculated, answering an imaginary 
 question. "Cattle will always need a herdsman, 
 but the herdsman must not be blind." Here he 
 winked again. "Wine, woman, and song what 
 a glorious combination ! Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Why do you look so stiff and reserved, Mr. Russ ? 
 [He did not know my real name.] You wonder, 
 perhaps, what I want you for. Nothing bad, I 
 assure you. I shall not even ask you to see the 
 font" a cloud passed over my face "you will 
 reciprocate my favours in another way. 
 
 "You think I do not know you," he continued 
 after a short pause. " I know Razovski and almost 
 every intelligent Russian in this city. I am fishing 
 for them all the time. Razovski thinks the world 
 of you, and that's one reason I'm going to offer you 
 so much for almost nothing. Oh, I know you all. 
 I watch all of you. I am like the legendary Elijah. 
 I appear in different shapes and forms, as fits the
 
 A Chat With the Missionary 359 
 
 occasion. One time I am an orthodox rabbi, 
 another time a Schnorrer; sometimes a Russian 
 refugee looking for intelligent countrymen, and 
 another time I become a prince enjoying my wine, 
 women, and song ha ! ha ! ha ! " His eyes flashed 
 and danced quickly; perspiration rolled down his 
 high forehead. 
 
 "I could not do anything with that idealist, 
 Razovski," he went on. "Our profession needs 
 young men like him, and he is worth his weight in 
 gold. But no inducement could bribe him. [My 
 heart throbbed with shame.] An idealist is the best 
 tool for our profession, for those idealists generally 
 run from one extreme to the other. We need new 
 blood now. Our best patrons are now losing faith 
 in us, and if this keeps on much longer we may be 
 played out. The infidels on one side and the poor 
 on the other are liable to wrest the food from our 
 mouths. In ancient times baptism was looked upon 
 with unspeakable horror by the Jews, but of late 
 it has become rather fashionable." He smiled a 
 self -adulating grin. "Those Jews of greatest talent 
 and genius have tried to wash their birth off with 
 the sacred water of the font." 
 
 " But they have not succeeded," I remarked. 
 
 "Well, the witty Heine and rebellious Borne 
 found it a necessity in their time," he answered, 
 evading my remark. 
 
 " But don't you know that this was the cause of 
 the animosity between these two geniuses? Heine
 
 360 The Fugitive 
 
 despised Borne for his hypocrisy, and the latter 
 bitterly and sarcastically ridiculed the former for 
 his selfishness." 
 
 "That is the Jew all over," Gavniack laughed, 
 and swung his rocking-chair rapidly to and fro. 
 "Every Jew justifies his own mistakes and con- 
 demns his brother for committing the same." He 
 paused a few minutes and sipped from his glass, 
 which he had replenished frequently, and looked 
 at the lighted cigar that lay upon the edge of the 
 ash-receiver sending up a fine blue curl of smoke. 
 
 "However, I find no fault either with Heine or 
 Borne," he resumed. "For in spite of their muse- 
 worship they retained the principles of political 
 economy. I mean that of gain. Gain is the electric 
 current that makes the world run. 
 
 " Now, let us come to a clear understanding as to 
 what I ask of you in return for the assistance I 
 offer." He assumed a businesslike air. "I know 
 that you are well versed in Hebrew literature, and 
 you are able to dig out some necessary information 
 from the Talmud, Kabbala, and so forth. Besides, 
 your knowledge of the four principal European 
 languages will be of some help to me. In short, all 
 I ask of you is a little elucidation on theological 
 topics. To be frank with you, I have neither the 
 time nor the requisite knowledge to investigate these 
 subjects for myself. I have helped many Russian 
 students, and they are officiating in large Christian 
 churches. But I have no more use for them
 
 A Chat With the Missionary 361 
 
 none whatever. But I got paid for them, all right." 
 This last he said half 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 fortune. You 
 have the equipment to make a great success. Most 
 of our missionaries are ignoramuses, but the benevo- 
 lent Christians don't know the difference. 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 discovered that some received baptismal fees 
 here in New York, sold 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 instance, when 
 a Jewish editor complains of Jewish indifference 
 toward their religion, make an abstract of this 
 article and send it to us. It makes 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
 
 362 The Fugitive 
 
 letter of recommendation for you from Doctor 
 
 P to the dean of the Medical College. 
 
 It is early in the term, and you will be able to 
 commence at once. You agree?" 
 
 I dropped my eyes; shame almost choked me. 
 He laid down on the table the letter of recommenda- 
 tion, twenty-five dollars and the address of a family 
 with whom I could get board ; for he, certain of my 
 acceptance, had made all arrangements. 
 
 "You agree?" he repeated. 
 
 My soul revolted at this business. But it was this 
 or starvation. I nodded my head. 
 
 At this he rose. I took this as a sign that he was 
 through with me and said I would have to go. As 
 I passed through the other room I noticed the beauti- 
 ful young woman stretched on a sofa. She appeared 
 very graceful in the shaded light, but care and 
 worry were chiselling on her brow and around the 
 corners of her mouth.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 AN OLD FRIEND AGAIN 
 
 A YEAR glided by without any incidents worth 
 putting on paper. I reviewed my medical studies, 
 and, by hard work on my part and by considerable 
 leniency on the part of the college authorities, I 
 was enabled to enter the senior class the following 
 autumn. That year made a marked change in me. 
 Another resurrection, so to speak a new spring 
 after my long, dreary winter. My almost withered 
 and insipid brain regained fresh vigour. I was 
 filled with new hope, new energy, and happy visions 
 came before me. I was alive once more. And 
 the thirst for study and reading assumed its power 
 over me. 
 
 During that year I came in contact very little with 
 the missionary Gavniack, nor did I see Razovski. 
 With the former I generally corresponded, enclosing 
 my abstracts, and the latter I was ashamed to meet. 
 I felt guilty, 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 hypocritical means 
 by which I was earning my livelihood, I would try 
 
 3 6 3
 
 364 The Fugitive 
 
 to excuse myself by saying that there was nothing 
 wrong in my work itself there would be no wrong 
 in merely translating and making abstracts from 
 the Koran, which was all I did. The wrong was 
 done by those who made use of my work with 
 insincere purpose. 
 
 But such justification comforted me little. I 
 realised I was playing a base part, and all my powers 
 of reasoning could not help me to escape a feeling 
 of shame. And when I thought of Katia my 
 shame would grow into anguish. What would she, 
 with her purity and lofty ideas, think of me if she 
 knew I was gaining my livelihood by such dishonest 
 means ? But my very love for Katia also influenced 
 me in holding to this work. I wished to finish my 
 medical course as soon as possible, in order that I 
 might be free to search for her, and that I might 
 have something to offer her when found for the 
 hope of meeting her again still clung to my mind. 
 
 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-shouldered, 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, addressing me by 
 the name in the passport he had furnished me in 
 Vilno.
 
 An Old Friend Again 365 
 
 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. Gavniack 
 hesitated a minute 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 still better developed, and his 
 soft black hair, 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. 
 
 I offered Dolgoff a pipe, took one myself, and we 
 began to indulge in reminiscences. There are 
 some persons that make themselves at home 
 wherever they come; Dolgoff was one of those. 
 Generally such people never have a permanent 
 home, and having lived a vagrant life they can easily 
 adapt themselves to circumstances. 
 
 "So you have become a missionary?" I said, re-
 
 366 The Fugitive 
 
 f erring to his present occupation. "How did you 
 come to that Gavniack?" 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! la missionary!" He laughed 
 heartily, crossing his legs and puffing mouthfuls of 
 smoke. "It is queer, isn't it? In Russia I 
 fooled government fools. Here I fool God's fools. 
 Life is full of foolery." He laughed again. "We 
 live to fool one another, or rather we fool one another 
 in order to live. Either you fool somebody else 
 or somebody else fools you. The success of life is 
 the success one has in fooling as many fools as he 
 possibly can. As to that Gavniack, I knew him 
 in London ; I knew him in Kieff ; I knew him in Vilno ; 
 I knew him ha ! ha ! I have known him long 
 enough, and it is because I know him so well that I 
 got this position. He is a shark in his line ; he beats 
 the whole missionary clique." 
 
 "But what induced you to take this step?" I 
 further inquired. Not that I was so much interested 
 in him as that I wished to squeeze from him some- 
 thing concerning Gavniack. I detested Gavniack, 
 and yet I wanted to know all I could concerning 
 him. 
 
 "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 not find any work to suit 
 me. One thing was too hard, another too easy, and 
 so forth. I was soon helpless and starving. But
 
 An Old Friend Again 367 
 
 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 little, and my body 
 was the whole world to me. I lived six months in 
 luxury and got some money to boot for my worth- 
 less soul. 
 
 " But I soon tired of Amsterdam and went to 
 Hamburg. I had a little experience 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 belly and a small brain, and I also got 
 some money from the missionaries. It never rains 
 but it pours. A nice Christian 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 Saviour. A short time afterward I got tired 
 of her love and kisses and skipped to London, with 
 the intention of taking up some honest trade. In 
 fact, I wished to repent. But the idling missionary 
 life had got its hold on me, and I changed my mind. 
 Well, speculation with my soul is not bad, after
 
 368 The Fugitive 
 
 all, I thought. I soon found another customer for 
 it. He was very religious and charitable (the latter 
 proved beneficial 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. At that 
 time he introduced me to several members of his 
 fraternity, as he called it, and my position was 
 assured. Wine, cigars, theaters, good meals, and 
 everything I could desire I received without a 
 stroke of work. On Saturday afternoons I used to 
 go down with him to Whitechapel, where he preached 
 to the Jews. I was one of his associates for a while, 
 and we all prospered. 
 
 "One of his associates was a minister of a rich 
 congregation, a Jew by birth. He was baptised 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 believed that their only sal- 
 vation would come through Christ. A Jewish con- 
 vert to Christianity was a precious being to him. 
 Gavniack, with his flattery, won the confidence of 
 that noble 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
 
 An Old Friend Again 369 
 
 here." A look of pain came upon his face, and he 
 was silent for a minute. 
 
 " What can a girl know of sin and corruption ?" he 
 continued. "It is the unsuspicious that are 
 ensnared by the wicked. That contemptible wretch 
 won the heart of that virtuous maiden as easily as 
 he had won the women before her. One day 
 Gavniack and Martha disappeared. She, of course, 
 did not know he was married. The flight of his 
 child threw the old minister into an apoplectic fit 
 which proved fatal. I think Mrs. Gordon was 
 forced by her poverty to become a washerwoman. 
 
 "I pursued my missionary trade in London till 
 about six months ago, when I desired to come to 
 America and begin an honourable life. I arrived in 
 this city with a moderate capital, with the sole 
 intention of starting some honest trade. How- 
 ever, fate, it seems, predestined for me to remain 
 in the same business a little longer. A few weeks 
 after I arrived here I met this contemptible Gor- 
 don, or, as he calls himself here, Reverend Gavniack. 
 He tried to sneak away, but it was too late. At 
 first I felt like punching his sheepish, hypocritical 
 face, 'but,' I thought, 'he is a sly fox, and I must 
 handle him differently." 
 
 He paused and looked away from we. After a 
 minute he continued, his voice somewhat husky: 
 
 "To be frank with you, Israel, I loved Martha 
 even after she had disgraced herself by running 
 away with Gavniack. I made up my mind to
 
 37 The Fugitive 
 
 handle him softly and find out about Martha myself. 
 A few months passed by, and he was cunning enough 
 to conceal her whereabouts from me. In the mean- 
 time 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 demeanour everything about him shows 
 qualifications for his profession. He is a genius in 
 that field. 
 
 "Finally, however, 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 dreadfully. 
 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 expression of his face 
 and the tone of his voice as he spoke of Martha, that 
 he was deeply moved. 
 
 " He certainly is a dastardly villain !" I exclaimed, 
 partly as an expression of my loathing of Gavniack, 
 partly as an expression of my sympathy for Dolgoff. 
 
 "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 honourable people to Siberia. And I've heard it 
 rumoured that he killed his own father."
 
 An Old Friend Again 371 
 
 I started like one bitten by an asp. I recalled 
 what Dolgoff had said in Kieff regarding my resem- 
 blance to an old friend of his. A horrible suspicion 
 had flashed into my mind. I dared not follow it 
 further. 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 XII 
 THE WORLD is QUITE SMALL, AFTER ALL 
 
 THE evening of the next day Gavniack called 
 upon me. His visit at first surprised me, for he 
 had not been in my room for a year. However, I 
 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 remarked very 
 casually: " By the bye, 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 
 said you knew him, too." 
 
 "Who is he?" I asked mechanically, hardly hav- 
 ing heard what he said, for within I was a chaos of 
 fear and sickening 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 fastened upon me. 
 372
 
 The World is Quite Small, After All 373 
 
 "It seems you are very much interested in this 
 aristocratic fugitive. ' ' 
 
 I controlled myself with a great effort. " 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 Gavniack's lips. 
 "I knew him long before that," he rejoined, and 
 with an ironical 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 said jovially. 
 
 "The book is an heirloom," I answered. 
 
 " 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 unnerved, trembling, all in a daze. 
 I vaguely heard some words in a strange, hoarse
 
 374 The Fugitive 
 
 voice ; I 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.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 "THE VOICE OF MY BELOVED" 
 
 I SPENT a long, sleepless night. Strange thoughts 
 haunted my brain. As soon as I would begin to 
 think of Katia horrible incidents would crowd my 
 mind. " Perhaps it was Providence that separated 
 me from the daughter of my father's slayer ? Perhaps 
 it was Providence that put us asunder because I 
 am a Jew and she a Christian?" I brooded super- 
 stitiously. 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 ? 
 Must I profess a certain creed when these three 
 passions embrace all creeds and something more 
 unsophisticated brotherhood? A philosopher is a 
 philosopher neither Jew nor Christian; or rather he 
 is both. To belong to a certain creed is to confine 
 philosophy in narrow compass. To abjure creed 
 and believe in nature, art, humanity is to extend 
 philosophy to its utmost capacity. Creeds are the 
 ladders by which mankind ascends to philosophy 
 to truth. The top once reached, the ladder may 
 be kicked away as a thing past usefulness." " But 
 
 375
 
 376 The Fugitive 
 
 you are a child of martyrs," a weird-like voice 
 whispered to me. Oh, martyrdom ! It is only a 
 barbaric term for heroism; the civilised idea of 
 heroism is to follow the stream, not swim against it. 
 Broader minds comprise martyrdom in fanaticism. 
 To expose oneself to suffering and torture for an 
 idea may be regarded by some a virtue, but there 
 are worthier things in life on which to spend virtue. 
 Virtue is scarce nowadays, and we must use it 
 sparingly." 
 
 Thus I mused till the cheerful morning sun dis- 
 persed the misty shroud that hovered about me. 
 I then put on my best clothes and repaired to Judge 
 Bialnick, whose address Gavniack had given me. 
 I found it to be a fashionable residence on Madison 
 Avenue. 
 
 I rang the bell and a servant appeared 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 moment 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 recognise 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.
 
 "The Voice of My Beloved" 377 
 
 "Where have you kept yourself?" I asked when 
 the first greeting was over, anxious for some refer- 
 ence 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 voice, "but 
 I finally decided to end my days in this great land 
 of freedom." 
 
 "And Katia?" I asked with a throbbing heart. 
 
 "What an old rascal I am to keep you from 
 Katia !" he exclaimed, smiling broadly. 
 
 He summoned a servant. "Tell Katia a gentle- 
 man from Kieff is here." 
 
 Then turning to me, he said with the joy of a 
 child playing a prank upon another: "You hide 
 yourself behind that curtain. Let me break the 
 news to her." 
 
 I secreted myself, as he desired, behind a curtain 
 that hung in the doorway connecting the library 
 with another room, and awaited her coming with 
 my eyes at the curtain's edge. 
 
 Presently she appeared. She was dressed all in 
 black. As I gazed at her through eyes blinded with 
 warm tears 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 had swept us apart several years before. 
 
 "A gentleman from Kieff was here a while ago," 
 the Judge said in answer to her questioning glance
 
 378 The Fugitive 
 
 about the room. " He will be back soon. Guess 
 who he is!" 
 
 She shook her head and, smiling sadly, answered: 
 " How can I guess, father? We had so many friends 
 in Kieff." 
 
 "The gentleman," the old man continued play- 
 fully, "told me he had met Doctor Russakoff he is 
 a doctor now." 
 
 I clenched the curtain feverishly. She started, 
 trembled, and her colour 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, moving his weak eyes 
 in the direction of my concealment. 
 
 Katia caught her father around the neck and 
 leaned her face against his cheek. "Oh, father, 
 don't trifle with me ! Do you know any- 
 thing?" 
 
 "Would it not be great," he continued, "if, as 
 in Arabian tales, I could produce him here by the 
 mere mentioning of his name? Let me raise my 
 wand and " 
 
 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 
 Bialnick slipped out of the room.
 
 "The Voice of My Beloved" 379 
 
 "Katia !" I cried again, the longing of four years 
 in my voice. 
 
 She opened her arms wide to me. " Israel ! 
 Oh, Israel !" she murmured, as I clasped her to my 
 breast.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 THE END OP Two LIVES 
 
 THE following few weeks Katia and I were the 
 happiest people in the world. My college work was 
 practically finished, 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 been away from the 
 tragic life of the East Side I had begun to appreciate 
 the spirit of this country, and this appreciation soon 
 ripened to that love and admiration which surpass 
 all native patriotism. I now cherished only one 
 ideal to settle with my beloved Katia in purely 
 American atmosphere. After a great deal of dis- 
 cussion between ourselves 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 following note, in a nervous, 
 scrawling hand: 
 
 ''Dear Doctor Russakoff: I am sick in bed 
 380
 
 The End of Two Lives 381 
 
 at B Hospital. I am miserable, wretched, 
 
 and suffer beyond endurance. I am afraid this 
 will be my end. Come as soon as you get this note. 
 I must tell you something very serious. 
 
 "GAVNIACK." 
 
 The letter was dated several days before. I 
 wondered what might have happened to him since 
 then, and without first going to see my beloved 
 
 Katia I 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 typhoid 
 fever complicated by pneumonia, and that there 
 was a slim chance of his lasting through the night. 
 
 I 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 low-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. I had loathed this man, 
 but now, at sight of his slipping into eternity, I was 
 moved to compassion. 
 
 He began to roll about restlessly and to talk 
 incoherently. Suddenly he opened his eyes and 
 fixed them glaringly upon me, and he gave utter- 
 ance to his raving in a flesh-creeping voice: "Oh, 
 Martha ! Martha ! Martha ! look at me look I did
 
 382 The Fugitive 
 
 not murder your father did you not love me ? ah, 
 that Dolgoff he told you everything carried you 
 away oh, Dolgoff my money everything but 
 give me back Martha 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 indistinct bab- 
 bling 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 ah, that 
 cross, that cross Israel throw away that cross 
 father is nailed to it ah, that cross that cro " 
 
 His words became indistinct again, then ceased. 
 His breath was now coming with difficulty. I was 
 damp with cold sweat; my brain was whirling with 
 the tragedies of my life. 
 
 Half an hour later he opened his eyes. There 
 was consciousness in them. A tremor passed 
 through his body, and with an effort he moved 
 one emaciated hand over the counterpane toward me. 
 
 " Isroelke," he murmured feebly. 
 
 "Joseph," I answered, taking his hand. My 
 eyes began to overflow with hot tears. 
 
 That was his only lucid moment. The next 
 instant his hand tightened convulsively upon mine 
 and he began to rave again. 
 
 " Don't you see father's face there nailed to the
 
 The End of Two Lives 383 
 
 cross ? The Christians did it 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 everybody 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 wildly in front of him. " Look look- 
 father mother on the cross Shma Israel 
 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 breathing deeply, with a vague 
 hope of waking and finding that I had only dreamed. 
 But I soon realised that I had had no dream; my 
 brother's cutting words still rang in my ears. 
 
 I 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 travelled to my brother's 
 delirious talk; I shuddered at his suggestion. 
 Gradually my mind came back to Katia, and the 
 old 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 
 
 * Hear, O Israel ! God is our Lord God is one.
 
 384 The Fugitive 
 
 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 instantly a new feeling 
 was sprouting within me. That feeling or 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 d&bris. My heart was embit- 
 tered, wretched, crushed. 
 
 Then I noticed on the floor a letter which had 
 evidently been thrust under my door after I had 
 left for the hospital. 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 
 soon as I reached town. And forgetting all else, 
 I hurried to my beloved. 
 
 When I knocked at Judge Bialnick's apart- 
 ment Katia herself opened the door. " Bosje moil 
 papa is dying!" she cried, and fell into my 
 arms. 
 
 "What's the matter with him, dearest?" I 
 asked.
 
 The End of Two Lives 385 
 
 "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 tc see papa last night. Papa knew him in Kieff . 
 He left a letter which he said a friend in a hospital 
 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 unconscious 
 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 convinced me of the 
 truth of the physician's statement. He was uncon- 
 scious; his long, thin, silvery hair was scattered 
 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. I took a seat beside the 
 bed opposite Katia and gazed fixedly at the cold, 
 wax-like face. 
 
 Shortly after daybreak the patient opened his eyes 
 and turned them toward me. I leaned over the
 
 386 The Fugitive 
 
 bed and felt his pulse. His eyes opened, closed, 
 and opened again. Something like a shudder passed 
 over his wrinkled countenance; 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: 
 " Israel forgive !" 
 
 Our hands remained clasped together long after 
 he had drawn his last breath. Katia, with her 
 face down, did not seem to realise that the end 
 had come. I 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 flitted 
 through my mind. The tragedy of the two lives 
 that had passed away on this night added colour 
 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 Bialnick and Joseph 
 stood before me side by side and in them I saw the 
 weakness, the mortality, the littleness of man. The 
 errors of these men seemed to me like links of a great
 
 The End of Two Lives 387 
 
 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 revela- 
 tion 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 themselves 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 Saviour none but the fugitive race are the 
 eternal bearers of the cross. 
 
 The next instant, when this mystic vision had 
 vanished, I became conscious 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. 
 
 "Katia," I whispered softly, glancing at the
 
 388 The Fugitive 
 
 corpse before us, "let the dead past bury the dead. 
 We are the innocent blood." 
 
 She gazed at me meaninglessly ; she knew nothing 
 of the tragedy of her father's life she was innocent.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 THE LAST GLIMPSE 
 
 BEFORE turning over the last leaf of my history 
 I read over this narrative, and I have been struck 
 with its brokenness, its lack of order, 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 
 broken, incoherent, and at other times chance 
 makes events fit, coincide. In real life people come 
 and go; acquaintances meet and separate; the 
 friends of to-day are not seen to-morrow. In this 
 record of my experiences friends have appeared only 
 to disappear. Such is life. 
 
 Perhaps during their brief stay in these pages 
 my friends have aroused enough interest to warrant 
 at least a few words concerning their after life. So, 
 at least, I shall presume. 
 
 My friends, like myself, fugitives from the land of 
 bondage, now enjoy the liberty of our glorious 
 country; they, too, have thriven in the great land 
 of freedom. In place of the "sweat-shop" has 
 arisen the prosperous clothing factory of Levando 
 & Son, who are of the most prominent in one of the 
 
 389
 
 39 The Fugitive 
 
 western States. The father's hair has turned gray, 
 but there is still the twinkle of hopeful youth in his 
 bluish eyes; 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 married Martha, 
 and this change in his life has developed a certain 
 amount of stability in his character; he is now at 
 the head of a branch of a life insurance company 
 in Chicago. As for Ephraim Razovski, if you are 
 a reader of popular magazines you have undoubtedly 
 noticed many articles and short stories bearing his 
 name all characteristic of his restless, fiery 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 myself. 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 friend- 
 ship of my good American neighbours. 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 highly as those of Pushkin and of Lermon- 
 toff. But she is a biased critic; and to judge from 
 public recognition my efforts have been attended 
 with only meager success.
 
 The Last Glimpse 391 
 
 Not infrequently, however, a bit of cloud darkens 
 the sky of my happiness. Recollections of the 
 bitter past recur to my mind; the groans of my 
 people 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 hope to celebrate, came crying 
 into the house because the boy of a neighbour 
 called him Jew. Katia adjusted his cap and 
 said: "Hush! sweetheart. You must not quarrel 
 with Robert." "But he calls me 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, 
 whispered in a very low, consoling tone: "Israel, 
 what troubles you?" 
 
 I 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
 
 39 2 The Fugitive 
 
 embrace, and putting her cheek against mine 
 murmured: "Father, forgive them, for they know 
 not what they do."
 
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