the Narodski Hotel whether a certain Jewish couple were not at the
hotel, and was shown to the room where his parents (it was the General)
were awaiting him. The meeting was pathetic, almost tragic, in the
intensity of the emotions it aroused. The first sentiment was that of
great, overwhelming joy. The reunited parents and child wept and smiled
alternately, and embraced each other with a fervor only possible to
those whose hunger for love had remained so long unsatisfied. Especially
did Malka Feige clasp her long-lost son to her breast in a paroxysm of
maternal affection, and very, very reluctantly did she release him from
her embrace. But finally the first mighty ebullitions of emotion had
subsided somewhat and they began to discuss their eventful career and
the difficulties of their present position.
The parents’ story was soon told. Their presence in Sebastopol was quite
accidental, or rather, as they devoutly believed, providential. During
all these years they had been unable to learn anything of the fate of
their boy. They knew neither the place where he had been kept during the
first few years after his abduction, nor anything of his subsequent
experiences; and all of their efforts to obtain some information had
remained entirely fruitless, so that finally they had despaired of
learning anything of him any more. A few days previous to the memorable
occasion of their reunion, Israel had received a favorable business
proposition which required his presence at Sebastopol; and as Malka
Feige did not care to remain at home in utter solitude, she had
determined to accompany him. They had not gone to the review, for they
had no heart for pageantry or splendor, and it was quite by chance that
they happened to be standing at the corner of the street when the little
company of cavalrymen with the general rode by. Gazing at the company in
a casual and apathetic way, Malka Feige’s sharp eyes had at once
noticed, despite the disparity of age and brilliant uniform, the
resemblance in the features of the leader to those of her own Saul
Isaac, and her mother’s heart told her that this was her stolen boy.
Then had she, in a sudden and irrepressible outburst of feeling, uttered
the cry which attracted the attention of the General and brought about
the meeting.
Saul Isaac then told his parents the story of his experience, which, as
it is well known to my readers, need not be repeated. After he had
concluded, the conversation turned upon their future relations, and they
all recognized that it was a most difficult and dangerous one.
“Ah, dear son,” said Malka Feige, “what shall our future be? I cannot
live without you, now that my eyes have seen you alive; but how can we
come together, since we are but a humble Jewish couple and you a great
general, and especially since you have become, alas for my sins! a
Christian? It is indeed impossible for us to live together. The Czar
would never allow it.”
“Yes,” chimed in Israel, “and think what a disgrace it would be for us
to have it known in the _Kehillah_ that my son, the _Illuy_ and
_Charif_, was a _Meshummed_! I could never endure the shame of it. All
your glory would be no compensation.”
It was indeed a knotty and thorny problem. But Saul Isaac had already
reflected upon the matter in all its aspects, and with customary
promptness of resolution had determined what he would do.
“Dear parents,” said he, “be at rest. Never shall I forsake you more.
Now that God, the God of my fathers, has brought us together thus
wonderfully, we shall never be separated again. I shall stay with you
and be a Jew, a sincere, loyal Jew. I know that I must renounce my high
rank, to which the Emperor has just appointed me, and all my hopes for
the future, and leave this country; for, as a Jew, not only would every
avenue be closed to me, but as an apostate I would be sure of severe
punishment, and, perhaps, even of death. But what care I for that! I
have never been sincerely a Christian. I only became such because my
power of resistance was gone and there seemed no other prospect in life.
But now that I see you again, my resolution is formed, and is
unalterable. I love you; I love my poor, persecuted people; I love my
God. I shall return to you and to Him with all my heart and soul.”
The parents shed tears of joy, not unmingled with grief and
apprehension, at this heroic announcement.
“But how about your wife?” asked Malka Feige. “You are married to one
who is not of our religion, but who accepted you in good faith and
intention. Lawfully you may not abide with her, but honor forbids you to
leave her. What shall you do?”
“Of that, too, I have thought,” answered Saul Isaac. “I love my Olga
dearly, but my faith and my God are more precious to me than the love of
woman. I shall go to Olga, tell her frankly of all the circumstances
which surround me and ask her to accept our faith and become a Jewess.
If she consents, we shall leave the country together and all will be
well. If she refuses, I shall tell her that it were better that we
parted, for true, God-pleasing marriage cannot exist between persons of
different faiths. But, under all circumstances, I am determined
henceforth to be a true Jew, to live and die as such.”
The parents declared themselves satisfied with this solution of the
problem, and they separated with the understanding that Israel and Malka
Feige were to go home and Saul Isaac was to keep them informed of all
his movements.
The first step of General Pavlowitz after the reunion with his parents
was to seek leave of absence from the army to visit his wife in
Kursky-Kazan. This was granted him without difficulty, in consideration
of his meritorious services and his natural desire to share the joy of
his advancement with his wife. With every external manifestation of joy,
but with a heart filled with secret misgivings, he set out on his
journey. He feared much for the result upon his wife of the revelation
that he had reverted to Judaism, and hardly dared to hope that she would
look with favor upon his proposition that she should accept the faith of
her husband.
Knowing only too well the intense aversion with which his brethren were
regarded by the Russians belonging to the official Greek Church, and
having often had occasion to notice with what scorn and contempt the
name “Zid” was uttered by the haughty representatives of Muscovite
self-conceit, he realized keenly that no greater shock could possibly be
inflicted upon his Olga than the announcement that her husband was one
of the despised and hated Jews. But it appeared to him that no other
course was consistent with honor and rectitude, and he determined not to
deviate from the straight path of duty.
Often during the long and tedious journey he tried to imagine the answer
which Olga would give. Sometimes he thought of her as declaring that her
husband’s faith and people should be hers, and that with him she would
go to the uttermost ends of the earth; at other times he imagined her
saying that the faith of her fathers stood higher to her than aught
else, and that she would never forsake it. But in his wildest imaginings
he did not form any notion of what the actual reception of his words
would be.
He had determined to make his announcement immediately after his arrival
at home; but when he saw the radiant face of his wife and felt her warm
kiss upon his lips, his heart failed him. How could he speak words which
might bring sorrow to such a beautiful and affectionate creature. He
suffered himself to be carried to his splendid residence, and partook of
the luxurious repast which Olga had prepared for him. He simulated
gayety, and spoke with affected animation of the war and his part in it
and his advancement and brilliant future prospects. He determined to
make his announcement on the morrow. But on the morrow his courage had
not returned, and he could not speak. He who had faced charging armies
undaunted and looked death in the eye without flinching could not make a
statement which might grieve the woman to whom he had given his name and
who loved him so ardently. But on this day he was abstracted and
dejected, and could not suppress the sighs which from time to time
forced themselves from his breast.
Olga could not help noticing his melancholy. That evening she determined
to speak to him concerning its cause.
“Sergei, my love,” said she, when the evening repast had been served and
the servants had withdrawn, and they were nestling side by side upon the
luxurious divan, “Sergei, my love, something is troubling you. My
woman’s heart tells me that some secret grief is eating out your soul.
Will you not tell your Olga what it is? Will you not let me share your
grief?”
“Olga, dearest,” said Sergei, gazing at her with troubled eyes, while
sudden pains shot through his heart, “Olga, dearest, how can I tell you
what I know will grieve you and bring great sorrow upon her whom I love
and cherish more than myself?”
“Tell me,” she pleaded; “am I not your wife? Did I not swear to be the
partner of your joys and sorrows? Tell me your burden; and no matter
what it is, I shall help you bear it.”
“Well, then,” answered he, “since you urge me, I shall tell you. Know,
then, I am a Jew. Your husband, the great General Pavlowitz, is but one
of that abhorred race, one of those wretched pariahs whom the Emperor
and the people alike despise—a ‘Zid.’ Is it not sufficient cause for
grief that the high-born Olga de Mitkiewicz should be tied to such a
one, that he should be able to call her wife?”
Olga looked at him with eyes in which a curious light shone.
“What folly you speak, Sergei,” she said. “How can you call yourself a
Jew? To be sure, I know, and when I gave you my hand I knew, that Hebrew
blood flows in your veins; but it is now many years since you renounced
the sinful heresy of Judaism and were baptized into our holy Greek
Church in the chapel of the monastery of St. Sophia. How, then, can you
call yourself a Jew, since the church and our gracious Emperor recognize
you as good a Christian as any of us? Put away these foolish thoughts,
dear Sergei, and let not the fact of your Hebrew descent trouble you in
the least; and be assured that it does not diminish my love for you in
the slightest degree.”
Sergei gazed with tear-stained eyes for a moment at his wife, and then
spoke in a voice choking with emotion:
“Dearest Olga, what you say is well put, but I cannot recognize it as
correct. I was baptized against my will; my consent was insincere and
superficial. For a time I could disguise my real sentiments; to-day I
can do so no more. I am a Jew, in faith as well as in blood. I have seen
again my parents, and the sight of them has revived all my olden
feelings, all the childish love for my faith. No longer will I wear the
mask, will I play the part of being Christian. I am determined to be a
Jew. I intend to renounce all my offices and dignities and flee to a
land where I may be at liberty to live according to the dictates of my
conscience as such. My wife, too, should be a Jewess, should share my
beliefs and hopes. Olga, can you go with me; can you accept our Jewish
faith in one God and His holy law; can you resolve to share my lot in my
unknown future home and be a true partner to me for life and for
eternity? If you can, you will fill my heart with joy; but I do not urge
you to make the sacrifice. If you choose to remain in your faith and
your native land, you will be entitled to a legal divorce. I would leave
you all my property and possessions and will never trouble you again.
Speak, Olga, and tell me your decision?”
When Sergei had concluded he gazed again into his wife’s face, anxious
to know by its expression the manner in which she had received his
words. What he saw surprised him. He had expected to see there the
expression of anger or displeasure or, at best, surprise, uncertainty,
and hesitation.
Instead, he beheld the beautiful countenance of Olga, all radiant with a
strange and inexplicable joy. She was smiling a smile of triumph, almost
of exultation; but there was withal a solemnity in her eyes which showed
that there was no levity in her joy, but that it was based upon some
profoundly earnest sentiment. While he was gazing at her, almost
stupefied at her unexpected look, Olga began to speak.
“Sergei,” said she, “you have told me your secret. I shall tell you
mine. You belong to a proscribed race; so do I, and am now really your
sister in faith. You are a Hebrew. I descend from the Subotnikis, those
sincere seekers after God whom the renowned Zacharia of Tambow converted
to Judaism some centuries ago. As a student of Russian history, you know
that the emperors persecuted the “Judaizing heretics,” as my people were
called, with even greater cruelty and persistency than they did yours.
Imprisonment, deprivation of civil rights, and banishment to remote
sections of the empire, and even harsher punishments were inflicted upon
them.
“Under these circumstances thousands of our brethren fell away
completely; others fled to foreign countries where they openly professed
Judaism; and others nominally adhered to the Greek Church, but in their
hearts secretly cherished their faith in the one God of Israel and
endeavored to fulfil His holy law as far as in their ignorance and their
difficult circumstances they could.
“My family belonged to the last-mentioned class; but through the high
connections it has formed, it had grown quite lax and out of touch with
the brethren. But we have, nevertheless, never forgotten our origin;
and, though I feared to tell it to you, thinking you had become a
thorough Christian and would not like to be reminded of your former
state, your Hebrew descent was really one of the causes which gained for
you my affections, for we Subotnikis honor and revere those native born
in the household of Israel very much, and esteem a marriage alliance
with them a high privilege.
“Your announcement, therefore, of your intention to be a Jew, instead of
displeasing me, has afforded me the keenest joy, a joy I never expected
to feel. I shall accept your faith, dear Sergei, not merely because I
desire to please you, as my husband, but because my heart already
inclines toward it with sincere devotion. I shall share your lot and
your future, whatever they may bring of joy or sorrow. And like Ruth of
old I shall say: ‘Thy people shall be my people and thy God my God.
Whither thou goest I shall go; and where thou diest I shall die, and
there shall I be buried.’”
Words cannot describe the tremendous revulsion of feeling which the
words of Olga, so unexpected, produced in the breast of our hero, whom
we shall henceforth call only by his Hebrew cognomen of Saul Isaac. He
was transported from the depth of misery and apprehension to the seventh
heaven of joy by this so pleasing solution of a difficulty which he had
looked upon as almost insoluble. But Olga was also filled with joy, and
the radiant gladness which shone from her beautiful eyes showed that she
considered that hour, which meant for her the beginning of exile and,
perhaps, of poverty, as the happiest of her life.
The husband and wife, now joined by a new and profound sympathy,
embraced each other with a fervor of love they had not known before,
after which they sat down to write a letter to the parents of Saul
Isaac. In this letter Saul Isaac gave expression to the happiness which
filled his heart, and Olga wrote a few kindly lines, closing with the
words, “Your loving daughter and faithful handmaid of Abraham.”
The happy couple now made quiet preparations to leave the land.
Gradually the general disposed of his property and turned it into cash.
When this had been accomplished, after several months, the General and
his wife left the town of their residence quite openly, under the
plausible pretext of making a short foreign tour. Their first
destination was a frontier town of Roumania, whither Israel and Malka
Feige had preceded them. From this place Saul Isaac wrote to the
Minister of War, resigning his commission in the Russian army and
frankly stating his reasons for his action. Then they proceeded to
Jerusalem, where the parents of Saul Isaac had resolved to pass their
declining years in pious seclusion and the service of God. In the holy
city Olga was formally received into the community of Israel, the name
of Sarah being conferred upon her.
Here they lived for twenty years. Six children were born unto them, all
of whom received an excellent Hebrew and secular training, and were
reared to industry, virtue, and the fear of God. After the death of the
parents, which occurred in the twentieth year of their sojourn in the
holy city, Saul Isaac and Sarah thought it desirable, in the interest of
their children, to emigrate to America. Accordingly they settled in New
York some years ago. Saul Isaac and his wife selected for their
residence a portion of the city mainly inhabited by Russian
co-religionists, for in their midst they felt themselves most at home.
Saul Isaac finds his chief pleasure in attendance at synagogue, and it
is a question open to debate which affords him the most pleasure, the
sermons of the _Maggid_ or the gossip and anecdotes in which the
congregation indulges in the intervals of services.
As for Sarah, she is so thoroughly Judaized, so punctual and exact in
the fulfilment of her religious duties, so particular in maintaining the
_Kosher_ character of her household and such a fluent speaker of the
Russo-Jewish jargon, that one would never suspect in her anything but a
genuine Russian Jewess, native and to the manner born. Their children
have grown up to be handsome and talented young men and women, good Jews
and good Americans.
Saul Isaac and Sarah are happy and contented. No tinge of regret for
their former state ever enters their hearts. But often as they worship
in the synagogue there comes spontaneously to their lips the words of
Solomon: “Blessed be the Lord God, who hath given rest to His people
Israel.”
TOO LATE, BUT ON TIME
Moses Levinsky awoke with a start upon his humble couch in the little
hall bedroom in the sixth story of the immense and crowded
tenement-house in Eldridge Street, New York City, in which he dwelt. He
very much feared that he had overslept himself and would be late at the
early morning service of the Congregation Sons of Peace. The light which
shown through the narrow window of his room was much brighter than the
pale illumination which usually greeted his early waking eyes and seemed
to show that the day was further advanced. A glance at the cheap silver
watch which lay upon his trousers on the chair next to his bed showed
him that his apprehensions were only too well founded.
The Congregation Sons of Peace invariably began its devotions at 6 A.M.
Moses Levinsky was in the habit of rising at half-past five; his toilet
and the walk to the little meeting-room in the next block required
twenty-five minutes, and he was regularly in his place five minutes
before the voice of the _Chazan_ or precentor, chanting in classic
Hebrew, “Exalted be the living God and praised,” betokened that the
service of adoration and supplication, with which modern Israel supplies
the place of the ancient sacrificial worship, had begun. But to-day the
watch which usually indicated about a quarter past five when he first
glanced at it in the early mornings, stood at half-past six. The
congregation had already been engaged in prayer for a full half-hour,
and he could hardly hope to be with them before the services, which
usually lasted somewhat less than an hour, were concluded. Watches and
clocks are obstinate creatures. They persist in their opinions, which
can be plainly read in their faces. They care not at all how
disagreeable or unpleasant their statements may be to those who consult
them, and they can neither be reasoned with nor stared out of
countenance. And so Moses Levinsky’s watch did not recede at all for all
the hard stares which that rather confused individual directed at it;
but, on the contrary, advanced a minute or so, while he, who had now
risen upon his side and rested upon his left arm, gazed at it with
puzzled and rueful countenance.
The truth was that Moses was in doubt as to the right course to pursue.
His watch told him that he might as well make an exception to-day from
his regular practice and stay at home, for he could never hope to be on
time at the services, or even present during any considerable portion of
them. On the other hand, his conscience smote him greatly at having
overslept himself; and thus incurred the danger of breaking his life
rule, of always beginning the day in the house of God, and in the words
which the ship captain once addressed to the prophet Jonah when he had
gone to sleep in the midst of all the turmoil of the storm, it called to
him, “What aileth thee, O sleeper? Arise, cry out unto thy God.” After a
minute’s hesitation conscience won the battle over comfort. Moses
hastily sprang from his couch, made his simple toilet as speedily as
possible, and in something less than twenty minutes was on his way to
the little synagogue (“place of prayer” was the unassuming name which
the worshippers themselves gave it) of the Congregation of the Sons of
Peace. While he is on his way thither, we will take occasion to describe
him to our readers; for many of them, no doubt, are at a loss to
understand what kind of a person he is, and particularly fail to
comprehend why he should be so dreadfully put out at the mere
possibility of being absent from prayers one morning, a thing which, I
am sure, would never disturb the majority of my worthy readers in their
mental tranquillity.
[Illustration:
HE WAS NOTHING BUT A COMMONPLACE, EVERY-DAY PEDDLER
_Page 131_]
Moses Levinsky was a very ordinary and insignificant individual, such as
you might pass a thousand times in the street and never pay any
attention to. He was nothing but a commonplace, every-day peddler who
wandered from morning to evening through the streets of the great
metropolis, with a huge basket suspended in front of him, filled to
overflowing with a miscellaneous assortment of goods—suspenders, shoe
laces, pins, needles, tape, handkerchiefs, stockings, and what not—and
endeavored to induce his fellow-beings to purchase sufficient of his
store to provide him with a meagre livelihood. He had straight and
regular features, of a rather handsome Semitic type, though worn and
furrowed, not so much by years—he was only forty-three—as by care and
anxiety; his hair and large irregular beard were black, heavily streaked
with gray, and his clothes and close-fitting derby hat were decidedly
shabby. All in all, he was not an imposing figure; and when we add to
the unimpressiveness of his exterior the fact that he had a nervous,
deprecatory manner, and looked around him with timid, apprehensive eyes,
and also that he was a very indifferent master of the vernacular, which
he spoke hesitatingly and with a pronounced Slavonic-Jewish accent, the
reader will at once realize that he was of the type which low comedians
love to caricature and street urchins to mock at, if not to treat worse.