Chapter I: Was Left Behind, Gazing Out of the Window at the (3)

Her tears, too, are quite remarkable. Indeed, I believe that horseradish tears have not been appreciated as they should be, for they are a species entirely _sui generis_, and not to be confused with any other tears that are shed on earth. Ordinary, every-day tears indicate sorrow and produce weakness; crocodile tears indicate hypocrisy and produce disgust; but horseradish tears are born of industry, and their offspring are energy and good-humor. Such, at least, is the case with our little horseradish woman; for, no sooner has she wiped away one of her periodical outbursts of tears, than she begins to rub away again with the utmost energy and the best humor in the world. My observation of the tears the horseradish woman sheds has made me their confirmed admirer. I have no liking for the lachrymose ebullitions of love-lorn maidens, of snivelling swains, or of wheezing or wheedling Pecksniffs. Give me horseradish tears; they are the honestest, cheerfullest—I had almost said—manliest tears in the world.

Our horseradish woman is known by various names. Some call her “the old Rebecca”; others, desiring to speak more formally or respectfully, refer to her as “old Mrs. Levy”; but the appellation by which she is most widely and popularly known is _das Meerrettich Weible_—the little horseradish woman. It makes no difference, however, by what designation she is known, she is popular under them all; for the little horseradish woman is liked. Some like her for her courage in toiling so constantly and industriously, and supporting herself at her advanced age; others like her because of her unfailing cheeriness and good-humor; others, again, because of her simple, trustful faith and earnest piety, for the little horseradish woman is more than usually religious, and is to be found in the synagogue, not only on Sabbaths and holidays, but also at the early morning and evening services on week-days, and is one of the most attentive listeners to the rabbi when he expounds the Sedrah on Sabbath mornings, or “learns Shiur” on Sabbath afternoons or week-day evenings.

It is a truly pleasing picture which the little horseradish woman presents when she stands at her post ready for business. Her regular and refined features, of the familiar Jewish type, are, it is true, worn and wrinkled, and the hair which peeps out from under the cloth band and the old-fashioned bonnet which surmount her head is whitened by the seventy or more winters which have passed over her; but the light of intelligence, of benevolence, and of pure and refined sentiments shines in her countenance and makes it singularly attractive. Her clothing is of the plainest. She wears a dress of some simple, dark material and over it a long, white apron; but no patch, tear, nor stain is visible anywhere, and we feel instinctively that we have before us a person who, though in humble, even lowly circumstances, is naturally and intrinsically refined.

But as yet we do not know the little horseradish woman. It is only upon entering into conversation with her that we really find out what she is, and a great surprise awaits us then. For this poor, little, old woman who stands upon the street in all weather and seasons, and toils so hard to earn a few cents by the sale of her commodity, comes of excellent family, has had, for her time, an exceptionally good training, and is, in some respects, a remarkably well-educated woman.

She was born as the daughter of a rabbi in a small provincial city of Germany, and her father, besides instilling into her soul the seeds of fervent Hebraic piety, saw to it that she received a thorough secular and religious training. As a consequence her manners are those of polite and well-bred circles, her German is pure and correct in grammar and pronunciation, and what is most surprising and pleasing to the Jewish scholar, she is acquainted with the entire Bible in the original Hebrew. The Book of Psalms she knows by heart and quotes with amazing fluency; and from her experience in her father’s house she has derived a large number of technical Talmudic phrases, which she uses in her conversation with entire correctness of expression and application.

And the most remarkable thing of all is the entire lack of self-consciousness on the part of the little horseradish woman. She is entirely unaware that there is anything out of the ordinary in her life, her characteristics, or her circumstances. She never comments upon the different conditions that prevail to-day, never boasts nor condemns, is simple, natural, and unaffected; a typical, humble, pious Jewish woman. Oh, that you might come, you artificial, affected daughters of an artificial, affected age, and learn simple refinement and natural dignity from this lowly sister of yours! The lesson is needed and would prove effective.

Last Saturday night, after the “going out” of the Sabbath, my wife and I also determined to go out for a stroll on Third Avenue. We often take these strolls, and enjoy them. My wife loves the excitement of the lights and the crowds, which make it doubly pleasant to meet an acquaintance or make an occasional purchase; and I am equally fond of studying human nature where it makes its most characteristic appearance, in the busy throngs of men. We had not seen the little horseradish woman for some time, for she had given up of late her habit of coming to our house with her wares, and her stand was not on any of the blocks we usually traversed.

That evening we extended our walk a little further than usual. As we neared —th Street, suddenly Mrs. —— exclaimed: “Look, there is the little horseradish woman!” Sure enough it was she, and we immediately went up to her.

While she was returning our greeting with great cordiality and friendliness, I noticed that she did not appear to be as well as usual. Her movements were lacking in their customary vivacity, and her face seemed thinner and paler than its wont.

“How are you getting on, Mrs. Levy?” I said, while she was filling a bag with our ordered portion of horseradish.

“_Boruch Hashem_, quite well,” she responded with a smile. “My friends are good and patronize me steadily, but I feel that I am growing older. I was quite ill the other day. I nearly fainted here on the street; but the people in the delicatessen store were very kind. They took me in and gave me cold water, and kept me there until I recovered; and I am feeling quite well now.”

While listening to her words, I thought to myself how hard her lot was; and I asked myself whether it really was necessary for her to stand on the street and earn her living in such a trying manner.

“My good Mrs. Levy,” I said, “don’t you think your life is too hard for you? Would you not rather go to some institution where you would be cared for?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” she responded. “I don’t wish to go to a home. I have a husband, although he is old and feeble, and good children who do what they can for me; and I am glad that I still can earn something myself. You know what King David says in the Psalms,” and she quoted glibly, “_Yegia keppecho ki sochel, ashrecho ve-tov-loch_” (“If thou eatest what thy hands earn, thou art happy, and it is well with thee”). “I eat what my hands earn, so I am happy.”

“Why don’t you come to our house any more?” broke in my wife.

“Oh,” answered the little horseradish woman, “I heard that another woman brings you your horseradish, and I did not wish to be _massig gevool_.”

Our package was now ready and we departed. But my thoughts gave me no rest. I was thinking continually of the little horseradish woman, and whether it was not possible to devise some means of improving her lot.

A few blocks down the avenue we met Mr. and Mrs. Bergheim. They are friends and neighbors of ours, and our greetings were cordial. I soon turned the conversation to that which was uppermost in my thoughts.

“You know the little horseradish woman, do you not?” I asked.

The Bergheims nodded assent.

“Don’t you think something could be done for her?” I continued. “It does seem wrong that such a worthy old person should be forced to stand on the street and toil so hard for a livelihood.”

The Bergheims smiled at each other peculiarly.

“What would you do for her?” asked Mr. Bergheim. “She is much too proud to accept charity; besides, she really does not need to work, as her children supply her with all she requires for herself and husband. Her horseradish receipts are so much extra income that she earns.”

I must confess that this reply rather staggered me. There appeared to be a mystery about the horseradish woman which was puzzling, to say the least.

“But why, in the name of common sense,” I demanded, “does such an old and not overstrong woman toil on the streets, in rain and shine, by day and by night, if she has all she requires and does not need to work? It doesn’t seem reasonable. She isn’t touched in her upper story, I hope?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” said Bergheim; “but you see, she has rather unusual and exalted notions about duty. Since the requirements of herself and husband are satisfied and she has some strength, she thinks it her duty to labor for the poor. Every cent she earns by selling horseradish she gives to the poor. It is quite an amount, for she has many customers; and quite a long list of widows and orphans and feeble old men who are regular pensioners on her charity.

“Every _Rosh Chodesh_ there is quite a gathering in her humble flat. All sorts of needy and afflicted persons, men, women, and children, crowd her rooms, and she divides among them, with the most kindly sympathy but with excellent judgment, all the money she has earned during the month. The blessings she gets are innumerable, and she considers herself well rewarded thereby for all her trouble.

“I found this out by accident, as she never says a word about it to any one. When I asked her why she went to all this trouble, she quoted a passage from the Pentateuch: ‘Verily, thou shalt not harden thy heart nor close thy hand against thy poor brother’; and in another from the Ethics of the Fathers, ‘The poor shall be the children of thy house,’ and said those were her reasons.

“That, my dear ——, is why you cannot do anything for the little horseradish woman, except to be her customer and patronize her liberally. She wants no charity, and will take no gifts for ‘her poor,’ whom she wishes to assist with her own earnings.”

So that was the explanation of the riddle. The little horseradish woman was emulating the work of the Master of the universe, was toiling early and late to feed His hungry ones, to dry the tears of His afflicted, to care for His poor. I was lost in admiration, both of the noble soul of this humble daughter of Israel and the sublime glory of Israel’s law, which put such thoughts into her soul.

I have made up my mind that the next time I see the little horseradish woman I shall pronounce over her the benediction which the rabbis ordain to be spoken at the sight of kings and queens, for she is a real queen, an uncrowned queen of mercy and love. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord, who hast given of Thy glory to flesh and blood.”

THE GENERAL.

I have distinguished company in my study this morning. No less a personage than Gen. Sergei Pavlowitz, late commander of the —th division of the regular Russian army, has paid your humble servant the honor of a visit, and is now seated in the rocking-chair opposite my desk. I must, however, ask my readers not to strain their imaginations unduly in summoning up before their mental vision a suitable picture of military pomp and splendor. The general is not in full uniform heavily braided and trimmed with gold lace, nor radiant with glittering epaulets and buttons. No plumed helmet surmounts his head; no clanking sabre swings at his side; he is neither gloved, booted, nor spurred. His appearance would not dazzle the onlooker, nor overawe the most timid; in fact, no one would, at first sight, think of connecting him in any way with marching hosts or warlike scenes. As he sits there in my rocking-chair, gazing at me with his mild blue eyes, upon his head a little black skull-cap, his long, snow-white beard flowing down upon the front of his shirt and his black broadcloth coat; in his hand a stout cane to assist the steps which age has made somewhat uncertain, while he descants upon a matter of purely synagogical interest, there is no suggestion about him of martial glory, no hint of the groan and agony and heroism of battle. He seems just a plain, every-day, elderly Russian Jew, diffident and retiring in worldly affairs, but bright enough in matters of Jewish concern, of Hebrew learning, and religious practice, such a man, in a word, as may be found in any of the orthodox synagogues throughout New York but particularly on the lower East Side, where the places of worship and solemn assembly of his brethren and countrymen most abound.

THERE IS SOMETHING COMMANDING, SOMETHING INDEFINITELY MILITARY AND
AUTHORITATIVE ABOUT HIM

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But now my visitor has concluded the business which brought him hither and rises to depart. Immediately one can notice a vast change in the impression he makes. He does seem different now from the ordinary so-called Ghetto type he appeared identical with a moment ago. There is something commanding, something indefinitely military and authoritative about him. Though feeble, he stands perfectly erect, and his figure and bearing are thoroughly military. Military, too, is the almost painful neatness which characterizes his attire, from his well-brushed hat and coat down to his brightly polished shoes, a far-off reminder, as it were, of the days when a dull button or a frayed coat sleeve meant disgrace and the guard-house; but most military of all is his right sleeve, for it hangs empty, with only a short stump filling the upper part near the shoulder, a mute reminder of bloody Sebastopol, where a British sabre cleft the arm to which it belonged in twain, and its owner hovered for many a day ’twixt life and death.

This is the General. Perhaps, strictly speaking, he does not deserve the title, for he long since was stricken from the Russian army list, and might even meet with condign punishment were he to return to his native land; but once he bore it with full right and authority, and no military shortcoming, no lack of loyalty or courage upon the battlefield was responsible for its forfeiture. It is, therefore, only natural that his friends and neighbors who know his history give him the title. So “the General” he is, and “the General” he will remain, until death calls him to his last long bivouac. What a tremendous change in state and fortune! Once a distinguished military commander, whose slightest behest thousands hastened to obey because of his heroism; beloved by his countrymen and honored by his emperor; the husband of a renowned general’s daughter, and with every prospect promising rapid advancement and eventually loftiest rank; now the humble denizen of an obscure street in the Jewish quarter of New York, his life in nowise different from that of the other long-bearded habitués of the synagogue and the Beth Hammidrash.

How came this Jew, son of a proscribed and pariah race, to attain to such distinguished rank in the service of the persecutors of his people? How came he to lose it, and to sink back again into the lowliness from which he sprang? It is a strange tale, showing what sombre romances, what heartrending tragedies Jewish life is still capable of producing in the empire of the Czars. I shall tell it you.

Some seventy years ago there lived in one of the western provinces of Russia a young couple. Israel Rabbinowitz was the husband’s name, and Malka Feige that of the spouse. They were a pious and worthy pair. The husband was a respected merchant, whose scrupulous honesty and commercial rectitude were no less esteemed than his unswerving religious fidelity, and the accuracy and extent of the Hebrew scholarship which he displayed in the Talmudic debates of the circle of “learners” in the Beth Hammidrash. Malka Feige was a worthy mate of such a husband. Kindhearted, unwearyingly industrious, and devout, she was a typical Jewish housewife.

They had but one child, a blue-eyed, fair-haired boy of eight, whom they loved with the passionate devotion of which parental hearts are capable when they have but one object upon which to concentrate their affection. He was literally the apple of their eyes. His father cared for his intellectual welfare, and provided the best and most highly esteemed _Melammedim_ to introduce him into the intricacies of the Jewish education of that time; and the lad, who had a bright and acute intellect, responded well to these efforts, and at eight was quite a little prodigy of Biblical and Talmudical learning. His mother, on the other hand, looked after his physical well-being, fed him on delicate food, clothed him in a _jubitza_ of extra fine material, brushed and combed his little _peoth_ until they shone, and set her pride upon making him finer and brighter in appearance than his comrades. Like Hannah of old, she had determined to dedicate her offspring to the Lord. Already in imagination she saw him seated upon the rabbi’s seat, greeted by the plaudits of admiring thousands; and so strong was her faith in that future for her son that she rarely called him by his given name, which was Saul Isaac, but always referred to him as “my little rabbi.” Thus the love, the hopes, the ambition of these parents were all wrapped up in this, their only son.

Troublous times were just beginning then for the descendants of Jacob living on Muscovite soil. Nicholas the First sat on the throne of the Czars; and, like so many of the Russian potentates before and after him, could find no more pressing task to perform than to convert his Hebrew subjects to Christianity. He had no respect for the conscientious scruples which kept the Jews faithful to their ancestral religion; he could not appreciate the heroism with which they endured every conceivable suffering and martyrdom rather than grow recreant to the allegiance plighted to their God. In his eyes they were only a mass of obdurate, stubborn, and pestiferous heretics, who refused to see the beauties and accept the salvation of Christianity. He thought and thought and cudgelled his brains to devise some scheme by which to overcome the endless resistance of Judaism to its own dissolution, and finally evolved a plan which for sheer deviltry and refinement of heartless brutality would have done credit to the blackest fiend in the legions of Satan; and this, too, in the name of the religion which claims love and tenderness as its own special prerogative, and calmly assumes all the progress of humanity and civilization as its doing.

His plan, in brief, was to separate the parents and the children. With the old Jews, he knew nothing could be done. They would go to the stake or the dungeon, and would not recant; but if, he reasoned, the young Jews could be removed from parental influence, could be caught, so to speak, before their characters were formed, and be placed in charge of priests or other Christian officials, they would be unable to resist, but would succumb to the powerful pressure brought to bear upon them and would become genuine Christians.

This fiendish plan he proceeded, with icy deliberation, to put into execution. What cared he for the cruelty or violent dissolution of natural relations, for the tears of terrified children, for the immeasurable woes and heart-breakings of bereaved parents. His tyrant’s view of statecraft approved the plan and other considerations had no weight. Then were legions of brutal emissaries sent into the provinces reserved for the habitation of the children of Jacob. Their conduct resembled that of brigands rather than of officers of the law. In numbers so great as to defy resistance, they would fall upon some unsuspecting Hebrew settlement, generally at dead of night; would burst into the houses, and with utter disregard of all considerations of justice or frenzied appeals for mercy, would tear the weeping and terror-stricken children from the arms of their screaming and frantically resisting parents, would throw them into the ready standing wagons and would carry them off, never more to return.

It would take the pen of a Dante and the brush of their own Verestchagin fitly to depict the awful scenes which occurred on the occasions of these visitations, the demoniacal brutality of the despot’s henchmen, the helpless terror of the childish victims, and the unutterable, paralyzed agony of the wretched fathers and mothers who saw their beloved ones dragged away to that which for them was worse than death, and could do nothing to save them from their fate.

The same fate befell our Saul Isaac. It was a cold midwinter night. The Rabbinowitz family were sleeping peacefully, all unsuspecting of evil. Suddenly the sound of powerful blows upon the door caused them to awake in terror. Too well they knew what those sounds meant, although there had been no report that the “_chappers_,” as they were called, were coming to their province. Hastily the agonized parents sought to find some place of concealment for their son. A second later the door fell beneath the shower of blows rained upon it, and several ruffianly looking men, dressed in uniform, burst into the room. Without showing any warrant or offering a word of explanation, they seized the shrinking lad. Roughly they thrust aside Israel, who would have protested, and flung off Malka Feige, who clung to them in a half-insane effort to rescue her boy. The lad himself they tossed into the wagon, into the midst of twenty or more other lads, who already cowered there, and drove off.

Let us draw a veil over the unutterable sorrows of that parent pair, thus foully deprived of the beloved of their souls. Heaven alone has power to right wrongs such as these, and to the mercy and justice of heaven we must commend them.

Let us follow Saul Isaac on the course which he was obliged to pursue. His experience was not at first different from that of thousands of others. He was taken to the convent of St. Sophia in the neighborhood of Moscow. There a thorough Russian and Christian education was given him, and every effort was made, by means of mingled kindness and severity, to induce him voluntarily to accept baptism, for even the perverted and tyrannical minds of his captors perceived that a compulsory administration of the rite could have no binding obligation upon the conscience. To be sure, their notions of voluntary action were rather remarkably casuistical. Severe beatings, periodical starvation, and longer or shorter terms of imprisonment were all considered legitimate forms of missionary effort with which to persuade the cantonists, as the abducted Hebrew children were called, of the superiority of Christianity to Judaism, and to induce them _voluntarily_ to accept it.

It is a glorious tribute to the power of Jewish teachings that most of these helpless victims, despite their tender years and pitiful condition, were by no means quick to yield to the maltreatment or blandishments of their masters. Most of them resisted for years; some never yielded.

Four years were required to bring our Saul Isaac into the frame of mind requisite for the acceptance of Christianity. At first he wept and wailed constantly and would touch no food except dry bread and water; and, young as he was, he refused to listen to the instruction of the Russian monks. But as the weeks rolled into months and the months into years, without seeing other than Gentile faces and without any word from his parents or any other Jews, gradually his recollections grew dimmer and his resolution weaker. Finally he no longer objected to the Christian instructions, and in his twelfth year he was baptized with great pomp and parade in the chapel of the monastery, receiving the name of Sergei Pavlowitz. From this time on his advancement was rapid. After three years of general education he decided to enter upon the military career, and in his fifteenth year he entered the Imperial Cadet School at St. Petersburg.

The memory of his parents had quite faded from his mind; or if the thought of them ever came to him, they seemed like ghostly figures of an unreal world, entirely devoid of actuality or connection with his present existence.

Sergei Pavlowitz was one of the most popular students at the Cadet School. His quick intellect, which had enabled him to comprehend the abstruse debates of the Talmud, stood him in good stead in mastering the details of military science, while his handsome figure in the neat Russian uniform and his polite and obliging ways were universally pleasing. In due course of time he graduated as a lieutenant of artillery.

His career in the army justified the expectations of his student years. He combined the two most requisite military qualities, high capacity and rigid fidelity to duty. He became in rapid succession a captain and then a colonel of artillery.

While holding the latter office he attracted the attention and then aroused the love of Olga, the beautiful daughter of General Wladimir de Mitkiewicz. Shortly afterward the General sent for him, and in due form and in the most flattering terms offered to make him his son-in-law. Such a distinguished honor could not be refused. To be sure, a momentary pang went through the heart of the young colonel; and the shadowy faces of his father and mother seemed to rise from the gloomy recesses of the past and gaze at him reproachfully, but these sensations were too dim and faint to have any effect. He accepted the offer of the venerable General, which was, indeed, a most complimentary one, and because of which he became the object of many congratulations and no little envy.

In the magnificent cathedral of Kurski-Kazan the nuptials of the dashing Colonel Pavlowitz and the beautiful and accomplished Olga de Mitkiewicz were consummated with all the gorgeous ceremonial of the Greek Church, and amidst an unprecedented display of wealth and luxury. The vast edifice was crowded with representatives of the noblest and finest families of the province, while the streets surrounding the cathedral were thronged with a vast multitude of the baser sort; and the personal interest and gratification which all displayed were quite extraordinary.

It cannot be denied that the striking attentions and adulations of which Colonel Pavlowitz became the recipient did almost turn his head. In no other country are honors so much appreciated as in Russia; and those he had received were quite exceptional, both in extent and in cordiality.

He was happy, very happy; happy in the possession of the radiant, beauteous creature he could now call his own, and from whose sparkling eyes love and devotion, ardent and sincere, shone forth; he was happy in the evident sympathy and admiration of all his associates, and he was happy in the consciousness that his future was secure and that he was destined to a brilliant and distinguished career. Very faint and dim, indeed, were now the images of the ghostly past, and they did not affect his actions in the slightest; but somehow or other they would not forsake him, and he often found himself wondering with a peevish sort of dissatisfaction and impatience, why they did not leave him to enjoy undisturbed the pleasures and honors of his present station.

Shortly after his marriage the Crimean war broke out. Russia was engaged in a titanic struggle with the Western Powers, and Colonel Pavlowitz was among those summoned to defend the fatherland. The parting from his young wife was marked by tears and sobs; but still he heard the summons to war with stern joy, for, like a true soldier, he longed to display in actual combat the qualities he had gained in theoretic instruction; and then he longed for action—intense, stirring action—to drive away the shadowy, reproachful faces which tortured him by their constant recurrence.

He was one of the commanders in charge of the defence of Sebastopol. He was personally engaged, and displayed the greatest gallantry in many of the desperate conflicts of that bloody campaign. At Balaklava he was in command of a part of the artillery, which received the world-renowned charge of the Light Brigade; and it was while fiercely beating off that attack that an unexpected blow of a British sabre took off his right arm near the shoulder.

For three months our hero lay in the hospital, the object of universal sympathy and interest, for the good-will which had been previously entertained toward him had been greatly heightened by the splendid bravery and skill he had displayed in the war and the cruel wound he had received.

The Emperor himself had sent several times to inquire concerning his condition, and the visits and inquiries of lesser personages were innumerable.

As soon as he was able to resume his active duties, the Emperor ordered a review of the entire army. It was a glittering spectacle, a sea of brilliant uniforms, shining bayonets, swords and cannons, interspersed with magnificent bands of music, an ocean of deeply interested onlookers. Our hero rode at the head of his regiment on a splendid black charger, his empty sleeve hanging useless at his right side. As he passed the grand stand where stood the Emperor and his brilliant retinue of officers and aides, His Majesty ordered the parade to halt. Then in the presence of the army and the serried throngs of spectators, the Emperor addressed him as follows:

“Gen. Sergei Pavlowitz, my good and faithful servitor. I have noticed the courage and devotion with which you have served in my army. It is always my wish fitly to reward virtue and fidelity, and I therefore appoint you to the command of the —th division of my regular army.”

Hardly had these words, which His Majesty pronounced in a loud and clear voice, been spoken, than the entire army, breaking for a moment through the restraints of discipline, and the vast throng of spectators, burst into enthusiastic hurrahs and cheered again and again the name of Sergei Pavlowitz. It was a glorious and inspiring moment.

Our hero flushed with pride and gratification; but, obedient to the rules of military etiquette, said no word, but merely saluted with profound reverence, and a second later the stern command rang forth and the host marched on.

Words cannot describe the exultation which now filled the soul of General Pavlowitz. He was fairly intoxicated with joy. Every ambition of his life seemed gratified, and with rapture he thought of the delight with which the news of his great advancement would fill the heart of his beloved Olga, who had visited him during his stay in the hospital, and had now returned to their home in Kursky Kazan.

AS THE CAVALCADE PASSED A CORNER THE GENERAL HEARD A CRY

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Little did he reck that a tremendous change was impending, that an event was about to occur which would recall with irresistible force the events of his early life and change the entire current of his military career. But so it was, and the climax of his military ambition was also destined to mark its sudden and complete end.

The parade had been dismissed. The spectators had dispersed, and the various regiments were marching back to their several barracks.

Accompanied only by his staff and a small escort of cavalry, General Pavlowitz was returning to his headquarters. Their road led through some of the old streets of the town. As the cavalcade passed a corner the General heard a cry. He alone of all the company noticed it, but there was something in it that thrilled and chilled him and filled his frame with violent agitation. It was a wailing, sobbing cry in a woman’s voice, and its burden was made up of a few words, oft-repeated, in the Russo-Jewish dialect: “Oh, woe is me, my little rabbi, my Saul Isaac! oh, woe is me, my little rabbi, my little rabbi!” General Pavlowitz heard the cry and understood the words. Though for more than twenty years he had heard and spoken only Russian, yet those words came to him as the far-off echoes of his own past, intelligible, familiar, sweet, and unutterably sad. Like a flash there rolled away the many years of Russian, Christian, and military training, and he saw himself again in the happy days of his childhood, a little innocent Jewish boy, proudly reciting his week’s lesson before a circle of admiring neighbors, while father and mother beamed with satisfaction. Then, again, the memory of the awful night when he was snatched from them, and he quivered again with fresh horror and indignation. Turning his head as his horse trotted on, he saw, standing at the corner an elderly Jewish couple, gazing after him, with tears streaming from their eyes and an expression of intensest anguish upon their faces, the woman wailing and sobbing as in frenzy. He knew them at once. They were his father and mother. His resolution was instantly formed. His parents and he should meet. Hastily summoning a subaltern, who like himself was a baptized Jew, he bade him leave the ranks unobserved, go back to the old couple and inform them that the General would see them that evening at a certain quiet hotel of the town.

Faithfully the subaltern fulfilled his chief’s commission, ignorant, of course, of the reasons thereof, but with his soul filled with an indefinable sympathy with its object, which instinctively he felt was noble. Quietly he dropped behind the troop, and in a few hastily spoken words communicated to the aged couple the wish of the General, whereupon he put spurs to his horse and speedily rejoined his companions, none of whom had observed his action.

That evening a young man in civilian attire inquired at the office of 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.