Just a Cablegram.
T has been remarked, with some jus- ’ tihcation, that it was difficult to understand Kowner. He had a bril- lant mental capacity, all agreed as to that fact; indeed, sometimes a chance word proved that this quiet man had sounded unknown depths of thought. Few knew him really intimately, though club bonhommie suggested the contrary. Now and then he would invite a few men to his own diggings, where, amid oriental curiosities, he would concoct strange drinks; and on a chafıng dish or on a grill would cook curious mixtures. Then he was quite epicurean in his talks, and would vow to open a restaurant, where each day of the week the menu would be varied according to the gastronomic art practiced by different nations; so that one could really be German, French, Turkish or Spanish one day in every two weeks. If, as more often than not, you found a volume of Zola or Paul de Koch on top of a folio of the Talmud, Kowner would inform you that he always read such works together, because in this way he could prove to himself that the old’ book was not old for the new book contained nothing new, Whenever he put a turban or a fez on, and lit his narghile, you knew that he was somewhat closely related to the brooding, unchanging East —that he at least had some Oriental gift which separated him from his surroundings ; though ordinarily, no man seemed more part of his environment than he. His race pride was an all powerful stimulant to him; and his life was devoted to the succor of his people. But except by a flash of thought, he never mentioned the Quixotic purpose to which he was devoted; and in the hurly burly of ten
years agitation, he had never once really come to the front. And it is said that, having accomplished one of the greatest feats of modern diplomacy, he, standing in front of the Titus arch in Rome, that record of Jewish suffering, vowed himself by one word, "Silence."
He had inherited a modest competency, and lived on it, thoroughly. There was nothing of the ascetic about Kowner. He had travelled and seen every capital and historic city; and had found that love and money, speaking a common language in all tongues, were apt to be confounded. Having the means to satisfy his own wants, he never even paused to think of money or money getting. As for love, since he was a reserved man, no one knew very much of that side of his multiplex existence; but he had been heard to say: "Men whose aims are impersonal should not hamper themselves with wives." Haftel, who knew him best, declared that there was, after all, somewhere something of the effeminate in his nature, some soft spot which he guarded with all his masculine powers, for he was no woman hater, though he had offered at a club debate, this somewhat cumbersome definition: "Woman—a creature that sees all life and all living forces, as so many streams running from the confluence of her own ego." Once he shocked a great divine by expressing a belief in luck, adding, "Equip for it all your life and recognize opportunity when it comes along." Outwardly you noticed no such assiduity in himself; any great public issue would bring him off the perch on which he was writing his book on the philosophic content of history.
In his room, with the Turkish hang-