In a little back room in a large tenement an old Jew lay dying; no one knew who he was or where he came from. That he had been very prompt in paying his rent the fifteen years he had lived there was all the housekeeper could say of him. He spoke to no one and never entered the other parts of the house. Only one little girl of the neighborhood had won his attention. often he would present her with a key from his stock and she would cherish it as if it were a real key to a great mysterious treasure. He would tell her many stories from the Talmud and other sacred books for his time was divided between fitting and setting keys and studying in the synagogue and she would open her gray eyes very wide and gasp in her effort to breathe in all she could not comprehend. And over his old, sorrow-worn face could be seen a spirit diffusing itself and changing his countenance, made malleable by adversity. He often wished that she were older, that she were all his own, so that he could filter his experience through this new growing life and endow her with the treasure of his rich and intense sorrow. Yet he had faith in her, else why should he have chosen her? And so he made her his companion and his confidant. At first she'd let the other children see her walking with him and boast of the gifts he gave her. But as she grew older, she was almost fifteen now, she hid the treasures of his gifts deep within her soul that no one might gain access to them. And her gray eyes grew clearer and deeper and her pale face paler and her listlessness more apparent. And now he lay dying. He was possessed of so much knowledge; he knew everything that no man dared to think of, and yet he never sold his knowledge nor made profit of his
wisdom. He lay dying and he laid his cold and worn hand upon the shoulder of his secret visitor. She shuddered. "There," he pointed to a scroll and she brought it to him. "Read," he commanded, and like one mesmerized she read.
"It was the eve of my great to-morrow. I already quivered with the anticipation of the hot breath of the woman to be mine to-morrow. To-morrow, too, I was to be proclaimed before all the world as Russia's greatest physician and scientist; to-morrow I was to assume the dignity as dean of the Peter Paul Medical Scholl and Hospital, and all this for the mere baptismal ceremony. I had long become indifferent to the prejudices against the cross. Now it was only a formality. It was not even a compromise, so meaningless had it become. And then, what access it would give me to all I dreamed of—nay, I never dared to dream of. Vision followed vision and stimulated me to excitement beyond control. I drew aside my curtain and looked out upon the living, swarming streets of St. Petersburg. For a moment I forgot myself as I stood watching the life outside. I only knew that before me was every manifestation of happiness and light, behind me a dark, deep chasm already passed. I was glad it was passed beyond recall and a momentary shudder at the memory of it shook my being. Yes, I was a hero to have passed it all, and now I could blow my triumphant bugle in the face of all superimposed fate—there is no fate—all lies in man's own will, all is of man's own making. I saw it all now, it all lay open before me, my first strong love for the inaccessible Talmud, my struggle through the seminary of the small Lithuanian town where I