Val Sinestra

Front matter

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COPXRIGHT DEPOSm

Va.,

Book I

“The lives of men and women are pictures thrown uponthe screen of Time.

The Past—its misty perspective, its legendary charm;. Truth veiled in Fiction.”

BOOK I 1

ABOUT twenty-five years ago, Pedro Gonzola j \ bought that handsome brown stone residence at the corner of Twelfth Street and Fifth Avenue, and presented it to his bride on their wed¬ ding day. As the name implied, they were of Spanish origin, and known as devout Catholics, sup¬ porting the Church spiritually and materially.

Shortly before Julie was born, her father died suddenly, stricken down with heart failure. The young widow was stunned by the loss of her hand¬ some adoring husband; her uncontrollable grief nearly cost her the life of her coming child, who suf¬ fered from her mother’s anguish—at least that’s what the good Dr. McClaren said.

After her great misfortune Mrs. Gonzola gave up the world and devoted herself to her religion and the care of her little daughter. Julie was sent to the Convent of the Sacred Heart In Seventeenth Street. The Sisters educated her under the personal super¬ vision of her mother; their reports were satisfac- 1 tory; “the child was docile and receptive, but inclined to emotional exaggeration; she would re¬ main in the chapel long after the other children had left, and once they found her prostrate before the Virgin in a state of ecstatic self-oblivion, which ended in a fit of hysteria. There was no cause for worry, as otherwise she was “full of life” and a general favorite. Mrs. Gonzola tried conscien¬ tiously to impress her daughter with the dignity of her wealth, social position, and family distinction; but as the girl grew into a woman, there was an ever-present irritating sense of failure.

Julie Gonzola at sixteen, with her brilliant exotic beauty, was a mystery to her friends, her mother, herself. She was acutely conscious of strange emo¬ tions, which she instinctively concealed; hers was a nature of unexpected impulses, tragic possibilities, baffling secrets. She came of an old stock on her father’s side, and on her mother’s she could look down a long corridor, where she saw shadowy forms, which frightened her. She was different from her girl friend, who was care-free, bubbling, sparkling, dashing along like a brook which over¬ flows its bounds out of sheer rapture.

Maud Ailsworth lived down the street. There were no complications in her life. She ruled her mother, who was an invalid, and physically her in¬ ferior. Maud romped all day long in the street with the boys. Mrs. Gonzola never allowed Julie to do that; she was very indulgent in her way, denying the girl nothing—^but freedom. Julie was out¬ wardly submissive; she was sorry for her mother, who sat alone in her room crying, silent iron tears of impotent despair.

There were two boys in the street whom Maud liked; as she grew older she determined to marry one of them, but she found to her great disappoint¬ ment they were both hot after Julie. Floyd Garri¬ son, a pretty boy of an old American family, was very well brought up; Martin Steele was a mongrel, a brute, a ruffian, but there was something very likable about him. Maud looked on, watched them wrestling for the privilege of carrying Julie’s books when she came from school, with her maid. There were fist fights for her as children, rivalry as youths, and bitterness as men. But Maud wasn’t discour¬ aged; Julie couldn’t marry both of them; there would be always one left for her. Then she had Tom Dillon in reserve; he was common, but she owned him; he was her slave.

Julie was afraid of Martin Steele; he had bad manners and a violent temper. He was always mussing up her hair, and winding her curls around his fingers. Floyd was too polite to do that. There was a party at Maud Ailsworth’s; Tom Dillon, that mischievous imp, put out the lights. The boy next to Julie kissed her, pressing her to him with terrible force; it was Martin. After that, he kissed her whenever he found her alone, and he managed it often. She liked his hot unboyish kisses.

The Garrisons had lived four generations In a little wooden house In East Twelfth Street, “a very pretty shanty” Martin called It, set back, with a garden, and a wooden fence to protect the lawn and flowers from passing vandals.

A portrait of the ancestor who founded the family fortune hangs today in our Museum. “Yan Geritsen, baker,” endowed with business sagacity, bought land under water in New Amsterdam for “thirty cents,” left it to his son, with orders not to sell. Succeeding generations drained and developed it. The name smelt of newly baked bread; it grad¬ ually evolved itself into Garrison. They were one of the fast disappearing families, who remained as they began—modest and thankful. They brought up their son with a sense of responsibility, as trustee for the coming son. There were no girls as far back as could be remembered; each family branch had one son. Floyd’s father, “Jimmy” Garrison, married a school marm. He became acquainted with her in Boston. She was very poor, but de¬ scended from the Aldens. Prudence Alden was a pale silent girl with a hidden fountain of irrepressi¬ ble love In all Its rare purity. Young Garrison’s friends couldn’t see, what he saw in her.

Garrison had never been In business; he disliked the everlasting talk about money which was rapidly becoming God under the title of the “Almighty”

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dollar. He had many acquaintances and one faith¬ ful friend, Colonel Garland, a Southern gentleman^ who had made a reputation “up North” as a cor¬ poration lawyer, when trusts were springing up over night like toadstools. The Colonel retained his sombrero, his soft accent, his passionate devotion to a few friends, and many women. When Jimmy Garrison put the administration of his estate into Colonel Garland’s hands, it was intact, just as hi^ father had left it.

“Let us pull down those old hulks and build upj warehouses,” said the Colonel. Garrison refused to consider that.

“The estate was not bought yesterday, for specu¬ lation. It has always brought us enough to live on modestly, and something over; if I get four peU cent., I’m well satisfied.”

In time, modern buildings were erected on both sides of the Garrison “hulks,” which, although kept clean and in repair, had to be rented below the market value. Conservative policy has its good side; many went under in the frenzy of over-build¬ ing. In such a young country the cult of silence,^ material rest, creative thought were as yet unknown | the man who did not create capital was considered an idler; Garrison continued to the end of his peace¬ ful, worryless life, a gentleman.

The first realization of pain was the sudden death of his beloved Prudence; he had to live for his boy and looked about, seeking a sustaining force.

He rigged up a workshop in the top of his house, and took to modeling figures, which were very well done—every-day people he had known, the little Italian shoe boy, the newspaper woman, his friends, idealized of course, his wife in every mood, his boy. He was particularly successful with a smiling old Irishman, a pipe In his mouth, a hod on his shoulder, standing at the foot of a ladder looking upward. He called that figure “the Ancestor,” which title was a secret source of amusement to him, although he was too good-natured to say whose ancestor.

When asked the Inevitable question,

“What business are you In, Mr. Garrison?”

Garrison would answer gravely,

“I muddle in clay.”

The Steeles lived next door to the Garrisons in an ugly high-stoop, four-story brick mansion, which threw a dark shadow on one side of the little garden, necessitating Garrison to move his flower¬ beds away.

Martin was five years older than Floyd and twenty years more experienced. He loved Floyd in his way, but love was not an element of his nature. Floyd looked up to him, as a little boy would to an elder one who condescended to be his friend; he was sorry for Martin because Mrs. Steele was only his stepmother, that was what was wrong with him—he never had a “real” mother. Mrs. Steele was born Dolly Winthrop of Boston; she was very tall, very thin, very straight, with small transparent ears lying flat against her head. The only large thing about her was her flow of language—that was tremendous. Mrs. Steele’s “family tree” reposed on the parlor table in a red velvet album—“reposed” is a very inappropriate word, for she never gave the poor thing any rest. She was constantly turning over its pages, adding, multiplying, never subtracting, until it fell quite to pieces, but she convinced the old New Yorkers of her right to be one of them.

The “exclusives” of Massachusetts never forgave Dolly Winthrop’s marriage with “that Steele man” who was fat, florid, wordless, and a widower with a child. There were still spots in the Union where pedigree and culture were of more value than “money”; but Dolly Winthrop had made her calcu¬ lation and it turned out a good bargain. Her hus¬ band and his father devoted all their time to business; they accumulated great wealth, and were not perceptible in her richly woven society tapestry. There was one she couldn’t wipe out—that terrible boy Martin. She tried honestly to make something of him, but he was not to be moulded. She took him to her summer home in Nantucket. The Winthrop Homestead had ship-lamps, a model of the May¬ flower, clocks that struck “bells”—numbered hours were disdained; there were also stuffed seagulls which Martin set up as skittles, and a tottering old sailor who took care of the garden and gave the necessary atmosphere. Aunt Priscilla, Mrs. Steele’s maiden sister, lived there all the year. In Nan¬ tucket, Martin’s capacity of hatred found fertile soil for expansion; he hated the ocean; its unceasing roar fretted him; he thought of a big sea monster in chains, writhing, howling, foaming at the mouth. He hated Aunt Priscilla, who was Calvinist, Puri¬ tan, Patriot, anti-everything else. She took unusual pains to enlighten the “little savage” about the dis¬ tinguished pedigree of his stepmother’s family. One day she read to him for three hours, in her correct English “twang,” the history of those good old Colonial times, when her direct ancestor was a Judge in Salem. The boy’s eyes took on a glitter which meant mischief.

“I’d like to be a Judge in them times.”

“You mean, you’d like to have been a Judge in those times,” corrected Aunt Priscilla.

“Have been,” mumbled the boy.

Aunt Priscilla was delighted; at last she had awakened the pride of ancestry in that little soul.

“Now tell me, dear, what would you have done if you had been a Judge in Salem.”

“I’d burn you.”

One day Floyd found out there was a mystery on the top floor of the Steele house; it was Martin’s fourteenth birthday. He invited Floyd to ice-cream and cake. “Julie Gonzola was coming.” There was plenty to cat, but Floyd lost his appetite looking at little Julie sitting up on a high chair with all the best things piled before her. She let Martin pile them, but she didn’t touch them—she couldn’t, in a strange house.

Toward evening the maid came to take her home. The two boys stood at the window as she went past enveloped in white furs, her little feet stepping out firmly, her head erect.

Martin’s eyes snapped.

“I’m going to marry Julie.”

“Not if I know it.”

Martin turned and swept the boy with a cold dis¬ dain terrible in one so young. It hurt Floyd; he remembered that look, years after. He said noth¬ ing, but turned to go.

Martin stopped him.

“Stay with me; I’m lonesome.”

There was a touch of pathos in his voice.

“Come, I’ll show you some family relics.”

He led the way to the garret, four stories high; it was filled with old furniture, spinning wheels, oil paintings—some wretchedly bad, others fairly good, all with heavy gold frames; every piece was ticketed with a name and date, in the different generations of the family.

Then Martin became confidential.

“I’ll tell you something, but don’t mention it to my mother. These things are all fakes; she haunts the auction sales, she’s a good judge—she knows what fits in, she’s got a whole lot more in storage. We’re going to move away from here.”

Floyd got a chill.

“What! You were born here I You will never leave your home?”

Martin’s mocking laugh rang out.

“Oh, you’re too sentimental. She’s not going to sell the house; that wouldn’t look well. She’s going to fill it with our ‘family’ antiques, and donate it to the city as an ‘Art Museum.’ ”

Floyd was struck silent as usual by Martin’s ter¬ rible lack of heart.

“What’s that?”

“What?”

“Somebody singing.”

Martin looked troubled.

“Nonsense, there’s nobody up here. Let’s go down.”

He drew Floyd into the hall; there was a door opposite.

It was somebody singing—a man’s voice, broken, harsh, rising, and falling in a strange inflection.

Martin, with a look of fear mingled with shame, tried to draw Floyd downstairs. A heavy fist on the door pushed it open. A man of gigantic stature rushed out. At first glance, Floyd saw only a pair of wonderful mocking eyes—Martin’s eyes; there was a strange light in them. The man was mad.

Martin sprang at him, tried to push him back into the room. He was too strong for the boy. Then Martin coaxed him. Was that Martin’s voice, so loving, so sweet? He spoke in a foreign tongue, strange to Floyd. The old man looked curiously at Floyd, then said “Grutsie” and bowed respectfully. He learnt afterwards “Grutsie” was Swiss dialect for “I greet you.”

The man had huge hands, knotty, sun-dried; the open flannel shirt revealed a chest covered with thick hair. He had an enormous head, and a thick white mane falling over his eyes. He wore corduroy trousers to the knees and a pair of high deerskin boots with heavy nails in the soles. He paced un¬ ceasingly. The floor was covered with indentures. Martin shut the door carefully, took down a harness with bells which hung on the wall, threw it over the old man’s head, cracking a heavy whip, yelling at the top of his voice, lashing him with sharp quick blows. The old man growled like a beaten beast; the whip hurt him; the young devil was strong; in the sensual intoxication of brute force, they forgot the horrified boy looking on.

The door was flung open. Mrs. Steele stood there, deathly pale.

“Stop that noise, you’ll rouse the neighbors; how dare you bring Floyd up here?” She grasped Mar¬ tin’s hand, pushing him toward the door.

The old man slunk into a corner; he was evi¬ dently afraid of her.

“Let me go I” roared Martin.

“I won’t. You’ll be punished for this.” Then a struggle followed; Floyd never forgot it. She held him with her small strong hands; he bit them. She struck him across the mouth; he kicked her. She cried out with pain, but she held him fast. Floyd, with a terrified cry, rushed down the stairs and out of the house.

Mr. Garrison was working at his clay figures, thinking how much Floyd was growing like his mother; he had her sensitive, ideal nature. The boy’s love for Julie might be a great blessing; it might be the contrary. . . . He would like to live long enough to see that beautiful little girl a woman.

Floyd broke into the room, sobbing out what he had seen. Mr. Garrison quieted him, and told him the story of the Steele family, as he had it from his friend. Colonel Garland.

The old man in the garret was Martin’s grand¬ father, a Swiss peasant, who had come to America in the steerage, with his boy, a child of four. He obtained a position as waiter in a downtown cafe, and the boy grew up in the streets. In ten years the father was head waiter in a Fifth Avenue hotel, frequented by Wall Street men. He never spoke more than a waiter’s English. His boy came out of school with a correct knowledge of grammar, but was silent, uncouth, unfriendly. Waiting for his father one night, in the kitchen of the hotel, he noticed one of the dishwashers, a very young blonde girl, crying bitterly. He questioned her; she told him she was Swiss, like himself, that she had been in America a short time, and was very unhappy. He comforted her. When it became no longer pos¬ sible to conceal her condition, he married her; this was a bitter blow to the old waiter, who had, in those twenty years of deprivation, saved one hun¬ dred thousand dollars, and wanted to make a gentle¬ man out of his son. Fate favored him. The girl died giving birth to a boy. The doctors could not understand the case; she was a very strong, healthy peasant; but Martin in a burst of anguish insisted she had died of homesickness.

Mr. Garrison explained to Floyd the word “nostalgia,” originating with the Swiss, which meant their longing for their native soil when absent; the pain is intolerable, ending often in death. Floyd was very sorry for the poor peasant mother.

“Then what happened?”

“The old man started in the hotel supply busi¬ ness; he rented one of my shanties on the river front. The firm is still there. I used to see old Steele walking up and down before that sign on the door. ‘Martin Steele and Son.’ I could never make friends with young Steele; he was sullen, wordless, and seemed to be out of his element. Then they bought the house next door and lived there a soli¬ tary life. Your mother was sorry for lonely little

Martin, and had him often in here to play with you. When Dolly Winthrop came from Boston to visit us, we saw she had her eye on the rich widower.’*

‘‘And she got him,” said Floyd.

“Yes, unfortunately for him.”

“And what happened then, father?”

“She dominated those poor men with her culture, shamed them with her pedigree, crushed them with her contempt. The old man fell into bad habits, drank to excess. His mind failed; people spoke of an illiterate grandfather in the house, but visitors never saw him.” . . .

After that episode in the garret, Mrs. Steele’s patience with the boy gave out. She insisted on send¬ ing him to a strict military school. He’d come home in the summertime when she was in Nantucket, and prowl about the city during the long evenings. In Twelfth Street, seemingly deserted, he’d run up and down stoops, pulling bells; then the “spring rollers” would fly up, and he’d count the genteel poor who were sweltering in New York; when he grew too old for such pranks, he would spend his evenings in the garret watching his father and grandfather playing a strange game of cards called “Tarac” and listen¬ ing to their jargon. He learnt the game and the jargon, with great rapidity.

His father, who was always afraid of troubling his wife, died suddenly at his desk; then the old man’s mind bolted.

Mrs. Steele in a burst of confidence said one day to Mr. Garrison:

“It may be very wicked of me, but I pray to God not to let him live long.” Her prayer was an¬ swered; unrighteous prayers usually are. After that, Mrs. Steele closed the house and went to live in. Boston; later she sent Martin to Harvard. Floyd wrote him several times, but his letters were not an¬ swered; it was many years before the two boys met again.

Floyd didn’t go to college—his father couldn’t spare him, but he gave him a good classical educa¬ tion, under the best professors. Mr. Garrison wasn’t training his son for business; he wanted him to be a man of culture. They took long walks Inta the countr)% with Emerson, Hawthorne, Longfellow for companions. Thoreau was revolutionary, a dis¬ jointed mind. The historical novels then in vogue were read and reread, also foreign literature. Realism, Nihilism, and all the other isms were looked into and studied as the result of “unhealthy” European conditions. Mr. Garrison moulded his son in good clay.

Sunday was the happiest day in the week for Floyd. He would slip out of the little Dutch Re¬ form church around the corner, restless when the pastor strung out his sermon fearing he should miss Julie, who went to the Cathedral. Lately, he was fortunate to find her there without her mother.

Good Friday,—the Cathedral draped in black. The sorrow-laden music, the odor of incense gave him a sensuous feeling of emotion. Julie came down the aisle, her prayer book pressed against her heart, her eyes seeking things beyond this world. It seemed to the impressionable youth a desecration to ‘‘bring her back.”

He looked at the sad faces and bowed heads.

“It’s wonderful after so many centuries, this sense of personal loss in the people; life would be unbearable without the Easter joy, the lilies, the Resurrection.”

His words sounded poetical to him as he spoke; he was very young. Julie smiled; she seemed less divine out in the sunlight.

“I don’t feel that way, but Mother is ill and in¬ sists on my going; an empty pew doesn’t look well.”

Floyd was shocked. He had read in the “great” writers those traditional truisms we repeat mechani¬ cally. “The woman’s emotional nature endows her with the gift of Faith; she has held aloft the Banner of Religion In the great struggle against skepticism.”

They walked down Fifth Avenue. There was an expression he had never seen in Julie’s calm face, an indefinable something, as If she had pulled down a veil over her eyes. Before her house, she didn’t give him her hand as usual. She was looking ex¬ pectantly at the upper windows; he followed her gaze. She waved her hand, smilingly; there was a face looking out; the light made it transparent like yellow wax. In a moment it was gone.

“Who was that?’’

“My grandfather.”

“Why haven’t I seen him before?”

“He doesn’t come down-stairs.”

“Is he ill?”

“No. I’ve wanted to tell you for some time, but Mother said it was nobody’s business.”

Floyd was hurt.

“Anything that concerns you is of vital interest to me. You know that, don’t you, Julie?”

“Yes, I know it.”

She braced her shoulders, looking him straight in the face; she was very proud. He liked that; most girls held themselves too cheaply.

“My grandfather doesn’t come down because he disapproves of the way we live. He says we have sold our souls.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“We are Jews. You needn’t come here again.” She went quickly up the steps and entered the house without looking back.

Floyd walked down the street towards his house. He was terribly excited; socially, he had never known any Jews. He had seen some dark fellows who were wonders at mathematics and chess; boys of their creed were limited in numbers In the col¬ leges, kept out of social clubs, but somehow they managed to filter through everywhere. What did it mean? How could the Gonzolas be Jews? They were Catholics.

A young man came towards him, of striking ap¬ pearance, with a touch of something about him net American. He put out his hand laughingly to Floyd. It was Martin.

“You’ve done with me?”

“You deserve it. Why didn’t you answer my letters?”

“Oh! I had no time; they kept my nose to the grindstone. I walked off with the prizes just to spite Aunt Priscilla. Mother is very proud of me; she calls me ‘my son’ now.” There was the old mocking glitter in his eye; he had not changed.

“Don’t be angry with me.” He took Floyd’s arm. Martin could be very winning when he wanted to. “You’ve grown Into a fine, handsome fellow, with the unmistakable brand of the aristocrat; strong with the women, eh?”

“I don’t know.”

“As gone as ever on Julie?”

“More than ever.”

Then Floyd shot out a question.

“Do you know the history of the Gonzolas?”

Martin’s answer came back as quickly.

“Yes, they are baptized Jews.”

A red streak flushed Floyd’s forehead.

“Tell me about them.”

Martin leaned against the gate, revelling in Floyd’s agitation.

“The Gonzolas go back to the time when the Church in Spain commenced war on the Jews; thou¬ sands of them were baptized, but they still practiced their religion in secret. Romantic, isn’t it?”

“No; terrible.”

“Many of the Catholic Gonzolas became Bishops, Cardinals, and high state officials on account of their wealth and culture, but others, true to their Faith, fled to Amsterdam, where they founded the great banking house which spread its branches all over Europe. Julie’s grandfather was a handsome, dash¬ ing fellow. He married in the family—they all do —but he had an affair with an Austrian actress which lasted for years. Their son was brought up in the religion of his mother who became pious with age and as expiation, dedicated him to the Church. She died before he was ordained, and Gonzola, nat¬ urally opposed, easily persuaded the boy against it —and sent him to America where he took the family name. The bank he founded here was successful; he became very rich. This bastard was Julie’s father.”

“But they are Catholics, not Jews,” insisted Floyd.

“That’s the joke of It,” laughed Martin. “An ironic witticism, an impish trick of Fate. Pedro came with letters from his father, to an old friend, Joseph Abravanel, an orthodox Jew, a fanatic, of Spanish origin with infernal pride of race. He boasts his ancestors provided money to help Columbus fit out his ship. Pedro fell desperately in love with Ruth Abravanel; those Spanish Jewesses are handsome, but most of them are old maids, because they won’t marry the Germans whom they look down upon.”

“That old man I saw today at the window?”

“Is Joseph Abravanel, Mrs. Gonzola’s father.”

“But how did you know all this?”

“IVe heard it scores of times from Julie. The crossing of the races interests me; IVe got my own ideas about that. I’m waiting to see how it comes out.”

“It’s shocking for people to change their re¬ ligion.”

Martin laughed a bit too loud, Floyd thought.

“What’s the difference? Who believes in it any¬ how; do you?”

Floyd evaded a direct answer.

“We practice many things out of respect for our parents and our social position.” He was undeni¬ ably well brought up.

“There’s one thing I like about Julie,” said Mar¬ tin. “In spite of everything, she remains a true daughter of her race. I like in her the sensuousness of the Oriental; oh, I don’t mean sexness—that may also be there latent; I hope it is. I see in her the Shulamite maiden who gets up from her couch at night and goes to seek her lover.”

“What do you know about Julie? You’ve been away so long.”

‘‘IVe been a week in New York.”

Floyd was angry, injured. “Perhaps you’ve been writing to her all this time.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“I suppose she was very glad to see you.”

“I don’t know. I was mad to see her. I couldn’t wait; I went straight there.”

There was a look of passion in Martin’s face. Floyd hated him. He turned and entered the gate. Martin was at his elbow.

“Pm coming In to see your father.”

At dinner Martin kept up a fire of witty criti¬ cisms. Floyd was silent, preoccupied.

“Your house has been shut up for some time. Where is your mother?”

“In Nantucket. She loves the shores where her ancestors landed. In sailing vessels.”

“Your mother’s pride of nationality Is quite nat¬ ural; I also feel It.”

“You don’t parade it. My mother makes capital out of It.”

“But,” Insisted Mr. Garrison, “you are an Ameri¬ can ; you were born here; you know no other home. English Is your mother tongue.”

“Yes, but race Is stronger than language. My people were Swiss peasants. I may look and speak like a gentleman, but sometimes the lout In me Is hard to suppress.”

There was a silence. Mr. Garrison changed the subject

“Are you going into your father’s business?”

“No—I’d smash it with my mad notions.” Then he flashed a bright look. “I’ve been daubing In oil; it’s the only thing that interests me. I shall go to Paris to study, if I live.”

Mr. Garrison was all animation. “That’s very good news. You will live; you’re young, strong.”

“Who knows—^America is going into the whole¬ sale slaughter business. She needs butchers.”

“You mean—”

“I think we’ll be pushed Into the War.”

Floyd was all attention. He spoke with a thrill in his voice.

“If it comes, we Americans will not be wanting in patriotism.”

Martin didn’t seem to feel the insinuation.

“Patriotism, bah! Who cares? We’ll have to go; if we don’t, they’ll shoot us.”

Mr. Garrison was sitting with his head In his hands. Floyd arose and went to him. He had been falling for some time, complained of dizziness. Dr. McClaren couldn’t discover any organic trouble. Floyd, who watched every change of expression, saw him grow pale.

“Father—^you don’t feel well.”

“Oh yes!—but I think I’ll go and rest awhile.”

He rose from the chair, staggered; Martin caught him, carried him up, and laid him on the bed.

Floyd bent over his father, frantically begging him to speak. The stricken man raised his hand In a mute blessing, then closed his eyes.