The Strand Magazine.
The Story of my Life.
By Father Gapon.
We here begin a series of articles which may, without exaggeration, be described as of unrivalled interest—of interest not only to those who would gain an insight otherwise quite unobtainable into the secrets of the Russian Revolutionary movement, but to those who care only to follow, in the story of the poor peasant's son who rose to be the Robespierre of Russia, a romance of real life more strange and more absorbing than the invention of any novelist. The story, beginning with his earliest years, and increasing in interest as it proceeds, tells how he rose from the peasant rank; how, as a priest, he joined the Revolution; how he became the leader of the great strike which culminated in the tragic events which thrilled the world with horror; how he escaped from Russia under the very eyes of the police; and, finally, what he anticipates will be the future of the Russian Revolution, in which he has been, and will again be, one of the most conspicuous figures in the history of man's fight for liberty.
Such will be the unique narrative which, fully illustrated with photographs, will appear in our pages during the following months.
Chapter I.
The Stricken Giant: An Allegory.
had a dream. A pack of ravenous hounds, of various breeds and sizes, was mercilessly attacking a giant form that lay prone and insensible in the mud, while their keeper stood by eagerly watching and directing the attack. The hounds were burying their teeth in the giant's flesh. His miserable garb was torn to shreds. Every moment they beset him more closely. They were already beginning to lick his warm blood. A flight of crows circled above, hovering lower and lower toward the expected prey.
And now a wonderful thing happened. From the drops of blood trickling from the great frame of the giant, on which the warm sunlight played, I saw strong-winged eagles and keen-eyed falcons spring up and soar into the air, and these birds at once sought to protect the giant, to arouse him by their cries to resistance, and to encourage him to rise with all his strength against his enemies.
For a long time the giant lay in a stupor. At length he uttered a groan, half opened his eyes, listening, not yet quite awake, not realizing what was going on, and annoyed by the shrieks of the birds that would not let him sleep longer and that were now engaged in a deadly fight with the dogs and crows. It was a bloody, merciless, and unequal struggle. The giant still could not fully realize which were his friends and which his enemies.
At length he became fully conscious, stretched his limbs, and stood erect in the immensity of his stature. Then, empty-handed and in rags as he was, he turned upon the pack of bloodhounds and their cruel keeper.
The keeper uttered a shrill whistle, and in answer a new figure appeared upon the scene. A soldier, well armed and drilled to obey such a command, fired at the giant's broad and defenceless figure. At a further command he rushed forward with his bayonet. The giant, grievously hurt, staggered, but seized the weapon with his powerful hand and flung it far away. The next moment, however, looking at his assailant, his lips quivered, his gaze became dim. Overpowered for a moment by grief, he covered his face with his hand and stood, the very picture of anguish. In the soldier he had recognised his own son, flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone, deceived, fooled, and now hypnotized into parricide.
The pause was not a long one. The giant remembered that he had another son, a humble but faithful tiller of the soil. He would not abuse his father. No; but where was he? Why did he not come to the rescue? The giant looked round and saw in the distance his other child, a burly, powerful, good-natured figure, handsome in his simplicity, but fettered and chained to the
