CHAPTER II

RAPHAEL LEON

When the gentlemen joined the ladies, Raphael instinctively returned

to his companion of the dinner-table. She had been singularly silent

during the meal, but her manner had attracted him. Over his black

coffee and cigarette, it struck him that she might have been unwell,

and that he had been insufficiently attentive to the little duties of

the table, and he hastened to ask if she had a headache.

'No, no,' she said, with a grateful smile. 'At least, not more than

usual.'

Her smile was full of pensive sweetness, which made her face

beautiful. It was a face that would have been almost plain but for the

soul behind. It was dark, with great earnest eyes. The profile was

disappointing, the curves were not perfect, and there was a reminder

of Polish origin in the lower jaw and the cheek-bone. Seen from the

front, the face fascinated again, in the Eastern glow of its

colouring, in the flash of the white teeth, in the depths of the

brooding eyes, in the strength of the features that yet softened to

womanliest tenderness and charm when flooded by the sunshine of a

smile. The figure was _petite_ and graceful, set off by a simple,

tight-fitting, high-necked dress of ivory silk draped with lace, with

a spray of Neapolitan violets at the throat. They sat in a niche of

the spacious and artistically furnished drawing-room, in the soft

light of the candles, talking quietly while Addie played Chopin.

Mrs. Henry Goldsmith's aesthetic instincts had had full play in the

elaborate carelessness of the ensemble, and the result was a triumph,

a medley of Persian luxury and Parisian grace, a dream of somniferous

couches and armchairs, rich tapestry, vases, fans, engravings, books,

bronzes, tiles, plaques, and flowers. Mr. Henry Goldsmith was himself

a connoisseur in the arts, his own and his father's fortunes having

been built up in the curio and antique business, though to old Aaron

Goldsmith appreciation had meant strictly pricing, despite his genius

for detecting false Correggios and sham Louis Quatorze cabinets.

'Do you suffer from headaches?' inquired Raphael solicitously.

'A little. The doctor says I studied too much and worked too hard when

a little girl. Such is the punishment of perseverance. Life isn't like

the copy-books.'

'Oh, but I wonder your parents let you over-exert yourself.'

A melancholy smile played about the mobile lips. 'I brought myself

up,' she said. 'You look puzzled. Oh, I know! Confess you think I'm

Miss Goldsmith!'

'Why--are--you not?' he stammered.

'No, my name is Ansell--Esther Ansell.'

'Pardon me. I am so bad at remembering names in introductions. But

I've just come back from Oxford, and it's the first time I've been to

this house, and seeing you here without a cavalier when we arrived, I

thought you lived here.'

'You thought rightly; I do live here.' She laughed gently at his

changing expression.

'I wonder Sidney never mentioned you to me,' he said.

'Do you mean Mr. Graham?' she said, with a slight blush.

'Yes? I know he visits here.'

'Oh, he is an artist. He has eyes only for the beautiful.'

She spoke quickly, a little embarrassed.

'You wrong him; his interests are wider than that.'

'Do you know, I am so glad you didn't pay me the obvious compliment,'

she said, recovering herself. 'It looked as if I were fishing for it.

I'm so stupid.'

He looked at her blankly.

'_I_'m stupid,' he said, 'for I don't know what compliment I missed

paying.'

'If you regret it, I shall not think so well of you,' she said. 'You

know I've heard all about your brilliant success at Oxford.'

'They put all those petty little things in the Jewish papers, don't

they?'

'I read it in the _Times_,' retorted Esther. 'You took a double-first

and the prize for poetry, and a heap of other things; but I noticed

the prize for poetry, because it is so rare to find a Jew writing

poetry.'

'Prize poetry is not poetry,' he reminded her. 'But considering the

Jewish Bible contains the finest poetry in the world, I do not see why

you should be surprised to find a Jew trying to write some.'

'Oh, you know what I mean,' answered Esther. 'What is the use of

talking about the old Jews? We seem to be a different race now. Who

cares for poetry?'

'Our poet's scroll reaches on uninterruptedly through the Middle Ages.

The passing phenomenon of to-day must not blind us to the real traits

of our race,' said Raphael.

'Nor must we be blind to the passing phenomenon of to-day,' retorted

Esther. 'We have no ideals now.'

'I see Sidney has been infecting you,' he said gently.

'No, no; I beg you will not think that,' she said, flushing almost

resentfully. 'I have thought these things, as the Scripture tells us

to meditate on the Law, day and night, sleeping and waking, standing

up and sitting down.'

'You cannot have thought of them without prejudice, then,' he

answered,'if you say we have no ideals.'

'I mean, we're not responsive to great poetry--to the message of a

Browning, for instance.'

'I deny it. Only a small percentage of his own race is responsive. I

would wager our percentage is proportionally higher. But Browning's

philosophy of religion is already ours--for hundreds of years every

Saturday night every Jew has been proclaiming the view of life and

Providence in "Pisgah Sights":

'"All's lend and borrow,

Good, see, wants evil,

Joy demands sorrow,

Angel weds devil."

What is this but the philosophy of our formula for ushering out the

Sabbath and welcoming in the day of toil, accepting the holy and the

profane, the light and the darkness?'

'Is that in the Prayer-Book?' said Esther, astonished.

'Yes, you see you are ignorant of our own ritual while admiring

everything non-Jewish. Excuse me if I am frank, Miss Ansell, but there

are many people among us who rave over Italian antiquities, but can

see nothing poetical in old Judaism. They listen eagerly to Dante, but

despise David.'

'I shall certainly look up the liturgy,' said Esther. 'But that will

not alter my opinion. The Jew may say these fine things, but they are

only a tune to him. Yes, I begin to recall the passage in Hebrew--I

see my father making _Havdalah_--the melody goes in my head like a

sing-song. But I never in my life thought of the meaning. As a little

girl I always got my conscious religious inspiration out of the New

Testament. It sounds very shocking, I know.'

'Undoubtedly you put your finger on an evil. But there is religious

edification in common prayers and ceremonies even when divorced from

meaning. Remember the Latin prayers of the Catholic poor. Jews may be

below Judaism, but are not all men below their creed? If the race

which gave the world the Bible knows it least----'

He stopped suddenly, for Addie was playing _pianissimo_, and although

she was his sister, he did not like to put her out.

'It comes to this,' said Esther, when Chopin spoke louder: 'our

Prayer-Book needs depolarisation, as Wendell Holmes says of the

Bible.'

'Exactly,' assented Raphael. 'And what our people need is to make

acquaintance with the treasure of our own literature. Why go to

Browning for theism, when the words of his "Rabbi Ben Ezra" are but a

synopsis of a famous Jewish argument?

'"I see the whole design,

I, who saw Power, see now Love, perfect too.

Perfect I call Thy plan,

Thanks that I was a man!

Maker, remaker, complete, I trust what Thou shalt do."

It sounds like a bit of Bachja. That there is a Power outside us

nobody denies; that this Power works for our good and wisely is not so

hard to grant when the facts of the soul are weighed with the facts of

Nature. Power, Love, Wisdom--there you have a real trinity which makes

up the Jewish God. And in this God we trust--incomprehensible as are

His ways, unintelligible as is His essence. "Thy ways are not My ways,

nor thy thoughts My thoughts." That comes into collision with no

modern philosophies--we appeal to experience, and make no demands upon

the faculty for believing things "because they are impossible." And we

are proud and happy in that the dread Unknown God of the infinite

universe has chosen our race as the medium by which to reveal His will

to the world. We are sanctified to His service. History testifies that

this has verily been our mission, that we have taught the world

Religion as truly as Greece has taught Beauty and Science. Our

miraculous survival through the cataclysms of ancient and modern

dynasties is a proof that our mission is not yet over.'

The sonata came to an end. Percy Saville started a comic song, playing

his own accompaniment. Fortunately, it was loud and rollicking.

'And do you really believe that we are sanctified to God's service?'

said Esther, casting a melancholy glance at Percy's grimaces.

'Can there be any doubt of it? God made choice of one race to be

messengers and apostles, martyrs at need to His truth. Happily the

sacred duty is ours,' he said earnestly, utterly unconscious of the

incongruity that struck Esther so keenly. And yet, of the two, he had

by far the greater gift of humour. It did not destroy his idealism,

but kept it in touch with things mundane. Esther's vision, though more

penetrating, lacked this corrective of humour, which makes always for

breadth of view. Perhaps it was because she was a woman that the

trivial sordid details of life's comedy hurt her so acutely that she

could scarce sit out the play patiently. Where Raphael would have

admired the lute, Esther was troubled by the little rifts in it.

'But isn't that a narrow conception of God's revelation?' she asked.

'No. Why should God not teach through a great race as through a great

man?'

'And you really think that Judaism is not dead, intellectually

speaking?'

'How can it die? Its truths are eternal, deep in human nature, and the

constitution of things. Ah, I wish I could get you to see with the

eyes of the great Rabbis and sages in Israel; to look on this human

life of ours, not with the pessimism of Christianity, but as a holy

and precious gift, to be enjoyed heartily, yet spent in God's

service--birth, marriage, death, all holy; good, evil, alike holy.

Nothing on God's earth common or purposeless; everything chanting the

great song of God's praise, "The morning stars singing together," as

we say in the Dawn Service.'

As he spoke Esther's eyes filled with strange tears. Enthusiasm always

infected her, and for a brief instant her sordid universe seemed to be

transfigured to a sacred joyous reality, full of infinite

potentialities of worthy work and noble pleasure. A thunder of

applausive hands marked the end of Percy Saville's comic song. Mr.

Montagu Samuels was beaming at his brother's grotesque drollery. There

was an interval of general conversation, followed by a round game, in

which Raphael and Esther had to take part. It was very dull, and they

were glad to find themselves together again.

'Ah, yes,' said Esther sadly, resuming the conversation as if there

had been no break; 'but this is a Judaism of your own creation. The

real Judaism is a religion of pots and pans. It does not call to the

soul's depths like Christianity.'

'Again, it is a question of the point of view taken. From a practical,

our ceremonialism is a training in self-conquest, while it links the

generations, "bound each to each by natural piety," and unifies our

atoms, dispersed to the four corners of the earth, as nothing else

could. From a theoretical, it is but an extension of the principle I

tried to show you. Eating, drinking, every act of life is holy, is

sanctified by some relation to Heaven. We will not arbitrarily divorce

some portions of life from religion, and say these are of the world,

the flesh, or the devil, any more than we will save up our religion

for Sundays. There is no devil, no original sin, no need of salvation

from it, no need of a mediator. Every Jew is in as direct relation

with God as the Chief Rabbi. Christianity is an historical failure:

its counsels of perfection, its command to turn the other cheek, a

farce. When a modern spiritual genius, a Tolstoi, repeats it, all

Christendom laughs as at a new freak of insanity. All practical

honourable men are Jews at heart. Judaism has never tampered with

human dignity, nor perverted the moral consciousness. Our housekeeper,

a Christian, once said to my sister Addie: "I'm so glad to see you do

so much charity, miss. _I_ need not, because I'm saved already."

Judaism is the true "religion of humanity." It does not seek to make

men and women angels before their time. Our marriage service blesses

the King of the Universe, who has created "joy and gladness,

bridegroom and bride, mirth and exultation, pleasure and delight,

love, brotherhood, peace and fellowship."'

'It is all very beautiful in theory,' said Esther; 'but so is

Christianity, which is also not to be charged with its historical

caricatures, nor with its superiority to average human nature. As for

the doctrine of original sin, it is the one thing that the science of

heredity has demonstrated, with a difference. But do not be alarmed; I

do not call myself a Christian because I see some relation between the

dogmas of Christianity and the truths of experience, nor even

because'--here she smiled wistfully--'I should like to believe in

Jesus. But you are less logical. When you said there was no devil, I

felt sure I was right, that you belong to the modern schools that get

rid of all the old beliefs, but cannot give up the old names. You know

as well as I do that, take away the belief in hell--a real

old-fashioned hell of fire and brimstone--even such Judaism as

survives would freeze to death without that genial warmth.'

'I know nothing of the kind,' he said. 'And I am in no sense a

modern. I am (to adopt a phrase which is to me tautologous) an

orthodox Jew.'

Esther smiled.

'Forgive my smiling,' she said. 'I am thinking of the orthodox Jews I

used to know, who used to bind their phylacteries on their arms and

foreheads every morning.'

'I bind my phylacteries on my arm and forehead every morning,' he said

simply.

'What!' gasped Esther. 'You, an Oxford man!'

'Yes,' he said gravely. 'Is it so astonishing to you?'

'Yes, it is. You are the first educated Jew I have ever met who

believed in that sort of thing.'

'Nonsense?' he said inquiringly. 'There are hundreds like me.'

She shook her head. 'There's the Rev. Joseph Strelitski. I suppose

_he_ does, but then he's paid for it.'

'Oh, why will you sneer at Strelitski?' he said, pained. 'He has a

noble soul. It is to the privilege of his conversation that I owe my

best understanding of Judaism.'

'Ah, I was wondering why the old arguments sounded so different, so

much more convincing from your lips,' murmured Esther. 'Now I know:

because he wears a white tie. That sets up all my bristles of

contradiction when he opens his mouth.'

'But I wear a white tie, too,' said Raphael, his smile broadening in

sympathy with the slow response on the girl's serious face.

'That's not a trade-mark,' she protested. 'But forgive me, I didn't

know Strelitski was a friend of yours. I won't say a word against him

any more. His sermons really are above the average, and he strives

more than the others to make Judaism more spiritual.'

'More spiritual!' he repeated, the pained expression returning. 'Why,

the very theory of Judaism has always been the spiritualisation of the

material.'

'And the practice of Judaism has always been the materialisation of

the spiritual,' she answered.

He pondered the saying thoughtfully, his face growing sadder.

'You have lived among your books,' Esther went on. 'I have lived among

the brutal facts. I was born in the Ghetto, and when you talk of the

mission of Israel, silent sardonic laughter goes through me as I think

of the squalor and the misery.'

'God works through human sufferings. His ways are large,' said

Raphael, almost in a whisper.

'And wasteful,' said Esther. 'Spare me clerical platitudes _a la_

Strelitski. I have seen so much.'

'And suffered much?' he asked gently.

She nodded, scarce perceptibly.

'Oh, if you only knew my life!'

'Tell it me,' he said. His voice was soft and caressing. His frank

soul seemed to pierce through all conventionalities, and to go

straight to hers.

'I cannot--not now,' she murmured. 'There is so much to tell.'

'Tell me a little,' he urged.

She began to speak of her history, scarce knowing why, forgetting he

was a stranger. Was it racial affinity, or was it merely the spiritual

affinity of souls that feel their identity through all differences of

brain?

'What is the use?' she said. 'You with your childhood could never

realise mine. My mother died when I was seven; my father was a Russian

pauper alien who rarely got work. I had an elder brother of brilliant

promise. He died before he was thirteen. I had a lot of brothers and

sisters and a grandmother, and we all lived, half starved, in a

garret.'

Her eyes grew humid at the recollection; she saw the spacious

drawing-room and the dainty _bric a brac_ through a mist.

'Poor child!' murmured Raphael.

'Strelitski, by the way, lived in our street then. He sold cigars on

commission and earned an honest living; sometimes I used to think that

is why he never cares to meet my eye, he remembers me and knows I

remember him; at other times I thought he knew that I saw through his

professions of orthodoxy. But as you champion him, I suppose I must

look for a more creditable reason for his inability to look me

straight in the face. Well, I grew up, I got on well at school, and

about ten years ago I won a prize given by Mrs. Henry Goldsmith, whose

kindly interest I excited thenceforward. At thirteen I became a

teacher. This had always been my aspiration; when it was granted I was

more unhappy than ever. I began to realise acutely that we were

terribly poor. I found it difficult to dress so as to ensure the

respect of my pupils and colleagues; the work was unspeakably hard and

unpleasant; tiresome and hungry little girls had to be ground to suit

the inspectors, and fell victims to the then prevalent competition

among teachers for a high percentage of passes; I had to teach

Scripture history, and I didn't believe in it. None of us believed in

it--the talking serpent, the Egyptian miracles, Samson, Jonah and the

whale, and all that. Everything about me was sordid and unlovely. I

yearned for a fuller, wider life, for larger knowledge. I hungered for

the sun. In short, I was intensely miserable. At home things went from

bad to worse; often I was the sole bread-winner, and my few shillings

a week were our only income. My brother Solomon grew up, but could not

get into a decent situation, because he must not work on the Sabbath.

Oh, if you knew how young lives are cramped and shipwrecked at the

start by this one curse of the Sabbath, you would not wish us to

persevere in our isolation. It sent a mad thrill of indignation

through me to find my father daily entreating the deaf heavens.'

He would not argue now. His eyes were moist.

'Go on,' he murmured.

'The rest is nothing. Mrs. Henry Goldsmith stepped in as the _dea ex

machina_. She had no children, and she took it into her head to adopt

me. Naturally I was dazzled, though anxious about my brothers and

sisters. But my father looked upon it as a godsend. Without consulting

me, Mrs. Goldsmith arranged that he and the other children should be

shipped to America; she got him some work at a relative's in Chicago.

I suppose she was afraid of having the family permanently hanging

about the Terrace. At first I was grieved; but when the pain of

parting was over I found myself relieved to be rid of them, especially

of my father. It sounds shocking, I know, but I can confess all my

vanities now, for I have learnt all is vanity. I thought Paradise was

opening before me; I was educated by the best masters, and graduated

at the London University. I travelled and saw the Continent, had my

fill of sunshine and beauty. I have had many happy moments, realised

many childish ambitions, but happiness is as far away as ever. My old

school colleagues envy me; yet I do not know whether I would not go

back without regret.'

'Is there anything lacking in your life, then?' he asked gently.

'No; I happen to be a nasty, discontented little thing--that is all,'

she said, with a faint smile. 'Look on me as a psychological paradox,

or a text for the preacher.'

'And do the Goldsmiths know of your discontent?'

'Heaven forbid! They have been so very kind to me. We get along very

well together. I never discuss religion with them, only the services

and the minister.'

'And your relatives?'

'Oh, they are all well and happy. Solomon has a store in Detroit. He

is only nineteen, and dreadfully enterprising. Father is a pillar of a

Chicago _Chevrah_. He still talks Yiddish. He has escaped learning

American just as he escaped learning English. I buy him a queer old

Hebrew book sometimes with my pocket-money, and he is happy. One

little sister is a typewriter, and the other is just out of school and

does the house-work. I suppose I shall go out and see them all some

day.'

'What became of the grandmother you mentioned?'

'She had a charity funeral a year before the miracle happened. She was

very weak and ill, and the charity doctor warned her that she must not

fast on the day of Atonement. But she wouldn't even moisten her

parched lips with a drop of cold water. And so she died, exhorting my

father with her last breath to beware of Mrs. Simons (a good-hearted

widow who was very kind to us) and to marry a pious Polish woman.'

'And did he?'

'No, I am still stepmotherless. Your white tie's gone wrong. It's all

on one side.'

'It generally is,' said Raphael, fumbling perfunctorily at the little

bow.

'Let me put it straight. There! And now you know all about me, I hope

you are going to repay my confidences in kind.'

'I am afraid I cannot oblige with anything so romantic,' he said,

smiling. 'I was born of rich but honest parents, of a family settled

in England for three generations, and went to Harrow and Oxford in due

course. That is all. I saw a little of the Ghetto, though, when I was

a boy. I had some correspondence on Hebrew literature with a great

Jewish scholar, Gabriel Hamburg (he lives in Stockholm now), and one

day when I was up from Harrow I went to see him. By good fortune I

assisted at the foundation of the Holy Land League, now presided over

by Gideon, the Member for Whitechapel. I was moved to tears by the

enthusiasm. It was there I made the acquaintance of Strelitski. He

spoke as if inspired. I also met a poverty-stricken poet, Melchitzedek

Pinchas, who afterwards sent me his work, _Metatoron's Flames_, to

Harrow. A real neglected genius. Now, there's the man to bear in mind

when one speaks of Jews and poetry! After that night I kept up a

regular intercourse with the Ghetto, and have been there several times

lately.'

'But surely you don't also long to return to Palestine?'

'I do. Why should we not have our own country?'

'It would be too chaotic. Fancy all the Ghettos of the world

amalgamating! Everybody would want to be ambassador at Paris, as the

old joke says.'

'It would be a problem for the statesmen among us. Dissenters,

Churchmen, atheists, slum-savages, clod-hoppers, philosophers,

aristocrats, make up Protestant England. It is the popular ignorance

of the fact that Jews are as diverse as Protestants that makes such

novels as we were discussing at dinner harmful.'

'But is the author to blame for that? He does not claim to present the

whole truth, but a facet. English society lionised Thackeray for his

pictures of it. Good heavens! do Jews suppose they alone are free

from the snobbery, hypocrisy and vulgarity that have shadowed every

society that has ever existed?'

'In no work of art can the spectator be left out of account,' he

urged. 'In a world full of smouldering prejudices a scrap of paper may

start the bonfire. English society can afford to laugh where Jewish

society must weep. That is why our papers are always so effusively

grateful for Christian compliments. You see, it is quite true that the

author paints not the Jew, but bad Jews; but, in the absence of

paintings of good Jews, bad Jews are taken as identical with Jews.'

'Oh, then you agree with the others about the book?' she said, in a

disappointed tone.

'I haven't read it; I am speaking generally. Have you?'

'Yes.'

'And what do you think of it? I don't remember your expressing an

opinion at table.'

She pondered an instant.

'I thought highly of it, and agreed with every word of it----'

She paused. He looked expectantly into the dark intense face; he saw

it was charged with further speech.

'Till I met you,' she concluded abruptly.

A wave of emotion passed over his face.

'You don't mean that?' he murmured.

'Yes, I do. You have shown me new lights.'

'I thought I was speaking platitudes,' he said simply. 'It would be

nearer the truth to say you have given me new lights.'

The little face flushed with pleasure, the dark skin shining, the eyes

sparkling. Esther looked quite pretty.

'How is that possible?' she said. 'You have read and thought twice as

much as I.'

'Then you must be indeed poorly off,' he said, smiling. 'But I am

really glad we met. I have been asked to edit a new Jewish paper, and

our talk has made me see more clearly the lines on which it must be

run if it is to do any good. I am awfully indebted to you.'

'A new Jewish paper?' she said, deeply interested. 'We have so many

already. What is its _raison d'etre_?'

'To convert you,' he said, smiling, but with a ring of seriousness in

the words.

'Isn't that like a steam-hammer cracking a nut, or Hoti burning down

his house to roast a pig? And suppose I refuse to take in the new

Jewish paper? Will it suspend publication?'

He laughed.

'What's this about a new Jewish paper?' said Mrs. Goldsmith, suddenly

appearing in front of them with her large genial smile. 'Is that what

you two have been plotting? I notice you've laid your heads together

all the evening. Ah well, birds of a feather flock together. Do you

know my little Esther took the scholarship for logic at London? I

wanted her to proceed to the M.A. at once, but the doctor said she

must have a rest.' She laid her hand affectionately on the girl's

hair.

Esther looked embarrassed.

'And so she is still a Bachelor?' said Raphael, smiling, but evidently

impressed.

'Yes, but not for long, I hope,' returned Mrs. Goldsmith. 'Come,

darling, everybody's dying to hear one of your little songs.'

'The dying is premature,' said Esther. 'You know I only sing for my

own amusement.'

'Sing for mine, then,' pleaded Raphael.

'To make you laugh?' queried Esther. 'I know you'll laugh at the way I

play the accompaniment. One's fingers have to be used to it from

childhood----'

Her eyes finished the sentence, 'and you know what mine was.'

The look seemed to seal their secret sympathy.

She went to the piano and sang in a thin but trained soprano. The song

was a ballad with a quaint air full of sadness and heart-break. To

Raphael, who had never heard the psalmic wails of the Sons of the

Covenant or the Polish ditties of Fanny Belcovitch, it seemed also

full of originality. He wished to lose himself in the sweet

melancholy, but Mrs. Goldsmith, who had taken Esther's seat at his

side, would not let him.

'Her own composition, words and music,' she whispered. 'I wanted her

to publish it, but she is so shy and retiring. Who would think she was

the child of a pauper immigrant, a rough jewel one has picked up and

polished? If you really are going to start a new Jewish paper, she

might be of use to you. And then there is Miss Cissy Levine: you have

read her novels, of course? Sweetly pretty. Do you know, I think we

are badly in want of a new paper, and you are the only man in the

community who could give it us. We want educating, we poor people, we

know so little of our faith and our literature.'

'I am so glad you feel the want of it,' whispered Raphael, forgetting

Esther in his pleasure at finding a soul yearning for the light.

'Intensely. I suppose it will be advanced?'

Raphael looked at her a moment a little bewildered.

'No, it will be orthodox. It is the orthodox party that supplies the

funds.'

A flash of light leapt into Mrs. Goldsmith's eyes.

'I am so glad it is not as I feared,' she said. 'The rival party has

hitherto monopolised the press, and I was afraid that, like most of

our young men of talent, you would give it that tendency. Now at last

we poor orthodox will have a voice. It will be written in English?'

'As far as I can,' he said, smiling.

'No, you know what I mean. I thought the majority of the orthodox

couldn't read English, and that they have their jargon papers. Will

you be able to get a circulation?'

'There are thousands of families in the East End now among whom

English is read, if not written. The evening papers sell as well there

as anywhere else in London.'

'Bravo!' murmured Mrs. Goldsmith, clapping her hands.

Esther had finished her song. Raphael awoke to the remembrance of her.

But she did not come to him again, sitting down instead on a lounge

near the piano, where Sidney bantered Addie with his most paradoxical

persiflage.

Raphael looked at her. Her expression was abstracted; her eyes had an

inward look. He hoped her headache had not got worse. She did not look

at all pretty now. She seemed a frail little creature with a sad,

thoughtful face and an air of being alone in the midst of a merry

company. Poor little thing! He felt as if he had known her for years.

She seemed curiously out of harmony with all these people. He doubted

even his own capacity to commune with her inmost soul. He wished he

could be of service to her, could do anything for her that might

lighten her gloom and turn her morbid thoughts in healthier

directions.

The butler brought in some claret negus. It was the break-up signal.

Raphael drank his negus with a pleasant sense of arming himself

against the cold air. He wanted to walk home smoking his pipe, which

he always carried in his overcoat. He clasped Esther's hand with a

cordial smile of farewell.

'We shall meet again soon, I trust,' he said.

'I hope so,' said Esther. 'Put me down as a subscriber to that paper.'

'Thank you,' he said; 'I won't forget.'

'What's that?' said Sidney, pricking up his ears, 'doubled your

circulation already?'

Sidney put Cousin Addie into a hansom, as she did not care to walk,

and got in beside her.

'My feet are tired,' she said; 'I danced a lot last night, and was out

a lot this afternoon. It's all very well for Raphael, who doesn't know

whether he's walking on his head or his heels. Here, put your collar

up, Raphael; not like that, it's all crumpled. Haven't you got a

handkerchief to put round your throat? Where's that one I gave you?

Lend him yours, Sidney.'

'You don't mind if _I_ catch my death of cold. I've got to go on to a

Christmas dance when I deposit you on your doorstep,' grumbled Sidney.

'Catch! There, you duffer! It's gone into the mud. Sure you won't jump

in? Plenty of room. Addie can sit on my knee. Well, ta-ta! Merry

Christmas!'

Raphael lit his pipe and strode off with long ungainly strides. It

was a clear, frosty night, and the moonlight glistened on the silent

spaces of street and square.

'Go to bed, my dear,' said Mrs. Goldsmith, returning to the lounge

where Esther still sat brooding. 'You look quite worn out.'

Left alone, Mrs. Goldsmith smiled pleasantly at Mr. Goldsmith, who,

uncertain of how he had behaved himself, always waited anxiously for

the verdict. He was pleased to find it was 'Not guilty' this time.

'I think that went off very well,' she said. She was looking very

lovely to-night, the low bodice emphasising the voluptuous outlines of

the bust.

'Splendidly!' he returned. He stood with his coat-tails to the fire,

his coarse-grained face beaming like an extra lamp. 'The people and

those croquettes were A 1. The way Mary's picked up French cookery is

wonderful.'

'Yes, especially considering she denies herself butter. But I'm not

thinking of that, nor of our guests.' He looked at her, wondering.

'Henry,' she continued impressively, 'how would you like to get into

Parliament?'

'Eh, Parliament? Me?' he stammered.

'Yes, why not? I've always had it in my eye.'

His face grew gloomy.

'It is not practicable,' he said, shaking the head with the prominent

teeth and ears.

'Not practicable!' she echoed sharply. 'Just think of what you've

achieved already, and don't tell me you're going to stop now. Not

practicable, indeed! Why, that's the very word you used years ago in

the provinces when I said you ought to be President. You said old

Winkelstein had been in the position too long to be ousted. And yet I

felt certain your superior English would tell in the long-run in such

a miserable congregation of foreigners, and when Winkelstein had made

that delicious blunder about the "university" of the Exodus instead of

the "anniversary" and I went about laughing over it in all the best

circles, the poor man's day was over. And when we came to London, and

seemed to fall again to the bottom of the ladder because our greatness

was swallowed up in the vastness, didn't you despair then? Didn't you

tell me that we should never rise to the surface?'

'It didn't seem probable, did it?' he murmured in self-defence.

'Of course not. That's just my point. Your getting into the House of

Commons doesn't seem probable now. But in those days your getting

merely to know M.P.'s was equally improbable. The synagogal dignities

were all filled up by old hands; there was no way of getting on the

Council and meeting our magnates.'

'Yes, but your solution of that difficulty won't do here. I had not

much difficulty in persuading the United Synagogue that a new

synagogue was a crying want in Kensington, but I could hardly persuade

the Government that a new constituency is a crying want in London.'

He spoke pettishly; his ambition required rousing, and was easily

daunted.

'No, but somebody's going to start a new something else, Henry,' said

Mrs. Goldsmith with enigmatic cheerfulness. 'Trust in me; think of

what we have done in less than a dozen years at comparatively trifling

cost, thanks to that happy idea of a new synagogue--you, the

representative of the Kensington synagogue, with a "Sir" for a

colleague and a congregation that from exceptionally small beginnings

has sprung up to be the most fashionable in London; likewise a member

of the Council of the Anglo-Jewish Association and an honorary officer

of the _Shechitah_ Board; I, connected with several first-class

charities, on the committee of our leading school, and acknowledged

discoverer of a girl who gives promise of doing something notable in

literature or music. We have a reputation for wealth, culture, and

hospitality, and it is quite two years since we shook off the last of

the Maida Vale lot, who are so graphically painted in that novel of

Mr. Armitage's. Who are our guests now? Take to-night's. A celebrated

artist, a brilliant young Oxford man, both scions of the same wealthy

and well-considered family; an authoress of repute, who dedicates her

books (by permission) to the very first families of the community;

and, lastly, the Montagu Samuels, with the brother, Percy Saville,

who go only to the best houses. Is there any other house, where the

company is so exclusively Jewish, that could boast of a better

gathering?'

'I don't say anything against the company,' said her husband

awkwardly; 'it's better than we got in the provinces. But your company

isn't your constituency. What constituency would have me?'

'Certainly no ordinary constituency would have you,' admitted his wife

frankly. 'I am thinking of Whitechapel.'

'But Gideon represents Whitechapel.'

'Certainly; as Sidney Graham says, he represents it very well. But he

has made himself unpopular; his name has appeared in print as a guest

at City banquets, where the food can't be _kosher_. He has alienated a

goodly proportion of the Jewish vote.'

'Well?' said Mr. Goldsmith, still wonderingly.

'Now is the time to bid for his shoes. Raphael Leon is about to

establish a new Jewish paper. I was mistaken about that young man. You

remember my telling you I had heard he was eccentric, and despite his

brilliant career a little touched on religious matters. I naturally

supposed his case was like that of one or two other Jewish young men

we know, and that he yearned for spirituality, and his remarks at

table rather confirmed the impression. But he is worse than that--and

I nearly put my foot in it--his craziness is on the score of

orthodoxy. Fancy that!--a man who has been to Harrow and Oxford

longing for a gaberdine and side-curls! Well, well, live and learn!

What a sad trial for his parents!'

She paused, musing.

'But, Rosetta, what has Raphael Leon to do with my getting into

Parliament?'

'Don't be stupid, Henry! Haven't I explained to you that Leon is going

to start an orthodox paper which will be circulated among your future

constituents? It's extremely fortunate that we have always kept to our

religion. We have a widespread reputation for orthodoxy. We are

friends with Leon, and we can get Esther to write for the paper (I

could see he was rather struck by her). Through this paper we can

keep you and your orthodoxy constantly before the constituency. The

poor people are quite fascinated by the idea of rich Jews like us

keeping a strictly _kosher_ table, but the image of a Member of

Parliament with phylacteries on his forehead will simply intoxicate

them.'

She smiled herself at the image--the smile that always intoxicated

Percy Saville.

'You're a wonderful woman, Rosetta,' said Henry, smiling in response

with admiring affection and making his incisors more prominent. He

drew her head down to him and kissed her lips.

She returned his kiss lingeringly, and they had a flash of that

happiness which is born of mutual fidelity and trust.

'Can I do anything for you, mum, afore I go to bed?' said stout old

Mary O'Reilly, appearing at the door.

Mary was a privileged person, unappalled even by the butler. Having no

relatives, she never took a holiday, and never went out, except to

chapel.

'No, Mary, thank you. The dinner was excellent. Good-night, and merry

Christmas!'

'Same to you, mum'; and as the unconscious instrument of Henry

Goldsmith's candidature turned away, the Christmas bells broke merrily

upon the night. The peals fell upon the ears of Raphael Leon, still

striding along, casting a gaunt shadow on the hoar-frosted pavement,

but he marked them not: upon Addie, sitting by her bedroom mirror

thinking of Sidney speeding to the Christmas dance; upon Esther,

turning restlessly on the luxurious eider-down, oppressed by panoramic

pictures of the martyrdom of her race. Lying between sleep and waking,

especially when her brain had been excited, she had the faculty of

seeing wonderful vivid visions, indistinguishable from realities. The

martyrs who mounted the scaffold and the stake all had the face of

Raphael.

'The mission of Israel' buzzed through her brain. Oh, the irony of

history! Here was another life going to be wasted on an illusory

dream. The figures of Raphael and her father suddenly came into

grotesque juxtaposition. A bitter smile passed across her face.

The Christmas bells rang on, proclaiming peace in the name of Him who

came to bring a sword into the world.

'Surely,' she thought, 'the people of Christ has been the Christ of

peoples.'

And then she sobbed meaninglessly in the darkness.