A WOMAN'S GROWTH
The sloppy Sunday afternoon, which was the first opportunity Raphael
had of profiting by Mr. Henry Goldsmith's general invitation to call
and see Esther, happened to be that selected by the worthy couple for
a round of formal visits.
Esther was left at home with a headache, little expecting pleasanter
company. She hesitated about receiving Raphael, but on hearing that he
had come to see her rather than her patrons, she smoothed her hair,
put on a prettier frock, and went down into the drawing-room, where
she found him striding restlessly in bespattered boots and moist
overcoat. When he became aware of her presence, he went towards her
eagerly, and shook her hand with jerky awkwardness.
'How are you?' he said heartily.
'Very well, thank you,' she replied automatically; then a twinge as of
reproach at the falsehood darted across her brow, and she added: 'A
trifle of the usual headache. I hope you are well?'
'Quite, thank you,' he rejoined.
His face rather contradicted him; it looked thin, pale, and weary.
Journalism writes lines on the healthiest countenance. Esther looked
at him disapprovingly; she had the woman's artistic instinct, if not
the artist's, and Raphael, with his damp overcoat, everlastingly
crumpled at the collar, was not an aesthetic object.
Whether in her pretty moods or her plain, Esther was always neat and
dainty. There was a bit of ruffled lace at her throat, and the
heliotrope of her gown contrasted agreeably with the dark skin of the
vivid face.
'Do take off your overcoat and dry yourself at the fire,' she said.
While he was disposing of it, she poked the fire into a big cheerful
blaze, seating herself opposite him in a capacious arm-chair, where
the flame picked her out in bright tints upon the dusky background of
the great dim room.
'And how is the _Flag of Judah_?' she said.
'Still waving,' he replied. 'It is about that that I have come.'
'About that?' she said wonderingly. 'Oh, I see; you want to know if
the one person it is written at has read it. Well, make your mind
easy. I have. I have read it religiously--no, I don't mean that--yes,
I do; it's the appropriate word.'
'Really?'
He tried to penetrate behind the bantering tone.
'Yes, really. You put your side of the case eloquently and well. I
look forward to Friday with interest. I hope the paper is selling.'
'So, so,' he said. 'It is uphill work. The Jewish public look on
journalism as a branch of philanthropy, I fear, and Sidney suggests
publishing our free list as a Jewish directory.'
She smiled.
'Mr. Graham is very amusing. Only he is too well aware of it. He has
been here once since that dinner, and we discussed you. He says he
can't understand how you came to be a cousin of his--even a second
cousin. He says he is _l'homme qui rit_, and you are _l'homme qui
prie_.'
'He has let that off on me already, supplemented by the explanation
that every extensive Jewish family embraces a genius and a lunatic. He
admits that he is the genius. The unfortunate part for me,' ended
Raphael, laughing, 'is that he _is_ a genius.'
'I saw two of his little things the other day at the Impressionist
Exhibition in Piccadilly. They are very clever and dashing.'
'I am told he draws ballet-girls,' said Raphael moodily.
'Yes; he is a disciple of Degas.'
'You don't like that style of art?' he said, a shade of concern in his
voice.
'I do not,' said Esther emphatically. 'I am a curious mixture. In art
I have discovered in myself two conflicting tastes, and neither is for
the modern realism, which I yet admire in literature. I like poetic
pictures impregnated with vague romantic melancholy, and I like the
white lucidity of classic statuary. I suppose the one taste is the
offspring of temperament, the other of thought; for intellectually I
admire the Greek ideals, and was glad to hear you correct Sidney's
perversion of the adjective. I wonder,' she added reflectively, 'if
one can worship the gods of the Greeks without believing in them.'
'But you wouldn't make a cult of Beauty?'
'Not if you take Beauty in the narrow sense in which I should fancy
your cousin uses the word. But, in a higher and broader sense, is it
not the one fine thing in life which is a certainty, the one ideal
which is not illusion?'
'Nothing is illusion,' said Raphael earnestly. 'At least, not in your
sense. Why should the Creator deceive us?'
'Oh, well, don't let us get into metaphysics. We argue from different
platforms,' she said. 'Tell me what you really came about in
connection with the _Flag_.'
'Mr. Goldsmith was kind enough to suggest that you might write for
it.'
'What!' exclaimed Esther, sitting upright in her arm-chair. 'I--I
write for an orthodox paper?'
'Yes; why not?'
'Do you mean I'm to take part in my own conversion?'
'The paper is not entirely religious,' he reminded her.
'No, there are the advertisements,' she said slyly.
'Pardon me,' he said. 'We don't insert any advertisement contrary to
the principles of orthodoxy. Not that we are much tempted.'
'You advertise soap,' she murmured.
'Oh, please don't you go in for those cheap sarcasms!'
'Forgive me,' she said. 'Remember, my conceptions of orthodoxy are
drawn mainly from the Ghetto, where cleanliness, so far from being
next to godliness, is nowhere in the vicinity. But what can I do for
you?'
'I don't know. At present the staff--the _Flag_-staff, as Sidney
calls it--consists of myself and a sub-editor, who take it in turn to
translate the only regular outside contributor's articles into
English.'
'Who's that?'
'Melchitzedek Pinchas, the poet I told you of.'
'I suppose he writes in Hebrew?'
'No; if he did the translation would be plain-sailing enough. The
trouble is that he will write in English. I must admit, though, he
improves daily. Our correspondents, too, have the same weakness for
the vernacular, and I grieve to add that when they do introduce a
Hebrew word, they do not invariably spell it correctly.'
She smiled; her smile was never so fascinating as by firelight.
Raphael rose and paced the room nervously, flinging out his arms in
uncouth fashion to emphasise his speech.
'I was thinking you might introduce a secular department of some sort
which would brighten up the paper. My articles are so plaguy dull.'
'Not so dull--for religious articles,' she assured him.
'Could you treat Jewish matters from a social standpoint--gossipy sort
of thing?'
She shook her head.
'I'm afraid to trust myself to write on Jewish subjects. I should be
sure to tread on somebody's corns.'
'Oh, I have it!' he cried, bringing his arms in contact with a small
Venetian vase, which Esther, with great presence of mind, just managed
to catch ere it reached the ground.
'No, I have it!' she said, laughing. 'Do sit down, else nobody can
answer for the consequences.'
She half pushed him into his chair, where he fell to warming his hands
contemplatively.
'Well?' she said after a pause. 'I thought you had an idea.'
'Yes, yes,' he said, rousing himself. 'The subject we were just
discussing--art.'
'But there is nothing Jewish about art.'
'All noble work has its religious aspects. Then there are Jewish
artists.'
'Oh yes. Your contemporaries do notice their exhibits, and there seem
to be more of them than the world ever hears of. But if I went to a
gathering for you, how should I know which were Jews?'
'By their names, of course.'
'By no means of course. Some artistic Jews have forgotten their own
names.'
'That's a dig at Sidney.'
'Really, I wasn't thinking of him for the moment,' she said a little
sharply. 'However, in any case there's nothing worth doing till May,
and that's some months ahead. I'll do the Academy for you, if you
like.'
'Thank you. Won't Sidney stare if you pulverise him in the _Flag of
Judah_? Some of the pictures have also Jewish subjects, you know.'
'Yes, but if I mistake not, they're invariably done by Christian
artists.'
'Nearly always,' he admitted pensively. 'I wish we had a Jewish
allegorical painter to express the high conceptions of our sages.'
'As he would probably not know what they are----' she murmured. Then,
seeing him rise as if to go, she said: 'Won't you have a cup of tea?'
'No, don't trouble,' he answered.
'Oh yes! do,' she pleaded. 'Or else I shall think you're angry with me
for not asking you before.' And she rang the bell.
She discovered, to her amusement, that Raphael took two pieces of
sugar per cup, but that, if they were not inserted, he did not notice
their absence. Over tea, too, Raphael had a new idea, this time
fraught with peril to the Sevres teapot.
'Why couldn't you write us a Jewish serial story?' he said suddenly.
'That would be a novelty in communal journalism.'
Esther looked startled by the proposition.
'How do you know I could?' she said after a silence.
'I don't know,' he replied. 'Only I fancy you could. Why not?' he said
encouragingly. 'You don't know what you can do till you try. Besides,
you write poetry.'
'The Jewish public doesn't like the looking-glass,' she answered him,
shaking her head.
'Oh, you can't say that! They've only objected as yet to the
distorting-mirror. You're thinking of the row over that man Armitage's
book. Now, why not write an antidote to that book? There now, there's
an idea for you!'
'It _is_ an idea,' said Esther, with overt sarcasm. 'You think art can
be degraded into an antidote.'
'Art is not a fetish,' he urged. 'What degradation is there in art
teaching a noble lesson?'
'Ah, that is what you religious people will never understand,' she
said scathingly. 'You want everything to preach.'
'Everything does preach something,' he retorted. 'Why not have the
sermon good?'
'I consider the original sermon _was_ good,' she said defiantly. 'It
doesn't need an antidote.'
'How can you say that? Surely, merely as one who was born a Jewess,
you wouldn't care for the sombre picture drawn by this Armitage to
stand as a portrait of your people.'
She shrugged her shoulders--the ungraceful shrug of the Ghetto.
'Why not? It is one-sided, but it is true.'
'I don't deny that; probably the man was sincerely indignant at
certain aspects. I am ready to allow he did not even see he was
one-sided. But if _you_ see it, why not show the world the other side
of the shield?'
She put her hand wearily to her brow.
'Do not ask me,' she said. 'To have my work appreciated merely because
the moral tickled the reader's vanity would be a mockery. The
suffrages of the Jewish public--I might have valued them once; now I
despise them.'
She sank further back on the chair, pale and silent.
'Why, what harm have they done you?' he asked.
'They are so stupid,' she said, with a gesture of distaste.
'That is a new charge against the Jews.'
'Look at the way they have denounced this Armitage, saying his book is
vulgar and wretched and written for gain, and all because it does not
flatter them.'
'Can you wonder at it? To say "you're another" may not be criticism,
but it is human nature.'
Esther smiled sadly.
'I cannot make you out at all,' she said.
'Why? What is there strange about me?'
'You say such shrewd, humorous things sometimes--I wonder how you can
remain orthodox.'
'Now I can't understand _you_,' he said, puzzled.
'Oh, well! Perhaps if you could, you wouldn't be orthodox. Let us
remain mutual enigmas. And will you do me a favour?'
'With pleasure,' he said, his face lighting up.
'Don't mention Mr. Armitage's book to me again. I am sick of hearing
about it.'
'So am I,' he said, rather disappointed. 'After that dinner I thought
it only fair to read it; and although I detect considerable crude
power in it, still I am very sorry it was ever published. The
presentation of Judaism is most ignorant. All the mystical yearnings
of the heroine might have found as much satisfaction in the faith of
her own race as they find expression in its poetry.'
He rose to go.
'Well, I am to take it for granted you will not write that antidote?'
'I'm afraid it would be impossible for me to undertake it,' she said,
more mildly than before, and pressed her hand again to her brow.
'Pardon me,' he said, in much concern. 'I am too selfish. I forgot you
are not well. How is your head feeling now?'
'About the same, thank you,' she said, forcing a grateful smile. 'You
may rely on me for art, yes; and music, too, if you like.'
'Thank you,' he said. 'You read a great deal, don't you?'
She nodded her head.
'Well, every week books are published of more or less direct Jewish
interest; I should be glad of notes about such, to brighten up the
paper.'
'For anything strictly unorthodox you may count on me. If that
antidote turns up, I shall not fail to cackle over it in your columns.
By-the-bye, are you going to review the poison? Excuse so many mixed
metaphors,' she added, with a rather forced laugh.
'No, I shan't say anything about it. Why give it an extra
advertisement by slating it?'
'Slating,' she repeated, with a faint smile. 'I see you have mastered
all the slang of your profession.'
'Ah, that's the influence of my sub-editor,' he said, smiling in
return. 'Well, good-bye.'
'You're forgetting your overcoat,' she said; and having smoothed out
that crumpled collar, she accompanied him down the wide soft-carpeted
staircase into the hall, with its rich bronzes and glistening statues.
'How are your people in America?' he bethought himself to ask on the
way down.
'They are very well, thank you,' she said. 'I send my brother Solomon
the _Flag of Judah_. He is also, I am afraid, one of the unregenerate.
You see, I am doing my best to enlarge your congregation.'
He could not tell whether it was sarcasm or earnest.
'Well, good-bye,' he said, holding out his hand. 'Thank you for your
promise.'
'Oh, that's not worth thanking me for,' she said, touching his long
white fingers for an instant. 'Look at the glory of seeing myself in
print. I hope you're not annoyed with me for refusing to contribute
fiction?' she ended, growing suddenly remorseful at the moment of
parting.
'Of course not. How could I be?'
'Couldn't your sister Adelaide do you a story?'
'Addie?' he repeated, laughing. 'Fancy Addie writing stories! Addie
has no literary ability.'
'That's always the way with brothers. Solomon says----'
She paused suddenly.
'I don't remember for the moment that Solomon has any proverb on the
subject,' he said, still amused at the idea of Addie as an authoress.
'I was thinking of something else. Good-bye. Remember me to your
sister, please.'
'Certainly,' he said; then he exclaimed: 'Oh, what a blockhead I am! I
forgot to remember her to you. She says she would be so pleased if you
would come and have tea and a chat with her some day. I should like
you and Addie to know each other.'
'Thanks, I will. I will write to her some day. Good-bye once more.'
He shook hands with her and fumbled at the door.
'Allow me,' she said, and opened it upon the grey dulness of the
dripping street. 'When may I hope for the honour of another visit from
a real live editor?'
'I don't know,' he said, smiling; 'I'm awfully busy. I have to read a
paper on Ibn Ezra at Jews' College to-day fortnight.'
'Outsiders admitted?' she asked.
'The lectures _are_ for outsiders,' he said, 'to spread the knowledge
of our literature--only they won't come. Have you never been to one?'
She shook her head.
'There!' he said. 'You complain of our want of culture, and you don't
even know what's going on.'
She tried to take the reproof with a smile, but the corners of her
mouth quivered.
He raised his hat and went down the steps.
She followed him a little way along the Terrace, with eyes growing dim
with tears she could not account for. She went back to the
drawing-room and threw herself into the arm-chair where he had sat,
and made her headache worse by thinking of all her unhappiness. The
great room was filling with dusk, and in the twilight pictures
gathered and dissolved. What girlish dreams and revolts had gone to
make that unfortunate book, which, after endless boomerang-like
returns from the publishers, had appeared--only to be denounced by
Jewry, ignored by its journals, and scantily noticed by outside
criticism. _Mordecai Josephs_ had fallen almost still-born from the
press; the sweet secret she had hoped to tell her patroness had
turned bitter, like that other secret of her dead love for Sidney, in
the reaction from which she had written most of her book. How
fortunate, at least, that her love had flickered out--had proved but
the ephemeral sentiment of a romantic girl for the first brilliant man
she had met. Sidney had fascinated her by his verbal audacities in a
world of narrow conventions; he had for the moment laughed away
spiritual aspirations and yearnings with a raillery that was almost
like ozone to a young woman avid of martyrdom for the happiness of the
world. How, indeed, could she have expected the handsome young artist
to feel the magic that hovered about her talks with him, to know the
thrill that lay in the formal hand-clasp, to be aware that he
interpreted for her poems and pictures, and incarnated the undefined
ideal of girlish day-dreams? How could he ever have had other than an
intellectual thought of her--how could any man, even the religious
Raphael, sickly, ugly little thing that she was? She got up and looked
in the glass now to see herself thus, but the shadows had gathered too
thickly. She snatched up a newspaper that lay on the couch, lit it,
and held it before the glass. It flared up threateningly, and she beat
it out--laughing hysterically and asking herself if she was mad. But
she had seen the ugly little face--its expression frightened her. Yes,
love was not for her; she could only love a man of brilliancy and
culture, and she was nothing but a Petticoat Lane girl, after all. Its
coarseness, its vulgarity, underlay all her veneer. They had got into
her book--everybody said so, Raphael said so. How dared she write
disdainfully of Raphael's people?--she, an upstart, an outsider!
She went to the library, lit the gas, got down a volume of Graetz's
_History of the Jews_, which she had latterly taken to reading, and
turned over its wonderful pages. Then she wandered restlessly back to
the great dim drawing-room, and played amateurish fantasias on the
melancholy Polish melodies of her childhood, till Mr. and Mrs. Henry
Goldsmith returned. They had captured the Rev. Joseph Strelitski, and
brought him back to dinner. Esther would have excused herself from the
meal, but Mrs. Goldsmith insisted the minister would think her
absence intentionally discourteous. In point of fact, Mrs.
Goldsmith--like all Jewesses, a born matchmaker--was not disinclined
to think of the popular preacher as a sort of adopted son-in-law. She
did not tell herself so, but she instinctively resented the idea of
Esther marrying into the station of her patroness. Strelitski, though
his position was one of distinction for a Jewish clergyman, was, like
Esther, of humble origin. It would be a match which she could bless
from her pedestal in genuine good-will towards both parties.
The fashionable minister was looking careworn and troubled. He had
aged twice ten years since his outburst at the Holy Land League. The
black curl hung disconsolately on his forehead. He sat at Esther's
side, but rarely looking at her or addressing her, so that her
taciturnity and scarcely-veiled dislike did not noticeably increase
his gloom. He rallied now and again out of politeness to his hostess,
flashing out a pregnant phrase or two. But prosperity did not seem to
have brought happiness to the whilom poor Russian student, even though
he had fought his way to it unaided.