Three times daily for the following seven days, a little community,
necessarily never less than ten adults, and frequently intersprinkled
with a few of those more pious _chayder_ boys who wished specially to
commend themselves to their _rebbie_, gathered for _davenning_ in the
Angel Street kitchen; the visitors on sofa and chairs, Reb Monash and
Philip on low stools; the mourners uttering their _kaddish_, the
visitors chiming amen with devout promptitude.
_Davenning_, perhaps by some deliberate charitable intention, seemed to
take up most of the day, and effectively chequered Philip's moods of
stagnant melancholy with the need for definite action and a brave show
in the eyes of the world. Benjamin, Dorah's husband, a meek,
pale-haired man, whose will had always been a useful and docile
implement in the hands of his wife, attended the _minyon_ with complete
regularity, a praiseworthy fact in virtue of the commercial travelling
which took him into far outlying villages. Dorah herself returned to
Longton, leaving Philip in Angel Street for the period of the _shiveh_.
After the first week the family was permitted to resume ordinary
chairs, but for a whole month the unshaved cheeks of Philip Massel
testified biblically to his loss. Yet _kaddish_ was not at end. Three
times a day for the ensuing eleven months the prayer was to be uttered
in one synagogue or another. And year after year thereafter candles
were to be lit on the eve of the anniversary of the death and _kaddish_
three times uttered next day.
For the Jewish mind the prayer is invested with extreme sanctity. The
birth of a son conveys to his father and mother immediately the glad
tidings of "Thank God! a _kaddish_ for our souls!" In a precisely
similar manner to the purchase of a mass and for precisely similar
reasons, a _kaddish_, by a childless man and woman, will be bought for
money. There are, indeed, old men who shuffle about the dark spaces of
a synagogue, whose main livelihood is the recital, at a stated rate, of
the prayer. But, it is needless to insist, the commercial commodity is
held to possess by no means the same efficacy as the consanguineous
_kaddish_. Dereliction of duty in this matter is held to be a flagrant
betrayal of the dead. The image is held before the culprit's eye of
the body attempting to shake free from its bondage of worms and mud,
and for lack of intercession before the throne of God, enchained
cruelly within the narrow territory of the coffin.
The state in which Philip had endured the climax of his mother's
illness, her death and funeral, had involved, it has been evident, less
a storm of suffering than a trance, a deadly level of hysteria. When
he returned from Angel Street to Longton, he seemed to lose his faculty
for quick reaction, for poignant contrition or grief. His mind
reduplicated the sooty autumn which spread like a web about the city,
entrapping the last evidences of summer and leaving them to hang
bedraggled like sucked flies.
Whether or no, for one who had at least made such pretensions of
affection towards his dead mother, he ought, from the point of view of
an abstract decency, to have persisted with the prayer to which she
herself had attached such importance, it is not easy to decide. It is
possible that had he recited the _kaddish_ in a language he understood,
he would have persisted even to the end. On the other hand, it is
possible that had he been faced with the task of reiterating for so
long the same fixed number and sequence of words with their inelastic
content of meaning, he would have defected even sooner: that, in fact,
the mere unintelligibility of the prayer conferred upon it for a season
the quality of the kabbalistic. But the essential fact is this, that
the emotional part of him now flowed like a sluggish backwater, and in
his emotion alone the ritual could have been steeped until it shone
with beauty and urgency.
Only his mind moved with any clarity, and his mind had long ago decided
that phylacteries belonged to Babylon, that all the terror of the Day
of Atonement was an immense, an almost conquering hypnotism, from which
with travail he had escaped. _Kaddish_ was but an issue of the same
quality as these, though more painful in its solution; for those others
were related merely to the general problem presented to him by his
race, whilst this was bound up so immediately with the lovely thing he
had lost.
His first absence from the morning service at the little _shool_ in
Longton (his absences from the afternoon and evening services were not
ostentatious and were therefore not commented on) produced a series of
violent outbursts from Dorah, culminating in a threat that she would no
longer allow him to pass her doors. When he informed her that he had
had other struggles to determine and others still faced him, that he
was too tired arguing the matter of _kaddish_ with himself for any
argument with her, that, in short, he would go, as she threatened, and
become an errand boy or a clerk, her anger relaxed. It was certain he
was very worn out, and if he actually left the bosom of his family, his
last tie with Judaism would be snapped, and--who knew? he might, God
forbid, even marry a Gentile, a _goyah_! What a scandal it would be!
Benjamin would lose his Jewish clientele, it would shake Reb Monash's
_chayder_ to its foundations, and what would be thought of a _maggid_
whose son ... No, the matter was too terrible to think of! They must
be patient, perhaps God would be kind even yet! Yet it was hard, very
hard to bear! Not for all her resolutions could she stifle periodic
outbursts of wrath. Philip would rise from the table with shut lips
and retire to his room and his books.
Poetry had begun to lose its savour for him. Poetry tinkled. He
discovered a volume of the _Poems and Ballads_. It mystified and
annoyed him. He was in no mood for the sheer unrelated beauty of
Keats, and Tennyson seemed fit only to read on a bench among the tulip
beds of Longton Park. His feet held him too heavily to the ground to
allow, with Shelley, any excursion into the empyrean. As yet it was an
atmosphere too rare for him to breathe again; there was too much of the
graveyard damp in his lungs. The equilibristic clap-trap of "Ulalume"
and "The Raven" filled him at first with indignation and then with mere
mirth.
The routine of school made as yet hardly any break in the even tenour
of his mind. Mr. Furness uttered a few words of sympathy, so quiet and
unobtrusive that without scraping the wound they gave to Philip a sense
of ease and understanding more than all the rhymed consolations of the
poets. With Browning he had more success, and though the robust
exuberance of the poet was out of harmony with Philip's prevailing
mood, here at least was stuff of the earth earthy, sound stuff for his
jaws to tackle with pertinacity. But the discovery he made which
nearest met his mood was the discovery of prose. With fiction, of
course, he had always been familiar. But this was no more prose in a
strict sense than Pope was poetry. Each existed for a purpose beyond
its medium, Dickens for his tale and Pope for his precept. But when he
casually picked up at a handcart in the Swinford market a copy of the
_Religio Medici_, chiefly for a melancholy delight in its mere odour of
antique must, and thus casually stumbled on a music which had more than
the subtlety of verse, and none of its arbitrary divisions, he was
carried away upon an untravelled sea. The "Urn Burial" he chanted
night after night. The _History_ of Clarendon and the _Compleat
Angler_ were a similar experience, the mere narrative of the first and
the piscatorial erudition of the other affecting him as not truly
relevant to the prose in which they were written, being merely moulds
to give their music one shape instead of another shape. He moved
lazily towards the more troubled seas of Swift and was suddenly tossing
helplessly in those furious waters; until release allowed him to seek
amiable harbourage with Dick Steele and, disregarding lordlily an
intervening century, in the pleasant coves of Lamb.
It was not that the agony of those summer days, the telegram at Wenton,
the cemetery, the words he had uttered in Angel Street and their
consequence, were submerged quickly or in the least. For long, periods
of listless vacuity clogged Philip's feet and mind. He would sit
musing for hours over an unfinished meal or stand in prolonged and
joyless reverie before a hardware shop. The slow blood in his veins
called for no action. No dream of sky or hills was potent enough to
prick his limbs with desire to be moving beyond the bounds of the city
and along the climbing roads. So for a time these voyages with the
learned and dead doctors of prose were the only adventures of his soul.
Almost with the first quickening of spring, something of the old unease
twitched his body. He realized that his friend Alec, from whom no word
had come to him, had not once entered his mind; that even Harry, upon
whom he had stumbled several times, had in no wise concerned him. He
had seen him once or twice with a lady. Details of her had not
impressed themselves upon him. He knew only that she seemed ten or
twenty years older than his friend, and a plain woman; distinctly, a
plain woman. He determined to call for Harry and suggest a tram ride
into the country.
"I'm sorry," Harry had said awkwardly. "I'm afraid I can't! I'm quite
fixed up. I never have time to go with any one else."
"I beg your pardon," said Philip huffily, "really I shouldn't like to
intrude! It just occurred to me that we used to have something to do
with one another not so very long ago. I think I'd best not keep you
any longer now."
"Philip, try and be a sport, if you can!" Harry entreated. "My time's
not my own. You're not old enough yet, so you can't possibly
understand! No offence meant!"
"What's the good of crowing about--what's your haughty age--nearly
eighteen? It's a privilege bought by mere waiting!"
"Of course I could trust you to misunderstand. The fact is there's
every chance of my getting--for God's sake don't tell a word to any
one--", he dropped his voice and looked carefully round, "of my getting
married!"
"Good God, man, you're a baby! Don't be a fool!"
"Oh, don't try that game on me! I'm old enough for marrying, if I'm
old enough to be a father. Don't look so startled! I don't mean to
say that I am. That's the trouble! Yes, it was a pretty sound
instinct that prevented me from going round to see you, even when they
kept her in after hours! I see the sort of sympathy I could have
expected!"
"But who on earth is it?"
"Didn't we see you somewhere or other about ten days ago when we were
together?"
"Do you mean that----?"
"Yes, that's Miss Walpole!" he said austerely. "The trouble is that we
can't really decide if I am the father actually or not!" he went on in
a sudden burst of confidence. "But the baby's due before long and
there's only one thing left for a decent chap to do. That's apart
entirely from the fact that the girl means everything to me now!" he
said with assumed airiness.
"Don't be so bloody, Harry!" Philip burst out. A clearer vision of the
lady presented itself to him than when she passed before him in the
flesh. "She's a hag of eighty!"
The face of the infatuated youth turned white with wrath. "I think the
sooner you take your filthy face through that door the better! You and
your blasted impertinence!"
Dignity demanded a frigid and immediate withdrawal.
"I'll be damned!" Philip murmured, "a chap with a mind like Harry's!
Lord, it was as hard as a knife! Poor old devil, I suppose he'll wake
up in a month and find himself up to the neck! Who's left? That's
what I want to know! All the old landmarks are washed away. What the
hell is a chap to do? Who's left?" The question drummed insistently
into his ears. He found himself aching for friendship. For the last
few months he had hardly uttered a word excepting a request for the
sugar, perhaps, and a reply to a question at school. His general
friendlessness filled him with humiliation. The Walton Street phase
had drawn to its dull end long ago and not a figure remained who
offered the least hope of companionship. Alec, like the callous swine
he had always felt Alec fundamentally to be, had merely
disappeared--bearing with him the telescope of high romance, as might
have been expected. On Harry the gods had inflicted a terrible
cerebral affliction. Philip remembered Harry's attendant lady and
shuddered. And Harry had been sweet on Edie once! Oh, yes, Edie!
What was it he had heard Dorah and Benjamin saying about Edie? He
remembered. Her photograph had been seen by a "millionaire" in the
house of a relative of Edie in Pittsburg, U.S.A. The "millionaire,"
promptly enamoured, had entered into negotiations with the authorities
in Doomington, the negotiations were succeeded by a trunk of the most
astounding dresses and a first-class ticket to Pittsburg. So much for
Edie! In any case she had worn thin ages ago. Then it was that Mamie
returned to his mind.
His first thought was "Damn that girl! I thought I'd forgotten her!"
She filled him with a vivid sense of guilt. "I've had enough!" he
vowed. His mind returned to the episode of the signature, and to
escape his contrition, he fled from the house and walked swiftly down
Blenheim Road. To his horror he discovered that every step he took was
actually a step nearer the enchantress. To his horror he was forced to
recognize that the thought of her made him tingle with pleasure. The
recollection of her began to torture him. It was a double infliction,
sensations of guilt and promptings of delight struggling for mastery.
When his mind returned to his mother, his despair was more abandoned
than it had been since the summer. Yet ever when his gloom was most
profound, the girl re-entered his thoughts, whistling as she turned the
corner of the barn, brushing his cheeks with her hair.
"By God!" he exclaimed. "I lent her that prose translation of Dante!"
(He remembered that she had asked who had wrote Dante, and that she had
thought it so _delincate_ of him to lend her so sweet a book. And when
she'd just finished the Pansy Bright-eye Library she was reading, she'd
_love_ to learn all about this here Dante. She was sure he'd be _that_
interesting!)
Which lack of culture had then rather accentuated than diminished her
charm, a quaint sort of sophisticated naïveté. "Of course, I've got to
get my book back! I'll call for it to-morrow night!"
He knocked firmly at the door of the Mamie household. A miniature
version of Mamie appeared. He asked if Philip Massel could see Miss
Mamie.... The child disappeared into the sitting-room half-way along
the passage. A whispering which seemed to last many minutes followed.
Then the child reappeared and ushered him into the room. The glare of
an admirable incandescent mantle blinded him for a moment. There were
three or four people in the room but immediately he only recognized
Mrs. Hannetstein. A familiar voice addressed him.
"Oh, good evening, Mr.--er--Massel, so glad you've called!"
He turned to the source of the voice. Good heavens, was that Mamie?
Hell, she'd got her hair up! You couldn't quite compare her to Harry's
discovery, but she was years older than she had seemed! He was aware
she had called him Mr. Massel. He would have to follow suit. Perhaps
it was mere intrigue. He held out his arm waveringly. "Good evening,
Miss..." He found, to his despair, he had entirely forgotten her
surname. "I mean, Miss..." He coughed unhappily. But Mamie, so far
from assisting him in his embarrassment, was unaware of it.
"Mother, this is Mr. Massel! We met, where was it? Oh, of course, in
Wenton. Do you remember this gentleman, auntie? He helped me to
escape from some cows, didn't you?"
"Yes," he managed to stammer, "and they were ravenous as wolves! I was
awfully brave!"
Everybody laughed politely.
"I was just going to practise my latest song, 'Red Hearts, Red Roses.'
_Do_ sit down, won't you?" Mamie pressed.
"Thank you!"
"So glad you've come, but you don't mind my practising this song before
my accompanist comes, Mr. Mendel, you know, the famous violinist!"
"Ah, Mamie, ah!" exclaimed her aunt waggishly, shaking the first finger
of her left hand in humorous admonition.
"Don't be silly, auntie!" Mamie cried with a skittishness almost
elderly. She sat down at the piano, and struck a few chords. Then Red
Hearts bled, Red Roses drooped for some minutes.
Philip sat stiffly on his chair, wondering at the precise reason that
had brought him here. He wished she hadn't put her hair up. He
wondered dimly if he was in love with her. If he was, he supposed he
ought to keep his eyes glued on her face in a peculiarly tense way.
But it was distracting to see her lips moving in that active
manner--like red mice, twisting!
"Oh, by the way," said Mamie at the conclusion of her song. "I was
sorry to hear of your loss. Mrs. Kraft told me. It must have been
awfully unpleasant!"
"It was rather rotten!" Philip muttered with difficulty.
What a peculiarly unreal air the girl gave to sorrow and death.
Inexplicable creature! Was this politely tittering oldish young lady
the girl whose lips had sought his own like a bee? What was the matter
with him now, or what had been wrong then? His own pose on the chair,
the piano, everything was strained, a little false. But over in
Wheatley, the cemetery, the grave, there was no unreality! Damp clay
and the sprawling weeds! No, he must wrench his mind away from
Wheatley, or he'd never be able to peel the apple that was lying in a
plate on his knees.
"To be sure," said Mrs. Hannetstein comfortably, "Death comes to us all
sooner or later! Don't you think so, Mr. Massel?"
There seemed no reason to repudiate the assertion.
Conversation trickled in a thin stream. Philip was conscious of a
certain slight unease in the air. Wasn't it about time he was going?
It certainly was time he set about doing what he came to do. Then what
on earth was it he had come for?
There was a loud knock at the door. "That'll be Adolf!" declared
Mamie, rising from the piano stool with a glad yelp. "Run to the door,
Esther!"
A masterly tread was heard along the lobby.
"There you are, darling!" said Mamie, as a tall fair gentleman opened
the door, and stared possessively into the room. "Won't you put your
violin down first?"
He put his violin down in a corner with deliberation and as
deliberately caught Mamie in his arms. That ceremony over, he sat down
and blinked inquiringly towards Philip.
"Adolf, dear, this is a young gentleman who was staying in Wenton when
I was there!" said Mamie, with vague discomfort.
"Very glad to meet him, to be sure!" said Adolf.
"Mr. Massel, this is Adolf Mendel, the violinist! My fiancé," she
added with a note of deferential pride.
Her fiancé ... then she'd ... her _fiancé_...!
The blustering, big-boned lout, what the devil did he mean by taking
everything for granted in this gruff cocksure way! Had he ever sat
with her in the angle of a barn and a haystack, kissing like hell! Had
her eyelashes ever ... and her lips...
And she there, the vampire, what did she mean by it! Oh, blast her and
the whole empty-headed crowd of them with their Red Roses and squeaky
violins!
Anyhow, thank God, it was over! She'd pricked the bubble of his
insufferably stupid illusion! In her degree and kind she'd gone the
way of all the rest--Edie, Alec, Harry! What an idiotic room it was,
with its refined knick-knacks on the mantelpiece and that creature with
her hair up and the red-plush-framed photograph of Blackpool on the
piano! They were discussing music and songs with a wealth of
ostentatious esoteric detail. That was obvious enough surely. They
wanted him to clear. He rose to go. Mamie perceived it with alacrity
from the corner of her eye.
"Oh, I'm so sorry you've got to go!" she said effusively. "And I'm
awfully sorry about that too, you know! You will come round again?
Shan't he, Adolf, you'd love to see Mr. Massel again! Not at all, not
at all; oh, good night!"
On the other side of the door he remembered his translation of Dante.
"Blast Dante!" he exclaimed through his teeth.
It was the fit of profound misogyny which followed this entirely
unsatisfactory incident that fitted him so completely for the
effusiveness and glitter of Wilfrid Strauss, and for that interlude
with Kate which, only too conventional in its mere detail, was
nevertheless at once the end and the beginning of Philip Massel's
boyhood.