FITZJOHN’S AVENUE, HAMPSTEAD,--OR JERUSALEM?
On the following Sunday, David Salmon called at Great Cumberland Place
to take his beloved to an evening party, which Mrs. Mike Rosen was
giving in her honour. Mrs. Rosen possessed a large circle of friends,
and entertained with lavish hospitality, especially on the first Sunday
in the month, when her house was thrown open from three o’clock until
midnight for the reception of her guests. On this occasion, being an off
Sunday, the guests had been specially invited “to meet my friend Miss
Celia Franks,” and Celia had received a particular request to bring her
music and her voice--as though she were in the habit of leaving the
latter at home.
The opportunity which David sought had now arrived. As the hansom bowled
smoothly along the wood-paved streets he pressed his claim, and urged
Celia to name an early date for the wedding. He had waited so long, he
said, because he did not wish to interfere with the musical studies
necessary to her professional career; but there was now no longer any
reason for delay that he could see, and he was tired of being an engaged
man; he was anxious to marry and settle down.
His desire was reasonable, and Celia admitted that it was perfectly
just. She had been expecting him to introduce the subject for some time
past, and should have been prepared. She was prepared in a sense, and
yet--
“Can’t you wait a little longer, David?” she pleaded diffidently,
looking into his face with troubled eyes.
“There is nothing to wait for now,” he answered. “It is only natural
that I should wish to claim my bride.”
He was quite right; there was nothing to wait for. Celia admitted that
too, with a little tightening at her heart. Gazing straight in front of
her at the trotting horse and dusty road, she tried to find some excuse
for asking for a further delay, but except the possible production of
Guy Haviland’s play, no excuse was forthcoming. She could not tell him,
very well, that the thought of marriage awakened no joyful anticipation
of future bliss, and that she would much prefer the freedom of
spinsterhood for, say, another five years. Nor could she still plead her
youth--she was twenty-three now; quite old enough to be married.
“Say September,” he urged, as the cab turned into Fitzjohn’s Avenue.
“That will give you plenty of time to make all arrangements, won’t it?”
“Oh no. Why, it’s July already. I must ask Herbert and Lady
Marjorie----”
“What has Lady Marjorie to do with it?” he broke in almost petulantly.
“Whenever I ask you to decide anything, you always put it on to Lady
Marjorie. She seems to have got you completely under her thumb. There is
no need to ask her advice in everything.”
Celia’s courage returned. “Why not?” she said warmly. “Lady Marjorie is
about the truest friend I have. She has known me since I was quite a
little girl, and has almost taken the place of the mother whom I lost. I
shall never do badly if I take her advice; she is quite the cleverest
and the dearest woman I know.”
David saw that he had better leave Lady Marjorie out of the question.
“Well, can’t you give me any idea of the date?” he said, determined not
to be put off this time. “The Rosens are sure to ask us about it
to-night; they always do. Such a long engagement as ours is quite
exceptional amongst Jewish people. They will begin to think there is
something fishy about it soon.”
Celia shrugged her shoulders; it was a regular little Jewish shrug.
“It doesn’t matter to us what they think,” she replied, as the cab drew
up before a pretentious-looking red-brick house half-way up the hill.
“But you can tell them that it will take place next spring, if you like.
When we have consulted Herbert we shall be able to say more definitely.”
And with that David was obliged to be content; but he made up his mind
to write to Herbert Karne without delay. He would not rest until the
actual date was fixed.
Mrs. Rosen’s house presented quite a festive appearance. Although it was
not quite dark, lights gleamed from every window, and the front door,
which stood invitingly open, disclosed a profusion of plants and flowers
in the hall.
Inside the porch stood Mike Rosen himself. He was in evening dress, an
ample expanse of shirt-front being adorned by a large and dazzling
diamond stud. When he caught sight of Celia alighting from the hansom,
he came down the steps to greet her, and leaving David to settle with
the perspiring Jehu, escorted her gallantly into the house.
“Well, I am pleased to see you, my dear,” he said, as a maid relieved
her of her wraps. “I’ve just been reading about you in the _Society
Gossip_. Good gracious me, the number of lords and ladies you’ve been
hobnobbing with! It will be a wonder if it doesn’t make you proud. I
suppose you haven’t brought an earl or a duke in your pocket now, have
you? We might exhibit him behind the nursery guard, penny a view.”
Celia did what was expected of her; she laughed, then followed her host
into the dining-room to have some iced coffee. There were others there
for the same purpose, including Lottie Friedberg, now Mrs. Woolf; and in
a high chair, playing with an indiarubber dog, sat Adeline’s son and
heir, aged eighteen months. Mike adored the baby even more than his
beloved “ferniture,” and had kept him up past his bedtime on purpose to
show him off before his guests: to hear them praise his little son was
like music to his ears.
Celia again did what was expected of her; she said he was the finest boy
for his age that she had ever seen, and kissed him on the top of his
head, and allowed him to play with her tiny jewelled watch. Mike’s face
positively beamed with good humour. He wanted his son to exhibit his
infantile accomplishments, to call the pussy, and clap hands, and
various other things which he had taught him; but his wife suddenly
appeared upon the scene, and commanded him to give the baby over to his
nurse.
“They are making up the tables for us in the library,” she said, when
she had given Celia an effusive welcome. “You had better join the
gentlemen in the smoke-room, Mike; they are playing bluff. Celia dear,
you don’t play cards, do you? Will you watch David for a little
while--they want him for a fourth until Mrs. Joseph comes--or would you
like to join the young folks in the drawing-room? We shall all come in
to hear you sing a little later on.”
Celia did not mind either way, so at David’s request she went with him
to the library. A number of small tables covered with white damask
cloths filled the room; and at each table sat four players, ready to
start their usual game of solo whist. They all seemed to be talking at
once, apparently indifferent as to whether any one listened to them or
not; but a sudden silence fell as Celia entered. They had heard so much
about her that they knew by instinct who she was, and did not scruple to
favour her with a prolonged stare, which might have embarrassed her, had
she been less self-possessed.
Mrs. Friedberg, resplendent in black satin and Guipure lace, received
her with a kindly dignity assumed for the occasion, and having given a
general introduction, invited her to sit at her own table and watch the
play.
Solo whist is undoubtedly a fascinating game to those who take part in
it, but to an outsider it has not much charm. Celia’s interest soon
flagged, and she found herself watching the players rather than the game
itself. Most of them were buxom matrons of comely appearance and
cheerful manner. Their fingers were covered with rings, which flashed
and sparkled as they dexterously manipulated the cards. Celia thought
they made too much of a business of the game, for large sums of money
changed hands during the course of the evening; and she could not help
noticing the evident satisfaction of the winners, and the disagreeable
expressions of the losers, although to some of them it seemed a matter
of indifference whether they won or lost. A breathless silence reigned
whilst each round was being played, only to be followed by a noisy
passage-at-arms between two or more of the players as soon as it was
over.
Mrs. Friedberg was constantly in trouble, for she was so busily engaged
in gleaning the latest bits of gossip from her friends, that she was not
able to give her undivided attention to the game. On one occasion she
revoked, just when her dearest friend Mrs. Solomon had gone a _misere_.
The lady resented it, and told her she ought to be more careful,
whereupon Mrs. Friedberg’s ire was aroused, and she began to be
personal. An unpleasant quarrel seemed imminent, until David Salmon
threatened to leave the table if they did not amicably settle the
dispute.
Celia looked on in silent disapproval. The constant chink of the money
seemed to get on her nerves, and she found that the play made her
_fiancé_ irritable. She was not sorry when Adeline asked her to sing,
and the cards were thrown down for a time. A general move was made to
the drawing-room, where a number of young people, led by Dinah
Friedberg, were amusing themselves in a somewhat noisy manner.
David took Celia’s arm with an air of proud possession. Her fair and
delicate loveliness formed a striking contrast to the pronounced
features and olive complexions which constituted the predominant type of
beauty present.
Mike Rosen vociferously sounded the gong--not for supper, but in order
to command silence. Then he asked Celia what she was going to sing.
“I will tell you what I should like to hear, and that’s ‘Jerusalem,’” he
said. “I heard a man play it on the cornet the other day; it was grand.
I went at once and bought the music for Adeline.”
“He means the ‘Holy City,’” explained his wife. “Mike likes anything
with a good swing about it.”
She found the music, which happened to be in the right key, and Lottie
played the accompaniment. Celia considered the song unsuited to a Jewish
audience, but she sang it with appropriate feeling, nevertheless, and no
one appeared to realize that the words were quite contrary to Jewish
belief. They made her sing the last verse over again, some of them
lustily joining in the chorus.
Mike Rosen was delighted. “It quite makes me want to go to Jerusalem,”
he said. “David, give me another brandy and soda on the strength of it.”
“Well, why don’t you join the Zionists?” said Lottie’s husband,
facetiously. “I believe they are on the look-out for people who want to
go there.”
“I do belong to the Zionists,” returned Mike, promptly. “Didn’t I
subscribe fifty pounds to the trust only last week?”
“Did you, indeed? Then I suppose you have already engaged a Pullman-car
to take you to Palestine. When do you start? We will all come and give
you a hearty send-off.”
A general titter of amusement went round the room. Mike chuckled
good-humouredly.
“Ah, that’s a different thing,” he said. “I will gladly pay to send the
poor Yidden[13] there, but as for going myself, I think I would rather
wait until they’ve got the electric light, the telephone, and the
‘tuppeny tube’ before I go, thank you. There is no Fitzjohn’s Avenue in
Jerusalem. I wouldn’t mind going there on a visit, though. Don’t we say,
‘next year at Jerusalem?’”
“We don’t always say what we mean,” answered his wife. “Be quiet, Mike,
Celia is going to give us another song.”
Mr. Rosen obediently remained silent, and Celia proceeded to charm her
audience once more with her full, sweet voice. She sang entirely without
affectation of manner, and the natural ease with which the tuneful notes
issued forth from her slender throat elicited surprise and admiration.
The song concluded, supper was announced. Mike Rosen gave his arm to
Celia, and called her “little Tommy Tucker,” because she had sung for
her supper. He considered that very funny, and felt somewhat aggrieved
that no one else appreciated his wit. With great dignity he took her
into the dining-room, and gave her the place of honour at his right
hand.
On her left sat David Salmon, with Dinah Friedberg as his partner. Dinah
had grown into a very stylish girl, with plenty of what her mother
called _chein_.[14] She had lovely dark eyes, which she used as a kind
of battery to enforce the homage of the opposite sex, and was not averse
to boasting of the conquests she had made. She snubbed David
unmercifully, and teased him with a pertness of manner which put him on
his mettle, but she was very fond of him all the same; and, although she
would not have confessed it, was terribly jealous of his _fiancée_.
As the meal progressed, her flippancy increased, and she insisted on
drinking his health in champagne. Then when order was called for the
Rev. Isaac Abrahams to say grace, she made a dunce’s-cap out of her
serviette, and stuck it on David’s head. This proceeding quite shocked
Celia; but she found to her surprise that many of the young men followed
suit. They were obliged to cover their heads while grace was being said;
and as serviettes met the needs of the case, they did not trouble to
fetch their hats. The Rev. Mr. Abrahams, who wore a black silk cap,
smiled at them indulgently as he chanted the long Hebrew prayers. He
evidently saw no irreverence in adorning one’s head like a guy in order
to praise one’s Maker, although to Celia’s way of thinking it was little
less than an insult to the majesty of God. The young people, however,
seemed to consider it a good joke, for it created a diversion, and
lightened the tedium of the grace.
In talking over the events of the evening on the drive back to Great
Cumberland Place, Celia commented on the incident, and expressed her
disapproval.
David was greatly amused. “What a curious girl you are!” he said. “I
wonder what makes you notice these things? You always seem to be picking
Jewish habits and customs to pieces. You take everything so seriously,
Celia. A little incident like this isn’t worth talking about; it is such
a trifling thing.”
It was indeed a trifling thing, but a straw shows how the wind lays; and
it was just those trifling things which filled Celia with disgust, and
ratified her opinion of the lack of spirituality in modern Judaism.
However, it was of no use to discuss the question with David; he would
not, or could not, understand.