"and I'll tell the attendant to get you a cup, for I dragged you away
from dinner before the crown and climax of the meal; I have always
noticed myself that when I am interrupted in my meals, all sorts of
bugbears, scientific or otherwise, take possession of my mind."
He called the attendant.
"Esther has the most nonsensical opinions," said Addie gravely. "As if
people weren't responsible for their actions! Do good and all shall be
well with thee, is sound Bible teaching and sound common sense."
"Yes, but isn't it the Bible that says, 'The fathers have eaten a sour
grape and the teeth of the children are set on edge'?" Esther retorted.
Addie looked perplexed. "It sounds contradictory," she said honestly.
"Not at all, Addie," said Esther. "The Bible is a literature, not a
book. If you choose to bind Tennyson and Milton in one volume that
doesn't make them a book. And you can't complain if you find
contradictions in the text. Don't you think the sour grape text the
truer, Mr. Graham?"
"Don't ask me, please. I'm prejudiced against anything that appears in
the Bible."
In his flippant way Sidney spoke the truth. He had an almost physical
repugnance for his fathers' ways of looking at things.
"I think you're the two most wicked people in the world," exclaimed
Addie gravely.
"We are," said Sidney lightly. "I wonder you consent to sit in the same
box with us. How you can find my company endurable I can never make
out."
Addie's lovely face flushed and her lip quivered a little.
"It's your friend who's the wickeder of the two," pursued Sidney. "For
she's in earnest and I'm not. Life's too short for us to take the
world's troubles on our shoulders, not to speak of the unborn millions.
A little light and joy, the flush of sunset or of a lovely woman's face,
a fleeting strain of melody, the scent of a rose, the flavor of old
wine, the flash of a jest, and ah, yes, a cup of coffee--here's yours,
Miss Ansell--that's the most we can hope for in life. Let us start a
religion with one commandment: 'Enjoy thyself.'"
"That religion has too many disciples already," said Esther, stirring
her coffee.
"Then why not start it if you wish to reform the world," asked Sidney.
"All religions survive merely by being broken. With only one commandment
to break, everybody would jump at the chance. But so long as you tell
people they mustn't enjoy themselves, they will, it's human nature, and
you can't alter that by Act of Parliament or Confession of Faith. Christ
ran amuck at human nature, and human nature celebrates his birthday with
pantomimes."
"Christ understood human nature better than the modern young man," said
Esther scathingly, "and the proof lies in the almost limitless impress
he has left on history."
"Oh, that was a fluke," said Sidney lightly. "His real influence is only
superficial. Scratch the Christian and you find the Pagan--spoiled."
"He divined by genius what science is slowly finding out," said Esther,
"when he said, 'Forgive them for they know not what they do'!--"
Sidney laughed heartily. "That seems to be your King Charles's
head--seeing divinations of modern science in all the old ideas.
Personally I honor him for discovering that the Sabbath was made for
man, not man for the Sabbath. Strange he should have stopped half-way to
the truth!"
"What is the truth?" asked Addie curiously.
"Why, that morality was made for man, not man for morality," said
Sidney. "That chimera of meaningless virtue which the Hebrew has brought
into the world is the last monster left to slay. The Hebrew view of life
is too one-sided. The Bible is a literature without a laugh in it. Even
Raphael thinks the great Radical of Galilee carried spirituality too
far."
"Yes, he thinks he would have been reconciled to the Jewish doctors and
would have understood them better," said Addie, "only he died so young."
"That's a good way of putting it!" said Sidney admiringly. "One can see
Raphael is my cousin despite his religious aberrations. It opens up new
historical vistas. Only it is just like Raphael to find excuses for
everybody, and Judaism in everything. I am sure he considers the devil a
good Jew at heart; if he admits any moral obliquity in him, he puts it
down to the climate."
This made Esther laugh outright, even while there were tears for Raphael
in the laugh. Sidney's intellectual fascination reasserted itself over
her; there seemed something inspiring in standing with him on the free
heights that left all the clogging vapors and fogs of moral problems
somewhere below; where the sun shone and the clear wind blew and talk
was a game of bowls with Puritan ideals for ninepins. He went on amusing
her till the curtain rose, with a pretended theory of Mohammedology
which he was working at. Just as for the Christian Apologist the Old
Testament was full of hints of the New, so he contended was the New
Testament full of foreshadowings of the Koran, and he cited as a most
convincing text, "In Heaven, there shall be no marrying, nor giving in
marriage." He professed to think that Mohammedanism was the dark horse
that would come to the front in the race of religions and win in the
west as it had won in the east.
"There's a man staring dreadfully at you, Esther," said Addie, when the
curtain fell on the second act.
"Nonsense!" said Esther, reluctantly returning from the realities of the
play to the insipidities of actual life. "Whoever it is, it must be at
you."
She looked affectionately at the great glorious creature at her side,
tall and stately, with that winning gentleness of expression which
spiritualizes the most voluptuous beauty. Addie wore pale sea-green, and
there were lilies of the valley at her bosom, and a diamond star in her
hair. No man could admire her more than Esther, who felt quite vain of
her friend's beauty and happy to bask in its reflected sunshine. Sidney
followed her glance and his cousin's charms struck him with almost novel
freshness. He was so much with Addie that he always took her for
granted. The semi-unconscious liking he had for her society was based on
other than physical traits. He let his eyes rest upon her for a moment
in half-surprised appreciation, figuring her as half-bud, half-blossom.
Really, if Addie had not been his cousin and a Jewess! She was not much
of a cousin, when he came to cipher it out, but then she was a good deal
of a Jewess!
"I'm sure it's you he's staring at," persisted Addie.
"Don't be ridiculous," persisted Esther. "Which man do you mean?"
"There! The fifth row of stalls, the one, two, four, seven, the seventh
man from the end! He's been looking at you all through, but now he's
gone in for a good long stare. There! next to that pretty girl in pink."
"Do you mean the young man with the dyed carnation in his buttonhole and
the crimson handkerchief in his bosom?"
"Yes, that's the one. Do you know him?"
"No," said Esther, lowering her eyes and looking away. But when Addie
informed her that the young man had renewed his attentions to the girl
in pink, she levelled her opera-glass at him. Then she shook her head.
"There seems something familiar about his face, but I cannot for the
life of me recall who it is."
"The something familiar about his face is his nose," said Addie
laughing, "for it is emphatically Jewish."
"At that rate," said Sidney, "nearly half the theatre would be familiar,
including a goodly proportion of the critics, and Hamlet and Ophelia
themselves. But I know the fellow."
"You do? Who is he?" asked the girls eagerly.
"I don't know. He's one of the mashers of the _Frivolity_. I'm another,
and so we often meet. But we never speak as we pass by. To tell the
truth, I resent him."
"It's wonderful how fond Jews are of the theatre," said Esther, "and
how they resent other Jews going."
"Thank you," said Sidney. "But as I'm not a Jew the arrow glances off."
"Not a Jew?" repeated Esther in amaze.
"No. Not in the current sense. I always deny I'm a Jew."
"How do you justify that?" said Addie incredulously.
"Because it would be a lie to say I was. It would be to produce a false
impression. The conception of a Jew in the mind of the average Christian
is a mixture of Fagin, Shylock, Rothschild and the caricatures of the
American comic papers. I am certainly not like that, and I'm not going
to tell a lie and say I am. In conversation always think of your
audience. It takes two to make a truth. If an honest man told an old
lady he was an atheist, that would be a lie, for to her it would mean he
was a dissolute reprobate. To call myself 'Abrahams' would be to live a
daily lie. I am not a bit like the picture called up by Abrahams. Graham
is a far truer expression of myself."
"Extremely ingenious," said Esther smiling. "But ought you not rather to
utilize yourself for the correction of the portrait of Abrahams?"
Sidney shrugged his shoulders. "Why should I subject myself to petty
martyrdom for the sake of an outworn creed and a decaying sect?"
"We are not decaying," said Addie indignantly.
"Personally you are blossoming," said Sidney, with a mock bow. "But
nobody can deny that our recent religious history has been a series of
dissolving views. Look at that young masher there, who is still ogling
your fascinating friend; rather, I suspect, to the annoyance of the
young lady in pink, and compare him with the old hard-shell Jew. When I
was a lad named Abrahams, painfully training in the way I wasn't going
to go, I got an insight into the lives of my ancestors. Think of the
people who built up the Jewish prayer-book, who added line to line and
precept to precept, and whose whole thought was intertwined with
religion, and then look at that young fellow with the dyed carnation and
the crimson silk handkerchief, who probably drives a drag to the Derby,
and for aught I know runs a music hall. It seems almost incredible he
should come of that Puritan old stock."
"Not at all," said Esther. "If you knew more of our history, you would
see it is quite normal. We were always hankering after the gods of the
heathen, and we always loved magnificence; remember our Temples. In
every land we have produced great merchants and rulers, prime-ministers,
viziers, nobles. We built castles in Spain (solid ones) and palaces in
Venice. We have had saints and sinners, free livers and ascetics,
martyrs and money-lenders. Polarity, Graetz calls the self-contradiction
which runs through our history. I figure the Jew as the eldest-born of
Time, touching the Creation and reaching forward into the future, the
true _blasé_ of the Universe; the Wandering Jew who has been everywhere,
seen everything, done everything, led everything, thought everything and
suffered everything."
"Bravo, quite a bit of Beaconsfieldian fustian," said Sidney laughing,
yet astonished. "One would think you were anxious to assert yourself
against the ancient peerage of this mushroom realm."
"It is the bare historical truth," said Esther, quietly. "We are so
ignorant of our own history--can we wonder at the world's ignorance of
it? Think of the part the Jew has played--Moses giving the world its
morality, Jesus its religion, Isaiah its millennial visions, Spinoza its
cosmic philosophy, Ricardo its political economy, Karl Marx and Lassalle
its socialism, Heine its loveliest poetry, Mendelssohn its most restful
music, Rachael its supreme acting--and then think of the stock Jew of
the American comic papers! There lies the real comedy, too deep for
laughter."
"Yes, but most of the Jews you mention were outcasts or apostates,"
retorted Sidney. "There lies the real tragedy, too deep for tears. Ah,
Heine summed it up best: 'Judaism is not a religion; it is a
misfortune.' But do you wonder at the intolerance of every nation
towards its Jews? It is a form of homage. Tolerate them and they spell
'Success,' and patriotism is an ineradicable prejudice. Since when have
you developed this extraordinary enthusiasm for Jewish history? I
always thought you were an anti-Semite."
Esther blushed and meditatively sniffed at her bouquet, but fortunately
the rise of the curtain relieved her of the necessity far a reply. It
was only a temporary relief, however, for the quizzical young artist
returned to the subject immediately the act was over.
"I know you're in charge of the aesthetic department of the _Flag_," he
said. "I had no idea you wrote the leaders."
"Don't be absurd!" murmured Esther.
"I always told Addie Raphael could never write so eloquently; didn't I,
Addie? Ah, I see you're blushing to find it fame, Miss Ansell."
Esther laughed, though a bit annoyed. "How can you suspect me of writing
orthodox leaders?" she asked.
"Well, who else _is_ there?" urged Sidney, with mock _naïveté_. "I went
down there once and saw the shanty. The editorial sanctum was crowded.
Poor Raphael was surrounded by the queerest looking set of creatures I
ever clapped eyes on. There was a quaint lunatic in a check suit,
describing his apocalyptic visions; a dragoman with sore eyes and a
grievance against the Board of Guardians; a venerable son of Jerusalem
with a most artistic white beard, who had covered the editorial table
with carved nick-nacks in olive and sandal-wood; an inventor who had
squared the circle and the problem of perpetual motion, but could not
support himself; a Roumanian exile with a scheme for fertilizing
Palestine; and a wild-eyed hatchet-faced Hebrew poet who told me I was a
famous patron of learning, and sent me his book soon after with a Hebrew
inscription which I couldn't read, and a request for a cheque which I
didn't write. I thought I just capped the company of oddities, when in
came a sallow red-haired chap, with the extraordinary name of
Karlkammer, and kicked up a deuce of a shine with Raphael for altering
his letter. Raphael mildly hinted that the letter was written in such
unintelligible English that he had to grapple with it for an hour before
he could reduce it to the coherence demanded of print. But it was no
use; it seems Raphael had made him say something heterodox he didn't
mean, and he insisted on being allowed to reply to his own letter! He
had brought the counter-blast with him; six sheets of foolscap with all
the t's uncrossed, and insisted on signing it with his own name. I said,
'Why not? Set a Karlkammer to answer to a Karlkammer.' But Raphael said
it would make the paper a laughing-stock, and between the dread of that
and the consciousness of having done the man a wrong, he was quite
unhappy. He treats all his visitors with angelic consideration, when in
another newspaper office the very office-boy would snub them. Of course,
nobody has a bit of consideration for him or his time or his purse."
"Poor Raphael!" murmured Esther, smiling sadly at the grotesque images
conjured up by Sidney's description.
"I go down there now whenever I want models," concluded Sidney gravely.
"Well, it is only right to hear what those poor people have to say,"
Addie observed. "What is a paper for except to right wrongs?"
"Primitive person!" said Sidney. "A paper exists to make a profit."
"Raphael's doesn't," retorted Addie.
"Of course not," laughed Sidney. "It never will, so long as there's a
conscientious editor at the helm. Raphael flatters nobody and reserves
his praises for people with no control of the communal advertisements.
Why, it quite preys upon his mind to think that he is linked to an
advertisement canvasser with a gorgeous imagination, who goes about
representing to the unwary Christian that the _Flag_ has a circulation
of fifteen hundred."
"Dear me!" said Addie, a smile of humor lighting up her beautiful
features.
"Yes," said Sidney, "I think he salves his conscience by an extra hour's
slumming in the evening. Most religious folks do their moral
book-keeping by double entry. Probably that's why he's not here
to-night."
"It's too bad!" said Addie, her face growing grave again. "He comes home
so late and so tired that he always falls asleep over his books."
"I don't wonder," laughed Sidney. "Look what he reads! Once I found him
nodding peacefully over Thomas à Kempis."
"Oh, he often reads that," said Addie. "When we wake him up and tell him
to go to bed, he says he wasn't sleeping, but thinking, turns over a
page and falls asleep again."
They all laughed.
"Oh, he's a famous sleeper," Addie continued. "It's as difficult to get
him out of bed as into it. He says himself he's an awful lounger and
used to idle away whole days before he invented time-tables. Now, he has
every hour cut and dried--he says his salvation lies in regular hours."
"Addie, Addie, don't tell tales out of school," said Sidney.
"Why, what tales?" asked Addie, astonished. "Isn't it rather to his
credit that he has conquered his bad habits?"
"Undoubtedly; but it dissipates the poetry in which I am sure Miss
Ansell was enshrouding him. It shears a man of his heroic proportions,
to hear he has to be dragged out of bed. These things should be kept in
the family."
Esther stared hard at the house. Her cheeks glowed as if the limelight
man had turned his red rays on them. Sidney chuckled mentally over his
insight. Addie smiled.
"Oh, nonsense. I'm sure Esther doesn't think less of him because he
keeps a time-table."
"You forget your friend has what you haven't--artistic instinct. It's
ugly. A man should be a man, not a railway system. If I were you, Addie,
I'd capture that time-table, erase lecturing and substitute
'cricketing.' Raphael would never know, and every afternoon, say at 2
P.M., he'd consult his time-table, and seeing he had to cricket, he'd
take up his stumps and walk to Regent's Park."
"Yes, but he can't play cricket," said Esther, laughing and glad of the
opportunity.
"Oh, can't he?" Sidney whistled. "Don't insult him by telling him that.
Why, he was in the Harrow eleven and scored his century in the match
with Eton; those long arms of his send the ball flying as if it were a
drawing-room ornament."
"Oh yes," affirmed Addie. "Even now, cricket is his one temptation."
Esther was silent. Her Raphael seemed toppling to pieces. The silence
seemed to communicate itself to her companions. Addie broke it by
sending Sidney to smoke a cigarette in the lobby. "Or else I shall feel
quite too selfish," she said. "I know you're just dying to talk to some
sensible people. Oh, I beg your pardon, Esther."
The squire of dames smiled but hesitated.
"Yes, do go," said Esther. "There's six or seven minutes more interval.
This is the longest wait."
"Ladies' will is my law," said Sidney, gallantly, and, taking a
cigarette case from his cloak, which was hung on a peg at the back of a
box, he strolled out. "Perhaps," he said, "I shall skip some Shakspeare
if I meet a congenial intellectual soul to gossip with."
He had scarce been gone two minutes when there came a gentle tapping at
the door and, the visitor being invited to come in, the girls were
astonished to behold the young gentleman with the dyed carnation and the
crimson silk handkerchief. He looked at Esther with an affable smile.
"Don't you remember me?" he said. The ring of his voice woke some
far-off echo in her brain. But no recollection came to her.
"I remembered you almost at once," he went on, in a half-reproachful
tone, "though I didn't care about coming up while you had another fellow
in the box. Look at me carefully, Esther."
The sound of her name on the stranger's lips set all the chords of
memory vibrating--she looked again at the dark oval face with the
aquiline nose, the glittering eyes, the neat black moustache, the
close-shaved cheeks and chin, and in a flash the past resurged and she
murmured almost incredulously, "Levi!"
The young man got rather red. "Ye-e-s!" he stammered. "Allow me to
present you my card." He took it out of a little ivory case and handed
it to her. It read, "Mr. Leonard James."
An amused smile flitted over Esther's face, passing into one of welcome.
She was not at all displeased to see him.
"Addie," she said. "This is Mr. Leonard James, a friend I used to know
in my girlhood."
"Yes, we were boys together, as the song says," said Leonard James,
smiling facetiously.
Addie inclined her head in the stately fashion which accorded so well
with her beauty and resumed her investigation of the stalls. Presently
she became absorbed in a tender reverie induced by the passionate waltz
music and she forgot all about Esther's strange visitor, whose words
fell as insensibly on her ears as the ticking of a familiar clock. But
to Esther, Leonard James's conversation was full of interest. The two
ugly ducklings of the back-pond had become to all appearance swans of
the ornamental water, and it was natural that they should gabble of auld
lang syne and the devious routes by which they had come together again.
"You see, I'm like you, Esther," explained the young man. "I'm not
fitted for the narrow life that suits my father and mother and my
sister. They've got no ideas beyond the house, and religion, and all
that sort of thing. What do you think my father wanted me to be? A
minister! Think of it! Ha! ha! ha! Me a minister! I actually did go for
a couple of terms to Jews' College. Oh, yes, you remember! Why, I was
there when you were a school-teacher and got taken up by the swells. But
our stroke of fortune came soon after yours. Did you never hear of it?
My, you must have dropped all your old acquaintances if no one ever told
you that! Why, father came in for a couple of thousand pounds! I thought
I'd make you stare. Guess who from?"
"I give it up," said Esther.
"Thank you. It was never yours to give," said Leonard, laughing jovially
at his wit. "Old Steinwein--you remember his death. It was in all the
papers; the eccentric old buffer, who was touched in the upper story,
and used to give so much time and money to Jewish affairs, setting up
lazy old rabbis in Jerusalem to shake themselves over their Talmuds. You
remember his gifts to the poor--six shillings sevenpence each because he
was seventy-nine years old and all that. Well, he used to send the
pater a basket of fruit every _Yomtov_. But he used to do that to every
Rabbi, all around, and my old man had not the least idea he was the
object of special regard till the old chap pegged out. Ah, there's
nothing like Torah, after all."
"You don't know what you may have lost through not becoming a minister,"
suggested Esther slily.
"Ah, but I know what I've gained. Do you think I could stand having my
hands and feet tied with phylacteries?" asked Leonard, becoming vividly
metaphoric in the intensity of his repugnance to the galling bonds of
orthodoxy. "Now, I do as I like, go where I please, eat what I please.
Just fancy not being able to join fellows at supper, because you mustn't
eat oysters or steak? Might as well go into a monastery at once. All
very well in ancient Jerusalem, where everybody was rowing in the same
boat. Have you ever tasted pork, Esther?"
"No," said Esther, with a faint smile.
"I have," said Leonard. "I don't say it to boast, but I have had it
times without number. I didn't like it the first time--thought it would
choke me, you know, but that soon wears off. Now I breakfast off ham and
eggs regularly. I go the whole hog, you see. Ha! ha! ha!"
"If I didn't see from your card you're not living at home, that would
have apprised me of it," said Esther.
"Of course, I couldn't live at home. Why the guvnor couldn't bear to let
me shave. Ha! ha! ha! Fancy a religion that makes you keep your hair on
unless you use a depilatory. I was articled to a swell solicitor. The
old man resisted a long time, but he gave in at last, and let me live
near the office."
"Ah, then I presume you came in for some of the two thousand, despite
your non-connection with Torah?"
"There isn't much left of it now," said Leonard, laughing. "What's two
thousand in seven years in London? There were over four hundred guineas
swallowed up by the premium, and the fees, and all that."
"Well, let us hope it'll all come back in costs."
"Well, between you and me," said Leonard, seriously, "I should be
surprised if it does. You see, I haven't yet scraped through the Final;
they're making the beastly exam. stiffer every year. No, it isn't to
that quarter I look to recoup myself for the outlay on my education."
"No?" said Esther.
"No. Fact is--between you and me--I'm going to be an actor."
"Oh!" said Esther.
"Yes. I've played several times in private theatricals; you know we Jews
have a knack for the stage; you'd be surprised to know how many pros are
Jews. There's heaps of money to be made now-a-days on the boards. I'm in
with lots of 'em, and ought to know. It's the only profession where you
don't want any training, and these law books are as dry as the Mishna
the old man used to make me study. Why, they say to-night's 'Hamlet' was
in a counting-house four years ago."
"I wish you success," said Esther, somewhat dubiously. "And how is your
sister Hannah? Is she married yet?"
"Married! Not she! She's got no money, and you know what our Jewish
young men are. Mother wanted her to have the two thousand pounds for a
dowry, but fortunately Hannah had the sense to see that it's the man
that's got to make his way in the world. Hannah is always certain of her
bread and butter, which is a good deal in these hard times. Besides,
she's naturally grumpy, and she doesn't go out of her way to make
herself agreeable to young men. It's my belief she'll die an old maid.
Well, there's no accounting for tastes."
"And your father and mother?"
"They're all right, I believe. I shall see them to-morrow
night--Passover, you know. I haven't missed a single _Seder_ at home,"
he said, with conscious virtue. "It's an awful bore, you know. I often
laugh to think of the chappies' faces if they could see me leaning on a
pillow and gravely asking the old man why we eat Passover cakes." He
laughed now to think of it. "But I never miss; they'd cut up rough, I
expect, if I did."
"Well, that's something in your favor," murmured Esther gravely.
He looked at her sharply; suddenly suspecting that his auditor was not
perfectly sympathetic. She smiled a little at the images passing through
her mind, and Leonard, taking her remark for badinage, allowed his own
features to relax to their original amiability.
"You're not married, either, I suppose," he remarked.
"No," said Esther. "I'm like your sister Hannah."
He shook his head sceptically.
"Ah, I expect you'll be looking very high," he said.
"Nonsense," murmured Esther, playing with her bouquet.
A flash passed across his face, but he went on in the same tone. "Ah,
don't tell me. Why shouldn't you? Why, you're looking perfectly charming
to-night."
"Please, don't," said Esther, "Every girl looks perfectly charming when
she's nicely dressed. Who and what am I? Nothing. Let us drop the
subject."
"All right; but you _must_ have grand ideas, else you'd have sometimes
gone to see my people as in the old days."
"When did I visit your people? You used to come and see me sometimes." A
shadow of a smile hovered about the tremulous lips. "Believe me, I
didn't consciously drop any of my old acquaintances. My life changed; my
family went to America; later on I travelled. It is the currents of
life, not their wills, that bear old acquaintances asunder."
He seemed pleased with her sentiments and was about to say something,
but she added: "The curtain's going up. Hadn't you better go down to
your friend? She's been looking up at us impatiently."
"Oh, no, don't bother about her." said Leonard, reddening a little.
"She--she won't mind. She's only--only an actress, you know, I have to
keep in with the profession in case any opening should turn up. You
never know. An actress may become a lessee at any moment. Hark! The
orchestra is striking up again; the scene isn't set yet. Of course I'll
go if you want me to!"
"No, stay by all means if you want to," murmured Esther. "We have a
chair unoccupied."
"Do you expect that fellow Sidney Graham back?"
"Yes, sooner or later. But how do you know his name?" queried Esther in
surprise.
"Everybody about town knows Sidney Graham, the artist. Why, we belong to
the same club--the Flamingo--though he only turns up for the great
glove-fights. Beastly cad, with all due respect to your friends, Esther.
I was introduced to him once, but he stared at me next time so haughtily
that I cut him dead. Do you know, ever since then I've suspected he's
one of us; perhaps you can tell me, Esther? I dare say he's no more
Sidney Graham than I am."
"Hush!" said Esther, glancing warningly towards Addie, who, however,
betrayed no sign of attention.
"Sister?" asked Leonard, lowering his voice to a whisper.
Esther shook her head. "Cousin; but Mr. Graham is a friend of mine as
well and you mustn't talk of him like that."
"Ripping fine girl!" murmured Leonard irrelevantly. "Wonder at his
taste." He took a long stare at the abstracted Addie.
"What do you mean?" said Esther, her annoyance increasing. Her old
friend's tone jarred upon her.
"Well, I don't know what he could see in the girl he's engaged to."
Esther's face became white. She looked anxiously towards the unconscious
Addie.
"You are talking nonsense," she said, in a low cautious tone. "Mr.
Graham is too fond of his liberty to engage himself to any girl."
"Oho!" said Leonard, with a subdued whistle. "I hope you're not sweet on
him yourself."
Esther gave an impatient gesture of denial. She resented Leonard's rapid
resumption of his olden familiarity.
"Then take care not to be," he said. "He's engaged privately to Miss
Hannibal, a daughter of the M.P. Tom Sledge, the sub-editor of the
_Cormorant_, told me. You know they collect items about everybody and
publish them at what they call the psychological moment. Graham goes to
the Hannibals' every Saturday afternoon. They're very strict people; the
father, you know, is a prominent Wesleyan and she's not the sort of girl
to be played with."
"For Heaven's sake speak more softly," said Esther, though the
orchestra was playing _fortissimo_ now and they had spoken so quietly
all along that Addie could scarcely have heard without a special effort.
"It can't be true; you are repeating mere idle gossip."
"Why, they know everything at the _Cormorant_," said Leonard,
indignantly. "Do you suppose a man can take such a step as that without
its getting known? Why, I shall be chaffed--enviously--about you two
to-morrow! Many a thing the world little dreams of is an open secret in
Club smoking-rooms. Generally more discreditable than Graham's, which
must be made public of itself sooner or later."
To Esther's relief, the curtain rose. Addie woke up and looked round,
but seeing that Sidney had not returned, and that Esther was still in
colloquy with the invader, she gave her attention to the stage. Esther
could no longer bend her eye on the mimic tragedy; her eyes rested
pityingly upon Addie's face, and Leonard's eyes rested admiringly upon
Esther's. Thus Sidney found the group, when he returned in the middle of
the act, to his surprise and displeasure. He stood silently at the back
of the box till the act was over. Leonard James was the first to
perceive him; knowing he had been telling tales about him, he felt
uneasy under his supercilious gaze. He bade Esther good-bye, asking and
receiving permission to call upon her. When he was gone, constraint fell
upon the party. Sidney was moody; Addie pensive, Esther full of stifled
wrath and anxiety. At the close of the performance Sidney took down the
girls' wrappings from the pegs. He helped Esther courteously, then
hovered over his cousin with a solicitude that brought a look of calm
happiness into Addie's face, and an expression of pain into Esther's. As
they moved slowly along the crowded corridors, he allowed Addie to get a
few paces in advance. It was his last opportunity of saying a word to
Esther alone.
"If I were you, Miss Ansell, I would not allow that cad to presume on
any acquaintance he may have."
All the latent irritation in Esther's breast burst into flame at the
idea of Sidney's constituting himself a judge.
"If I had not cultivated his acquaintance I should not have had the
pleasure of congratulating you on your engagement," she replied, almost
in a whisper. To Sidney it sounded like a shout. His color heightened;
he was visibly taken aback.
"What are you talking about?" he murmured automatically.
"About your engagement to Miss Hannibal."
"That blackguard told you!" he whispered angrily, half to himself.
"Well, what of it? I am not bound to advertise it, am I? It's my private
business, isn't it? You don't expect me to hang a placard round my
breast like those on concert-room chairs--'Engaged'!"
"Certainly not," said Esther. "But you might have told your friends, so
as to enable them to rejoice sympathetically."
"You turn your sarcasm prettily," he said mildly, "but the sympathetic
rejoicing was just what I wanted to avoid. You know what a Jewish
engagement is, how the news spreads like wildfire from Piccadilly to
Petticoat Lane, and the whole house of Israel gathers together to
discuss the income and the prospects of the happy pair. I object to
sympathetic rejoicing from the slums, especially as in this case it
would probably be exchanged for curses. Miss Hannibal is a Christian,
and for a Jew to embrace a Christian is, I believe, the next worse thing
to his embracing Christianity, even when the Jew is a pagan." His wonted
flippancy rang hollow. He paused suddenly and stole a look at his
companion's face, in search of a smile, but it was pale and sorrowful.
The flush on his own face deepened; his features expressed internal
conflict. He addressed a light word to Addie in front. They were nearing
the portico; it was raining outside and a cold wind blew in to meet
them; he bent his head down to the delicate little face at his side, and
his tones were changed.
"Miss Ansell," he said tremulously, "if I have in any way misled you by
my reticence, I beg you to believe it was unintentionally. The memory of
the pleasant quarters of an hour we have spent together will always--"
"Good God!" said Esther hoarsely, her cheeks flaming, her ears tingling.
"To whom are you apologising?" He looked at her perplexed. "Why have
you not told Addie?" she forced herself to say.
In the press of the crowd, on the edge of the threshold, he stood still.
Dazzled as by a flash of lightning, he gazed at his cousin, her
beautifully poised head, covered with its fleecy white shawl, dominating
the throng. The shawl became an aureole to his misty vision.
"Have you told her?" he whispered with answering hoarseness.
"No," said Esther.
"Then don't tell her," he whispered eagerly.
"I must. She must hear it soon. Such things must ooze out sooner or
later."
"Then let it be later. Promise me this."
"No good can come of concealment."
"Promise me, for a little while, till I give you leave."
His pleading, handsome face was close to hers. She wondered how she
could ever have cared for a creature so weak and pitiful.
"So be it," she breathed.
"Miss Leon's carriage," bawled the commissionaire. There was a confusion
of rain-beaten umbrellas, gleaming carriage-lamps, zigzag rejections on
the black pavements, and clattering omnibuses full inside. But the air
was fresh.
"Don't go into the rain, Addie," said Sidney, pressing forwards
anxiously. "You're doing all my work to-night. Hallo! where did _you_
spring from?"
It was Raphael who had elicited the exclamation. He suddenly loomed upon
the party, bearing a decrepit dripping umbrella. "I thought I should be
in time to catch you--and to apologize," he said, turning to Esther.
"Don't mention it," murmured Esther, his unexpected appearance
completing her mental agitation.
"Hold the umbrella over the girls, you beggar," said Sidney.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Raphael, poking the rim against a
policeman's helmet in his anxiety to obey.
"Don't mention it," said Addie smiling.
"All right, sir," growled the policeman good-humoredly.
Sidney laughed heartily.
"Quite a general amnesty," he said. "Ah! here's the carriage. Why didn't
you get inside it out of the rain or stand in the entrance--you're
wringing wet."
"I didn't think of it," said Raphael. "Besides, I've only been here a
few minutes. The 'busses are so full when it rains I had to walk all the
way from Whitechapel."
"You're incorrigible," grumbled Sidney. "As if you couldn't have taken a
hansom."
"Why waste money?" said Raphael. They got into the carriage.
"Well, did you enjoy yourselves?" he asked cheerfully.
"Oh yes, thoroughly," said Sidney. "Addie wasted two
pocket-handkerchiefs over Ophelia; almost enough to pay for that hansom.
Miss Ansell doated on the finger of destiny and I chopped logic and
swopped cigarettes with O'Donovan. I hope you enjoyed yourself equally."
Raphael responded with a melancholy smile. He was seated opposite
Esther, and ever and anon some flash of light from the street revealed
clearly his sodden, almost shabby, garments and the weariness of his
expression. He seemed quite out of harmony with the dainty
pleasure-party, but just on that account the more in harmony with
Esther's old image, the heroic side of him growing only more lovable for
the human alloy. She bent towards him at last and said: "I am sorry you
were deprived of your evening's amusement. I hope the reason didn't add
to the unpleasantness."
"It was nothing," he murmured awkwardly. "A little unexpected work. One
can always go to the theatre."
"Ah, I am afraid you overwork yourself too much. You mustn't. Think of
your own health."
His look softened. He was in a harassed, sensitive state. The sympathy
of her gentle accents, the concern upon the eager little face, seemed to
flood his own soul with a self-compassion new to him.
"My health doesn't matter," he faltered. There were sweet tears in his
eyes, a colossal sense of gratitude at his heart. He had always meant
to pity her and help her; it was sweeter to be pitied, though of course
she could not help him. He had no need of help, and on second thoughts
he wondered what room there was for pity.
"No, no, don't talk like that," said Esther. "Think of your parents--and
Addle."
CHAPTER VII.
WHAT THE YEARS BROUGHT.
The next morning Esther sat in Mrs. Henry Goldsmith's boudoir, filling
up some invitation forms for her patroness, who often took advantage of
her literary talent in this fashion. Mrs. Goldsmith herself lay back
languidly upon a great easy-chair before an asbestos fire and turned
over the leaves of the new number of the _Acadaeum_. Suddenly she
uttered a little exclamation.
"What is it?" said Esther.
"They've got a review here of that Jewish novel."
"Have they?" said Esther, glancing up eagerly. "I'd given up looking for
it."
"You seem very interested in it," said Mrs. Goldsmith, with a little
surprise.
"Yes, I--I wanted to know what they said about it," explained Esther
quickly; "one hears so many worthless opinions."
"Well, I'm glad to see we were all right about it," said Mrs. Goldsmith,
whose eye had been running down the column. "Listen here. 'It is a
disagreeable book at best; what might have been a powerful tragedy being
disfigured by clumsy workmanship and sordid superfluous detail. The
exaggerated unhealthy pessimism, which the very young mistake for
insight, pervades the work and there are some spiteful touches of
observation which seem to point to a woman's hand. Some of the minor
personages have the air of being sketched from life. The novel can
scarcely be acceptable to the writer's circle. Readers, however, in
search of the unusual will find new ground broken in this immature study
of Jewish life.'"
"There, Esther, isn't that just what I've been saying in other words?"
"It's hardly worth bothering about the book now," said Esther in low
tones, "it's such a long time ago now since it came out. I don't know
what's the good of reviewing it now. These literary papers always seem
so cold and cruel to unknown writers."
"Cruel, it isn't half what he deserves," said Mrs. Goldsmith, "or ought
I to say she? Do you think there's anything, Esther, in that idea of its
being a woman?"
"Really, dear, I'm sick to death of that book," said Esther. "These
reviewers always try to be very clever and to see through brick walls.
What does it matter if it's a he, or a she?"
"It doesn't matter, but it makes it more disgraceful, if it's a woman. A
woman has no business to know the seamy side of human nature."
At this instant, a domestic knocked and announced that Mr. Leonard James
had called to see Miss Ansell. Annoyance, surprise and relief struggled
to express themselves on Esther's face.
"Is the gentleman waiting to see me?" she said.
"Yes, miss, he's in the hall."
Esther turned to Mrs. Goldsmith. "It's a young man I came across
unexpectedly last night at the theatre. He's the son of Reb Shemuel, of
whom you may have heard. I haven't met him since we were boy and girl
together. He asked permission to call, but I didn't expect him so soon."
"Oh, see him by all means, dear. He is probably anxious to talk over old
times."
"May I ask him up here?"
"No--unless you particularly want to introduce him to me. I dare say he
would rather have you to himself." There was a touch of superciliousness
about her tone, which Esther rather resented, although not particularly
anxious for Levi's social recognition.
"Show him into the library," she said to the servant. "I will be down
in a minute." She lingered a few indifferent remarks with her companion
and then went down, wondering at Levi's precipitancy in renewing the
acquaintance. She could not help thinking of the strangeness of life.
That time yesterday she had not dreamed of Levi, and now she was about
to see him for the second time and seemed to know him as intimately as
if they had never been parted.
Leonard James was pacing the carpet. His face was perturbed, though his
stylishly cut clothes were composed and immaculate. A cloak was thrown
loosely across his shoulders. In his right hand he held a bouquet of
Spring flowers, which he transferred to his left in order to shake hands
with her.
"Good afternoon, Esther," he said heartily. "By Jove, you have got among
tip-top people. I had no idea. Fancy you ordering Jeames de la Pluche
about. And how happy you must be among all these books! I've brought you
a bouquet. There! Isn't it a beauty? I got it at Covent Garden this
morning."
"It's very kind of you," murmured Esther, not so pleased as she might
have been, considering her love of beautiful things. "But you really
ought not to waste your money like that."
"What nonsense, Esther! Don't forget I'm not in the position my father
was. I'm going to be a rich man. No, don't put it into a vase; put it in
your own room where it will remind you of me. Just smell those violets,
they are awfully sweet and fresh. I flatter myself, it's quite as swell
and tasteful as the bouquet you had last night. Who gave you that.
Esther?" The "Esther" mitigated the off-handedness of the question, but
made the sentence jar doubly upon her ear. She might have brought
herself to call him "Levi" in exchange, but then she was not certain he
would like it. "Leonard" was impossible. So she forbore to call him by
any name.
"I think Mr. Graham brought it. Won't you sit down?" she said
indifferently.
"Thank you. I thought so. Luck that fellow's engaged. Do you know,
Esther. I didn't sleep all night."
"No?" said Esther. "You seemed quite well when I saw you."
"So I was, but seeing you again, so unexpectedly, excited me. You have
been whirling in my brain ever since. I hadn't thought of you for
years--"
"I hadn't thought of you," Esther echoed frankly.
"No, I suppose not," he said, a little ruefully. "But, anyhow, fate has
brought us together again. I recognized you the moment I set eyes on
you, for all your grand clothes and your swell bouquets. I tell you I
was just struck all of a heap; of course, I knew about your luck, but I
hadn't realized it. There wasn't any one in the whole theatre who looked
the lady more--'pon honor; you'd have no cause to blush in the company
of duchesses. In fact I know a duchess or two who don't look near so
refined. I was quite surprised. Do you know, if any one had told me you
used to live up in a garret--"
"Oh, please don't recall unpleasant things," interrupted Esther,
petulantly, a little shudder going through her, partly at the picture he
called up, partly at his grating vulgarity. Her repulsion to him was
growing. Why had he developed so disagreeably? She had not disliked him
as a boy, and he certainly had not inherited his traits of coarseness
from his father, whom she still conceived as a courtly old gentleman.
"Oh well, if you don't like it, I won't. I see you're like me; I never
think of the Ghetto if I can help it. Well, as I was saying, I haven't
had a wink of sleep since I saw you. I lay tossing about, thinking all
sorts of things, till I could stand it no longer, and I got up and
dressed and walked about the streets and strayed into Covent Garden
Market, where the inspiration came upon me to get you this bouquet. For,
of course, it was about you that I had been thinking."
"About me?" said Esther, turning pale.
"Yes, of course. Don't make _Schnecks_--you know what I mean. I can't
help using the old expression when I look at you; the past seems all
come back again. They were happy days, weren't they, Esther, when I used
to come up to see you in Royal Street; I think you were a little sweet
on me in those days, Esther, and I know I was regular mashed on you."
He looked at her with a fond smile.
"I dare say you were a silly boy," said Esther, coloring uneasily under
his gaze. "However, you needn't reproach yourself now."
"Reproach myself, indeed! Never fear that. What I have been reproaching
myself with all night is never having looked you up. Somehow, do you
know, I kept asking myself whether I hadn't made a fool of myself
lately, and I kept thinking things might have been different if--"
"Nonsense, nonsense," interrupted Esther with an embarrassed laugh.
"You've been doing very well, learning to know the world and studying
law and mixing with pleasant people."
"Ah, Esther," he said, shaking his head, "it's very good of you to say
that. I don't say I've done anything particularly foolish or out of the
way. But when a man is alone, he sometimes gets a little reckless and
wastes his time, and you know what it is. I've been thinking if I had
some one to keep me steady, some one I could respect, it would be the
best thing that could happen to me."
"Oh, but surely you ought to have sense enough to take care of yourself.
And there is always your father. Why don't you see more of him?"
"Don't chaff a man when you see he's in earnest. You know what I mean.
It's you I am thinking of."
"Me? Oh well, if you think my friendship can be of any use to you I
shall be delighted. Come and see me sometimes and tell me of your
struggles."
"You know I don't mean that," he said desperately. "Couldn't we be more
than friends? Couldn't we commence again--where we left off"
"How do you mean?" she murmured.
"Why are you so cold to me?" he burst out. "Why do you make it so hard
for me to speak? You know I love you, that I fell in love with you all
over again last night. I never really forgot you; you were always deep
down in my breast. All that I said about steadying me wasn't a lie. I
felt that, too. But the real thing I feel is the need of you. I want you
to care for me as I care for you. You used to, Esther; you know you
did."
"I know nothing of the kind," said Esther, "and I can't understand why a
young fellow like you wants to bother his head with such ideas. You've
got to make your way in the world--"
"I know, I know; that's why I want you. I didn't tell you the exact
truth last night, Esther, but I must really earn some money soon. All
that two thousand is used up, and I only get along by squeezing some
money out of the old man every now and again. Don't frown; he got a rise
of screw three years ago and can well afford it. Now that's what I said
to myself last night; if I were engaged, it would be an incentive to
earning something."
"For a Jewish young man, you are fearfully unpractical," said Esther,
with a forced smile. "Fancy proposing to a girl without even prospects
of prospects."
"Oh, but I _have_ got prospects. I tell you I shall make no end of money
on the stage."
"Or no beginning," she said, finding the facetious vein easiest.
"No fear. I know I've got as much talent as Bob Andrews (he admits it
himself), and _he_ draws his thirty quid a week."
"Wasn't that the man who appeared at the police-court the other day for
being drunk and disorderly?"
"Y-e-es," admitted Leonard, a little disconcerted. "He is a very good
fellow, but he loses his head when he's in liquor."
"I wonder you can care for society of that sort," said Esther.
"Perhaps you're right. They're not a very refined lot. I tell you
what--I'd like to go on the stage, but I'm not mad on it, and if you
only say the word I'll give it up. There! And I'll go on with my law
studies; honor bright, I will."
"I should, if I were you," she said.
"Yes, but I can't do it without encouragement. Won't you say 'yes'?
Let's strike the bargain. I'll stick to law and you'll stick to me."
She shook her head. "I am afraid I could not promise anything you mean.
As I said before, I shall be always glad to see you. If you do well, no
one will rejoice more than I."
"Rejoice! What's the good of that to me? I want you to care for me; I
want to took forward to your being my wife."
"Really, I cannot take advantage of a moment of folly like this. You
don't know what you're saying. You saw me last night, after many years,
and in your gladness at seeing an old friend you flare up and fancy
you're in love with me. Why, who ever heard of such foolish haste? Go
back to your studies, and in a day or two you will find the flame
sinking as rapidly as it leaped up."
"No, no! Nothing of the kind!" His voice was thicker and there was real
passion in it. She grew dearer to him as the hope of her love receded.
"I couldn't forget you. I care for you awfully. I realized last night
that my feeling for you is quite unlike what I have ever felt towards
any other girl. Don't say no! Don't send me away despairing. I can
hardly realize that you have grown so strange and altered. Surely you
oughtn't to put on any side with me. Remember the times we have had
together."
"I remember," she said gently. "But I do not want to marry any one:
indeed, I don't."
"Then if there is no one else in your thoughts, why shouldn't it be me?
There! I won't press you for an answer now. Only don't say it's out of
the question."
"I'm afraid I must."
"No, you mustn't, Esther, you mustn't," he exclaimed excitedly. "Think
of what it means for me. You are the only Jewish girl I shall ever care
for; and father would be pleased if I were to marry you. You know if I
wanted to marry a _Shiksah_ there'd be awful rows. Don't treat me as if
I were some outsider with no claim upon you. I believe we should get on
splendidly together, you and me. We've been through the same sort of
thing in childhood, we should understand each other, and be in sympathy
with each other in a way I could never be with another girl and I doubt
if you could with another fellow."
The words burst from him like a torrent, with excited foreign-looking
gestures. Esther's headache was coming on badly.
"What would be the use of my deceiving you?" she said gently. "I don't
think I shall ever marry. I'm sure I could never make you--or any one
else--happy. Won't you let me be your friend?"
"Friend!" he echoed bitterly. "I know what it is; I'm poor. I've got no
money bags to lay at your feet. You're like all the Jewish girls after
all. But I only ask you to wait; I shall have plenty of money by and by.
Who knows what more luck my father might drop in for? There are lots of
rich religious cranks. And then I'll work hard, honor bright I will."
"Pray be reasonable," said Esther quietly. "You know you are talking at
random. Yesterday this time you had no idea of such a thing. To-day you
are all on fire. To-morrow you will forget all about it."
"Never! Never!" he cried. "Haven't I remembered you all these years?
They talk of man's faithlessness and woman's faithfulness. It seems to
me, it's all the other way. Women are a deceptive lot."
"You know you have no right whatever to talk like that to me," said
Esther, her sympathy beginning to pass over into annoyance. "To-morrow
you will be sorry. Hadn't you better go before you give yourself--and
me--more cause for regret?"
"Ho, you're sending me away, are you?" he said in angry surprise.
"I am certainly suggesting it as the wisest course."
"Oh, don't give me any of your fine phrases!" he said brutally. "I see
what it is--I've made a mistake. You're a stuck-up, conceited little
thing. You think because you live in a grand house nobody is good enough
for you. But what are you after all? a _Schnorrer_--that's all. A
_Schnorrer_ living on the charity of strangers. If I mix with grand
folks, it is as an independent man and an equal. But you, rather than
marry any one who mightn't be able to give you carriages and footmen,
you prefer to remain a _Schnorrer_."
Esther was white and her lips trembled. "Now I must ask you to go," she
said.
"All right, don't flurry yourself!" he said savagely. "You don't impress
me with your airs. Try them on people who don't know what you were--a
_Schnorrer's_ daughter. Yes, your father was always a _Schnorrer_ and
you are his child. It's in the blood. Ha! Ha! Ha! Moses Ansell's
daughter! Moses Ansell's daughter--a peddler, who went about the country
with brass jewelry and stood in the Lane with lemons and _schnorred_
half-crowns of my father. You took jolly good care to ship him off to
America, but 'pon my honor, you can't expect others to forget him as
quickly as you. It's a rich joke, you refusing me. You're not fit for me
to wipe my shoes on. My mother never cared for me to go to your garret;
she said I must mix with my equals and goodness knew what disease I
might pick up in the dirt; 'pon my honor the old girl was right."
"She _was_ right," Esther was stung into retorting. "You must mix only
with your equals. Please leave the room now or else I shall."
His face changed. His frenzy gave way to a momentary shock of
consternation as he realized what he had done.
"No, no, Esther. I was mad, I didn't know what I was saying. I didn't
mean it. Forget it."
"I cannot. It was quite true," she said bitterly. "I am only a
_Schnorrer's_ daughter. Well, are you going or must I?"
He muttered something inarticulate, then seized his hat sulkily and went
to the door without looking at her.
"You have forgotten something," she said.
He turned; her forefinger pointed to the bouquet on the table. He had a
fresh access of rage at the sight of it, jerked it contemptuously to the
floor with a sweep of his hat and stamped upon it. Then he rushed from
the room and an instant after she heard the hall door slam.
She sank against the table sobbing nervously. It was her first
proposal! A _Schnorrer_ and the daughter of a _Schnorrer_. Yes,
that-was what she was. And she had even repaid her benefactors with
deception! What hopes could she yet cherish? In literature she was a
failure; the critics gave her few gleams of encouragement, while all her
acquaintances from Raphael downwards would turn and rend her, should she
dare declare herself. Nay, she was ashamed of herself for the mischief
she had wrought. No one in the world cared for her; she was quite alone.
The only man in whose breast she could excite love or the semblance of
it was a contemptible cad. And who was she, that she should venture to
hope for love? She figured herself as an item in a catalogue; "a little,
ugly, low-spirited, absolutely penniless young woman, subject to nervous
headaches." Her sobs were interrupted by a ghastly burst of
self-mockery. Yes, Levi was right. She ought to think herself lucky to
get him. Again, she asked herself what had existence to offer her.
Gradually her sobs ceased; she remembered to-night would be _Seder_
night, and her thoughts, so violently turned Ghetto-wards, went back to
that night, soon after poor Benjamin's death, when she sat before the
garret fire striving to picture the larger life of the future. Well,
this was the future.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE ENDS OF A GENERATION.
The same evening Leonard James sat in the stalls of the Colosseum Music
Hall, sipping champagne and smoking a cheroot. He had not been to his
chambers (which were only round the corner) since the hapless interview
with Esther, wandering about in the streets and the clubs in a spirit
compounded of outraged dignity, remorse and recklessness. All men must
dine; and dinner at the _Flamingo Club_ soothed his wounded soul and
left only the recklessness, which is a sensation not lacking in
agreeableness. Through the rosy mists of the Burgundy there began to
surge up other faces than that cold pallid little face which had
hovered before him all the afternoon like a tantalizing phantom; at the
Chartreuse stage he began to wonder what hallucination, what aberration
of sense had overcome him, that he should have been stirred to his
depths and distressed so hugely. Warmer faces were these that swam
before him, faces fuller of the joy of life. The devil take all stuck-up
little saints!
About eleven o'clock, when the great ballet of _Venetia_ was over,
Leonard hurried round to the stage-door, saluted the door-keeper with a
friendly smile and a sixpence, and sent in his card to Miss Gladys
Wynne, on the chance that she might have no supper engagement. Miss
Wynne was only a humble _coryphée_, but the admirers of her talent were
numerous, and Leonard counted himself fortunate in that she was able to
afford him the privilege of her society to-night. She came out to him in
a red fur-lined cloak, for the air was keen. She was a majestic being
with a florid complexion not entirely artificial, big blue eyes and
teeth of that whiteness which is the practical equivalent of a sense of
humor in evoking the possessor's smiles. They drove to a restaurant a
few hundred yards distant, for Miss Wynne detested using her feet except
to dance with. It was a fashionable restaurant, where the prices
obligingly rose after ten, to accommodate the purses of the
supper-_clientèle_. Miss Wynne always drank champagne, except when
alone, and in politeness Leonard had to imbibe more of this frothy
compound. He knew he would have to pay for the day's extravagance by a
week of comparative abstemiousness, but recklessness generally meant
magnificence with him. They occupied a cosy little corner behind a
screen, and Miss Wynne bubbled over with laughter like an animated
champagne bottle. One or two of his acquaintances espied him and winked
genially, and Leonard had the satisfaction of feeling that he was not
dissipating his money without purchasing enhanced reputation. He had not
felt in gayer spirits for months than when, with Gladys Wynne on his arm
and a cigarette in his mouth, he sauntered out of the brilliantly-lit
restaurant into the feverish dusk of the midnight street, shot with
points of fire.
"Hansom, sir!"
"_Levi_!"
A great cry of anguish rent the air--Leonard's cheeks burned.
Involuntarily he looked round. Then his heart stood still. There, a few
yards from him, rooted to the pavement, with stony staring face, was Reb
Shemuel. The old man wore an unbrushed high hat and an uncouth
unbuttoned overcoat. His hair and beard were quite white now, and the
strong countenance lined with countless wrinkles was distorted with pain
and astonishment. He looked a cross between an ancient prophet and a
shabby street lunatic. The unprecedented absence of the son from the
_Seder_ ceremonial had filled the Reb's household with the gravest
alarm. Nothing short of death or mortal sickness could be keeping the
boy away. It was long before the Reb could bring himself to commence the
_Hagadah_ without his son to ask the time-honored opening question; and
when he did he paused every minute to listen to footsteps or the voice
of the wind without. The joyous holiness of the Festival was troubled, a
black cloud overshadowed the shining table-cloth, at supper the food
choked him. But _Seder_ was over and yet no sign of the missing guest;
no word of explanation. In poignant anxiety, the old man walked the
three miles that lay between him and tidings of the beloved son. At his
chambers he learned that their occupant had not been in all day. Another
thing he learned there, too; for the _Mezuzah_ which he had fixed up on
the door-post when his boy moved in had been taken down, and it filled
his mind with a dread suspicion that Levi had not been eating at the
_kosher_ restaurant in Hatton Garden, as he had faithfully vowed to do.
But even this terrible thought was swallowed up in the fear that some
accident had happened to him. He haunted the house for an hour, filling
up the intervals of fruitless inquiry with little random walks round the
neighborhood, determined not to return home to his wife without news of
their child. The restless life of the great twinkling streets was almost
a novelty to him; it was rarely his perambulations in London extended
outside the Ghetto, and the radius of his life was proportionately
narrow,--with the intensity that narrowness forces on a big soul. The
streets dazzled him, he looked blinkingly hither and thither in the
despairing hope of finding his boy. His lips moved in silent prayer; he
raised his eyes beseechingly to the cold glittering heavens. Then, all
at once--as the clocks pointed to midnight--he found him. Found him
coming out of an unclean place, where he had violated the Passover.
Found him--fit climax of horror--with the "strange woman" of _The
Proverbs_, for whom the faithful Jew has a hereditary hatred.
His son--his. Reb Shemuel's! He, the servant of the Most High, the
teacher of the Faith to reverential thousands, had brought a son into
the world to profane the Name! Verily his gray hairs would go down with
sorrow to a speedy grave! And the sin was half his own; he had weakly
abandoned his boy in the midst of a great city. For one awful instant,
that seemed an eternity, the old man and the young faced each other
across the chasm which divided their lives. To the son the shock was
scarcely less violent than to the father. The _Seder_, which the day's
unwonted excitement had clean swept out of his mind, recurred to him in
a flash, and by the light of it he understood the puzzle of his father's
appearance. The thought of explaining rushed up only to be dismissed.
The door of the restaurant had not yet ceased swinging behind him--there
was too much to explain. He felt that all was over between him and his
father. It was unpleasant, terrible even, for it meant the annihilation
of his resources. But though he still had an almost physical fear of the
old man, far more terrible even than the presence of his father was the
presence of Miss Gladys Wynne. To explain, to brazen it out, either
course was equally impossible. He was not a brave man, but at that
moment he felt death were preferable to allowing her to be the witness
of such a scene as must ensue. His resolution was taken within a few
brief seconds of the tragic rencontre. With wonderful self-possession,
he nodded to the cabman who had put the question, and whose vehicle was
drawn up opposite the restaurant. Hastily he helped the unconscious
Gladys into the hansom. He was putting his foot on the step himself when
Reb Shemuel's paralysis relaxed suddenly. Outraged by this final
pollution of the Festival, he ran forward and laid his hand on Levi's
shoulder. His face was ashen, his heart thumped painfully; the hand on
Levi's cloak shook as with palsy.
Levi winced; the old awe was upon him. Through a blinding whirl he saw
Gladys staring wonderingly at the queer-looking intruder. He gathered
all his mental strength together with a mighty effort, shook off the
great trembling hand and leaped into the hansom.
"Drive on!" came in strange guttural tones from his parched throat.
The driver lashed the horse; a rough jostled the old man aside and
slammed the door to; Leonard mechanically threw him a coin; the hansom
glided away.
"Who was that, Leonard?" said Miss Wynne, curiously.
"Nobody; only an old Jew who supplies me with cash."
Gladys laughed merrily--a rippling, musical laugh.
She knew the sort of person.
CHAPTER IX.
THE FLAG FLUTTERS.
The _Flag of Judah_, price one penny, largest circulation of any Jewish
organ, continued to flutter, defying the battle, the breeze and its
communal contemporaries. At Passover there had been an illusive
augmentation of advertisements proclaiming the virtues of unleavened
everything. With the end of the Festival, most of these fell out,
staying as short a time as the daffodils. Raphael was in despair at the
meagre attenuated appearance of the erst prosperous-looking pages. The
weekly loss on the paper weighed upon his conscience.
"We shall never succeed," said the sub-editor, shaking his romantic
hair, "till we run it for the Upper Ten. These ten people can make the
paper, just as they are now killing it by refusing their countenance."
"But they must surely reckon with us sooner or later," said Raphael.
"It will he a long reckoning. I fear: you take my advice and put in more
butter. It'll be _kosher_ butter, coming from us." The little Bohemian
laughed as heartily as his eyeglass permitted.
"No; we must stick to our guns. After all, we have had some very good
things lately. Those articles of Pinchas's are not bad either."
"They're so beastly egotistical. Still his theories are ingenious and
far more interesting than those terribly dull long letters of Henry
Goldsmith, which you will put in."
Raphael flushed a little and began to walk up and down the new and
superior sanctum with his ungainly strides, puffing furiously at his
pipe The appearance of the room was less bare; the floor was carpeted
with old newspapers and scraps of letters. A huge picture of an Atlantic
Liner, the gift of a Steamship Company, leaned cumbrously against a
wall.
"Still, all our literary excellencies," pursued Sampson, "are outweighed
by our shortcomings in getting births, marriages and deaths. We are
gravelled for lack of that sort of matter What is the use of your
elaborate essay on the Septuagint, when the public is dying to hear
who's dead?"
"Yes, I am afraid it is so." said Raphael, emitting a huge volume of
smoke.
"I'm sure it is so. If you would only give me a freer hand, I feel sure
I could work up that column. We can at least make a better show: I would
avoid the danger of discovery by shifting the scene to foreign parts. I
could marry some people in Born-bay and kill some in Cape Town,
redressing the balance by bringing others into existence at Cairo and
Cincinnati. Our contemporaries would score off us in local interest, but
we should take the shine out of them in cosmopolitanism."
"No, no; remember that _Meshumad_" said Raphael, smiling.
"He was real; if you had allowed me to invent a corpse, we should have
been saved that _contretemps_. We have one 'death' this week
fortunately, and I am sure to fish out another in the daily papers. But
we haven't had a 'birth' for three weeks running; it's just ruining our
reputation. Everybody knows that the orthodox are a fertile lot, and it
looks as if we hadn't got the support even of our own party. Ta ra ra
ta! Now you must really let me have a 'birth.' I give you my word,
nobody'll suspect it isn't genuine. Come now. How's this?" He scribbled
on a piece of paper and handed it to Raphael, who read:
"BIRTH, on the 15th inst. at 17 East Stuart Lane, Kennington, the wife
of Joseph Samuels of a son."
"There!" said Sampson proudly, "Who would believe the little beggar had
no existence? Nobody lives in Kennington, and that East Stuart Lane is a
master-stroke. You might suspect Stuart Lane, but nobody would ever
dream there's no such place as _East_ Stuart Lane. Don't say the little
chap must die. I begin to take quite a paternal interest in him. May I
announce him? Don't be too scrupulous. Who'll be a penny the worse for
it?" He began to chirp, with bird-like trills of melody.
Raphael hesitated: his moral fibre had been weakened. It is impossible
to touch print and not be denied.
Suddenly Sampson ceased to whistle and smote his head with his chubby
fist. "Ass that I am!" he exclaimed.
"What new reasons have you discovered to think so?" said Raphael.
"Why, we dare not create boys. We shall be found out; boys must be
circumcised and some of the periphrastically styled 'Initiators into the
Abrahamic Covenant' may spot us. It was a girl that Mrs. Joseph Samuels
was guilty of." He amended the sex.
Raphael laughed heartily. "Put it by; there's another day yet; we shall
see."
"Very well," said Sampson resignedly. "Perhaps by to-morrow we shall be
in luck and able to sing 'unto us a child is born, unto us a son is
given.' By the way, did you see the letter complaining of our using that
quotation, on the ground it was from the New Testament?"
"Yes," said Raphael smiling. "Of course the man doesn't know his Old
Testament, but I trace his misconception to his having heard Handel's
Messiah. I wonder he doesn't find fault with the Morning Service for
containing the Lord's Prayer, or with Moses for saying 'Thou shalt love
thy neighbor as thyself.'"
"Still, that's the sort of man newspapers have to cater for," said the
sub-editor. "And we don't. We have cut down our Provincial Notes to a
column. My idea would be to make two pages of them, not cutting out any
of the people's names and leaving in more of the adjectives. Every man's
name we mention means at least one copy sold. Why can't we drag in a
couple of thousand names every week?"
"That would make our circulation altogether nominal," laughed Raphael,
not taking the suggestion seriously.
Little Sampson was not only the Mephistopheles of the office, debauching
his editor's guileless mind with all the wily ways of the old
journalistic hand; he was of real use in protecting Raphael against the
thousand and one pitfalls that make the editorial chair as perilous to
the occupant as Sweeney Todd's; against the people who tried to get
libels inserted as news or as advertisements, against the self-puffers
and the axe-grinders. He also taught Raphael how to commence interesting
correspondence and how to close awkward. The _Flag_ played a part in
many violent discussions. Little Sampson was great in inventing communal
crises, and in getting the public to believe it was excited. He also won
a great victory over the other party every three weeks; Raphael did not
wish to have so many of these victories, but little Sampson pointed out
that if he did not have them, the rival newspaper would annex them. One
of the earliest sensations of the _Flag_ was a correspondence exposing
the misdeeds of some communal officials; but in the end the very persons
who made the allegations ate humble pie. Evidently official pressure had
been brought to bear, for red tape rampant might have been the heraldic
device of Jewish officialdom. In no department did Jews exhibit more
strikingly their marvellous powers of assimilation to their neighbors.
Among the discussions which rent the body politic was the question of
building a huge synagogue for the poor. The _Flag_ said it would only
concentrate them, and its word prevailed. There were also the grave
questions of English and harmoniums in the synagogue, of the
confirmation of girls and their utilization in the choir. The Rabbinate,
whose grave difficulties in reconciling all parties to its rule, were
augmented by the existence of the _Flag_, pronounced it heinous to
introduce English excerpts into the liturgy; if, however, they were not
read from the central platform, they were legitimate; harmoniums were
permissible, but only during special services; and an organization of
mixed voices was allowable, but not a mixed choir; children might be
confirmed, but the word "confirmation" should be avoided. Poor
Rabbinate! The politics of the little community were extremely complex.
What with rabid zealots yearning for the piety of the good old times,
spiritually-minded ministers working with uncomfortable earnestness for
a larger Judaism, radicals dropping out, moderates clamoring for quiet,
and schismatics organizing new and tiresome movements, the Rabbinate
could scarcely do aught else than emit sonorous platitudes and remain in
office.
And beneath all these surface ruffles was the steady silent drift of the
new generation away from the old landmarks. The synagogue did not
attract; it spoke Hebrew to those whose mother-tongue was English; its
appeal was made through channels which conveyed nothing to them; it was
out of touch with their real lives; its liturgy prayed for the
restoration of sacrifices which they did not want and for the welfare of
Babylonian colleges that had ceased to exist. The old generation merely
believed its beliefs; if the new as much as professed them, it was only
by virtue of the old home associations and the inertia of indifference.
Practically, it was without religion. The Reform Synagogue, though a
centre of culture and prosperity, was cold, crude and devoid of
magnetism. Half a century of stagnant reform and restless dissolution
had left Orthodoxy still the Established Doxy. For, as Orthodoxy
evaporated in England, it was replaced by fresh streams from Russia, to
be evaporated and replaced in turn, England acting as an automatic
distillery. Thus the Rabbinate still reigned, though it scarcely
governed either the East End or the West. For the East End formed a
Federation of the smaller synagogues to oppose the dominance of the
United Synagogue, importing a minister of superior orthodoxy from the
Continent, and the _Flag_ had powerful leaders on the great struggle
between plutocracy and democracy, and the voice of Mr. Henry Goldsmith
was heard on behalf of Whitechapel. And the West, in so far as it had
spiritual aspirations, fed them on non-Jewish literature and the higher
thought of the age. The finer spirits, indeed, were groping for a
purpose and a destiny, doubtful even, if the racial isolation they
perpetuated were not an anachronism. While the community had been
battling for civil and religious liberty, there had been a unifying,
almost spiritualizing, influence in the sense of common injustice, and
the question _cui bono_ had been postponed. Drowning men do not ask if
life is worth living. Later, the Russian persecutions came to interfere
again with national introspection, sending a powerful wave of racial
sympathy round the earth. In England a backwash of the wave left the
Asmonean Society, wherein, for the first time in history, Jews gathered
with nothing in common save blood--artists, lawyers, writers,
doctors--men who in pre-emancipation times might have become Christians
like Heine, but who now formed an effective protest against the popular
conceptions of the Jew, and a valuable antidote to the disproportionate
notoriety achieved by less creditable types. At the Asmonean Society,
brilliant free-lances, each thinking himself a solitary exception to a
race of bigots, met one another in mutual astonishment. Raphael
alienated several readers by uncompromising approval of this
characteristically modern movement. Another symptom of the new intensity
of national brotherhood was the attempt towards amalgamating the Spanish
and German communities, but brotherhood broke down under the disparity
of revenue, the rich Spanish sect displaying once again the
exclusiveness which has marked its history.
Amid these internal problems, the unspeakable immigrant was an added
thorn. Very often the victim of Continental persecution was assisted on
to America, but the idea that he was hurtful to native labor rankled in
the minds of Englishmen, and the Jewish leaders were anxious to remove
it, all but proving him a boon. In despair, it was sought to 'anglicize
him by discourses in Yiddish. With the Poor Alien question was connected
the return to Palestine. The Holy Land League still pinned its faith to
Zion, and the _Flag_ was with it to the extent of preferring the ancient
father-land, as the scene of agricultural experiments, to the South
American soils selected by other schemes. It was generally felt that the
redemption of Judaism lay largely in a return to the land, after several
centuries of less primitive and more degrading occupations. When South
America was chosen, Strelitski was the first to counsel the League to
co-operate in the experiment, on the principle that half a loaf is
better than no bread. But, for the orthodox the difficulties of
regeneration by the spade were enhanced by the Sabbatical Year Institute
of the Pentateuch, ordaining that land must lie fallow in the seventh
year. It happened that this septennial holiday was just going on, and
the faithful Palestine farmers were starving in voluntary martyrdom. The
_Flag_ raised a subscription for their benefit. Raphael wished to head
the list with twenty pounds, but on the advice of little Sampson he
broke it up into a variety of small amounts, spread over several weeks,
and attached to imaginary names and initials. Seeing so many other
readers contributing, few readers felt called upon to tax themselves.
The _Flag_ received the ornate thanks of a pleiad of Palestine Rabbis
for its contribution of twenty-five guineas, two of which were from Mr.
Henry Goldsmith. Gideon, the member for Whitechapel, remained callous to
the sufferings of his brethren in the Holy Land. In daily contact with
so many diverse interests, Raphael's mind widened as imperceptibly
as the body grows. He learned the manners of many men and
committees--admired the genuine goodness of some of the Jewish
philanthropists and the fluent oratory of all; even while he realized
the pettiness of their outlook and their reluctance to face facts. They
were timorous, with a dread of decisive action and definitive speech,
suggesting the differential, deprecatory corporeal wrigglings of the
mediaeval few. They seemed to keep strict ward over the technical
privileges of the different bodies they belonged to, and in their
capacity of members of the Fiddle-de-dee to quarrel with themselves as
members of the Fiddle-de-dum, and to pass votes of condolence or
congratulation twice over as members of both. But the more he saw of his
race the more he marvelled at the omnipresent ability, being tempted at
times to allow truth to the view that Judaism was a successful
sociological experiment, the moral and physical training of a chosen
race whose very dietary had been religiously regulated.
And even the revelations of the seamy side of human character which
thrust themselves upon the most purblind of editors were blessings in
disguise. The office of the _Flag_ was a forcing-house for Raphael; many
latent thoughts developed into extraordinary maturity. A month of the
_Flag_ was equal to a year of experience in the outside world. And not
even little Sampson himself was keener to appreciate the humors of the
office when no principle was involved; though what made the sub-editor
roar with laughter often made the editor miserable for the day. For
compensation, Raphael had felicities from which little Sampson was cut
off; gladdened by revelations of earnestness and piety in letters that
were merely bad English to the sub-editor.
A thing that set them both laughing occurred on the top of their
conversation about the reader who objected to quotations from the Old
Testament. A package of four old _Flags_ arrived, accompanied by a
letter. This was the letter:
"DEAR SIR:
"Your man called upon me last night, asking for payment for four
advertisements of my Passover groceries. But I have changed my mind
about them and do not want them; and therefore beg to return the
four numbers sent me You will see I have not opened them or soiled
them in any way, so please cancel the claim in your books.
"Yours truly,
"ISAAC WOLLBERG."
"He evidently thinks the vouchers sent him _are_ the advertisements,"
screamed little Sampson.
"But if he is as ignorant as all that, how could he have written the
letter?" asked Raphael.
"Oh, it was probably written for him for twopence by the Shalotten
_Shammos_, the begging-letter writer."
"This is almost as funny as Karlkammer!" said Raphael.
Karlkammer had sent in a long essay on the Sabbatical Year question,
which Raphael had revised and published with Karlkammer's title at the
head and Karlkammer's name at the foot. Yet, owing to the few
rearrangements and inversions of sentences, Karlkammer never identified
it as his own, and was perpetually calling to inquire when his article
would appear. He brought with him fresh manuscripts of the article as
originally written. He was not the only caller; Raphael was much
pestered by visitors on kindly counsel bent or stern exhortation. The
sternest were those who had never yet paid their subscriptions. De Haan
also kept up proprietorial rights of interference. In private life
Raphael suffered much from pillars of the Montagu Samuels type, who
accused him of flippancy, and no communal crisis invented by little
Sampson ever equalled the pother and commotion that arose when Raphael
incautiously allowed him to burlesque the notorious _Mordecai Josephs_
by comically exaggerating its exaggerations. The community took it
seriously, as an attack upon the race. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Goldsmith were
scandalized, and Raphael had to shield little Sampson by accepting the
whole responsibility for its appearance.
"Talking of Karlkammer's article, are you ever going to use up Herman's
scientific paper?" asked little Sampson.
"I'm afraid so," said Raphael; "I don't know how we can get out of it.
But his eternal _kosher_ meat sticks in my throat. We are Jews for the
love of God, not to be saved from consumption bacilli. But I won't use
it to-morrow; we have Miss Cissy Levine's tale. It's not half bad. What
a pity she has the expenses of her books paid! If she had to achieve
publication by merit, her style might be less slipshod."
"I wish some rich Jew would pay the expenses of my opera tour," said
little Sampson, ruefully. "My style of doing the thing would be
improved. The people who are backing me up are awfully stingy, actually
buying up battered old helmets for my chorus of Amazons."
Intermittently the question of the sub-editor's departure for the
provinces came up: it was only second in frequency to his "victories."
About once a month the preparations for the tour were complete, and he
would go about in a heyday of jubilant vocalization; then his comic
prima-donna would fall ill or elope, his conductor would get drunk, his
chorus would strike, and little Sampson would continue to sub-edit _The
Flag of Judah_.
Pinchas unceremoniously turned the handle of the door and came in. The
sub-editor immediately hurried out to get a cup of tea. Pinchas had
fastened upon him the responsibility for the omission of an article last
week, and had come to believe that he was in league with rival
Continental scholars to keep Melchitsedek Pinchas's effusions out of
print, and so little Sampson dared not face the angry savant. Raphael,
thus deserted, cowered in his chair. He did not fear death, but he
feared Pinchas, and had fallen into the cowardly habit of bribing him
lavishly not to fill the paper. Fortunately, the poet was in high
feather.
"Don't forget the announcement that I lecture at the Club on Sunday. You
see all the efforts of Reb Shemuel, of the Rev. Joseph Strelitski, of
the Chief Rabbi, of Ebenezer vid his blue spectacles, of Sampson, of all
the phalanx of English Men-of-the-Earth, they all fail. Ab, I am a great
man."
"I won't forget," said Raphael wearily. "The announcement is already in
print."
"Ah, I love you. You are the best man in the vorld. It is you who have
championed me against those who are thirsting for my blood. And now I
vill tell you joyful news. There is a maiden coming up to see you--she
is asking in the publisher's office--oh such a lovely maiden!"
Pinchas grinned all over his face, and was like to dig his editor in the
ribs.
"What maiden?"
"I do not know; but vai-r-r-y beaudiful. Aha, I vill go. Have you not
been good to _me_? But vy come not beaudiful maidens to _me_?"
"No, no, you needn't go," said Raphael, getting red.
Pinchas grinned as one who knew better, and struck a match to rekindle a
stump of cigar. "No, no, I go write my lecture--oh it vill be a great
lecture. You vill announce it in the paper! You vill not leave it out
like Sampson left out my article last week." He was at the door now,
with his finger alongside his nose.
Raphael shook himself impatiently, and the poet threw the door wide open
and disappeared.
For a full minute Raphael dared not look towards the door for fear of
seeing the poet's cajoling head framed in the opening. When he did, he
was transfixed to see Esther Ansell's there, regarding him pensively.
His heart beat painfully at the shock; the room seemed flooded with
sunlight.
"May I come in?" she said, smiling.
CHAPTER X.
ESTHER DEFIES THE UNIVERSE.
Esther wore a neat black mantle, and looked taller and more womanly than
usual in a pretty bonnet and a spotted veil. There was a flush of color
in her cheeks, her eyes sparkled. She had walked in cold sunny weather
from the British Museum (where she was still supposed to be), and the
wind had blown loose a little wisp of hair over the small shell-like
ear. In her left hand she held a roll of manuscript. It contained her
criticisms of the May Exhibitions. Whereby hung a tale.
In the dark days that followed the scene with Levi, Esther's resolution
had gradually formed. The position had become untenable. She could no
longer remain a _Schnorrer_; abusing the bounty of her benefactors into
the bargain. She must leave the Goldsmiths, and at once. That was
imperative; the second step could be thought over when she had taken
the first. And yet she postponed taking the first. Once she drifted out
of her present sphere, she could not answer for the future, could not be
certain, for instance, that she would be able to redeem her promise to
Raphael to sit in judgment upon the Academy and other picture galleries
that bloomed in May. At any rate, once she had severed connection with
the Goldsmith circle, she would not care to renew it, even in the case
of Raphael. No, it was best to get this last duty off her shoulders,
then to say farewell to him and all the other human constituents of her
brief period of partial sunshine. Besides, the personal delivery of the
precious manuscript would afford her the opportunity of this farewell to
him. With his social remissness, it was unlikely he would call soon upon
the Goldsmiths, and she now restricted her friendship with Addie to
receiving Addie's visits, so as to prepare for its dissolution. Addie
amused her by reading extracts from Sidney's letters, for the brilliant
young artist had suddenly gone off to Norway the morning after the
_début_ of the new Hamlet. Esther felt that it might be as well if she
stayed on to see how the drama of these two lives developed. These
things she told herself in the reaction from the first impulse of
instant flight.
Raphael put down his pipe at the sight of her and a frank smile of
welcome shone upon his flushed face.
"This is so kind of you!" he said; "who would have thought of seeing you
here? I am so glad. I hope you are well. You look better." He was
wringing her little gloved hand violently as he spoke.
"I feel better, too, thank you. The air is so exhilarating. I'm glad to
see you're still in the land of the living. Addie has told me of your
debauches of work."
"Addie is foolish. I never felt better. Come inside. Don't be afraid of
walking on the papers. They're all old."
"I always heard literary people were untidy," said Esther smiling.
"_You_ must be a regular genius."
"Well, you see we don't have many ladies coming here," said Raphael
deprecatingly, "though we have plenty of old women."
"It's evident you don't. Else some of them would go down on their hands
and knees and never get up till this litter was tidied up a bit."
"Never mind that now, Miss Ansell. Sit down, won't you? You must be
tired. Take the editorial chair. Allow me a minute." He removed some
books from it.
"Is that the way you sit on the books sent in for review?" She sat down.
"Dear me! It's quite comfortable. You men like comfort, even the most
self-sacrificing. But where is your fighting-editor? It would be awkward
if an aggrieved reader came in and mistook me for the editor, wouldn't
it? It isn't safe for me to remain in this chair."
"Oh, yes it is! We've tackled our aggrieved readers for to-day," he
assured her.
She looked curiously round. "Please pick up your pipe. It's going out. I
don't mind smoke, indeed I don't. Even if I did, I should be prepared to
pay the penalty of bearding an editor in his den."
Raphael resumed his pipe gratefully.
"I wonder though you don't set the place on fire," Esther rattled on,
"with all this mass of inflammable matter about."
"It is very dry, most of it," he admitted, with a smile.
"Why don't you have a real fire? It must be quite cold sitting here all
day. What's that great ugly picture over there?"
"That steamer! It's an advertisement."
"Heavens! What a decoration. I should like to have the criticism of that
picture. I've brought you those picture-galleries, you know; that's what
I've come for."
"Thank you! That's very good of you. I'll send it to the printers at
once." He took the roll and placed it in a pigeon-hole, without taking
his eyes off her face.
"Why don't you throw that awful staring thing away?" she asked,
contemplating the steamer with a morbid fascination, "and sweep away the
old papers, and have a few little water-colors hung up and put a vase of
flowers on your desk. I wish I had the control of the office for a
week."
"I wish you had," he said gallantly. "I can't find time to think of
those things. I am sure you are brightening it up already."
The little blush on her cheek deepened. Compliment was unwonted with
him; and indeed, he spoke as he felt. The sight of her seated so
strangely and unexpectedly in his own humdrum sanctum; the imaginary
picture of her beautifying it and evolving harmony out of the chaos with
artistic touches of her dainty hands, filled him with pleasant, tender
thoughts, such as he had scarce known before. The commonplace editorial
chair seemed to have undergone consecration and poetic transformation.
Surely the sunshine that streamed through the dusty window would for
ever rest on it henceforwards. And yet the whole thing appeared
fantastic and unreal.
"I hope you are speaking the truth," replied Esther with a little laugh.
"You need brightening, you old dry-as-dust philanthropist, sitting
poring over stupid manuscripts when you ought to be in the country
enjoying the sunshine." She spoke in airy accents, with an undercurrent
of astonishment at her attack of high spirits on an occasion she had
designed to be harrowing.
"Why, I haven't _looked_ at your manuscript yet," he retorted gaily, but
as he spoke there flashed upon him a delectable vision of blue sea and
waving pines with one fair wood-nymph flitting through the trees, luring
him on from this musty cell of never-ending work to unknown ecstasies of
youth and joyousness. The leafy avenues were bathed in sacred sunlight,
and a low magic music thrilled through the quiet air. It was but the
dream of a second--the dingy walls closed round him again, the great
ugly steamer, that never went anywhere, sailed on. But the wood-nymph
did not vanish; the sunbeam was still on the editorial chair, lighting
up the little face with a celestial halo. And when she spoke again, it
was as if the music that filled the visionary glades was a reality, too.
"It's all very well your treating reproof as a jest," she said, more
gravely. "Can't you see that it's false economy to risk a break-down
even if you use yourself purely for others? You're looking far from
well. You are overtaxing human strength. Come now, admit my sermon is
just. Remember I speak not as a Pharisee, but as one who made the
mistake herself--a fellow-sinner." She turned her dark eyes
reproachfully upon him.
"I--I--don't sleep very well," he admitted, "but otherwise I assure you
I feel all right."
It was the second time she had manifested concern for his health. The
blood coursed deliciously in his veins; a thrill ran through his whole
form. The gentle anxious face seemed to grow angelic. Could she really
care if his health gave way? Again he felt a rash of self-pity that
filled his eyes with tears. He was grateful to her for sharing his sense
of the empty cheerlessness of his existence. He wondered why it had
seemed so full and cheery just before.
"And you used to sleep so well," said Esther, slily, remembering Addie's
domestic revelations. "My stupid manuscript should come in useful."
"Oh, forgive my stupid joke!" he said remorsefully.
"Forgive mine!" she answered. "Sleeplessness is too terrible to joke
about. Again I speak as one who knows."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!" he said, his egoistic tenderness instantly
transformed to compassionate solicitude.
"Never mind me; I am a woman and can take care of myself. Why don't you
go over to Norway and join Mr. Graham?"
"That's quite out of the question," he said, puffing furiously at his
pipe. "I can't leave the paper."
"Oh, men always say that. Haven't you let your pipe go out? I don't see
any smoke."
He started and laughed. "Yes, there's no more tobacco in it." He laid it
down.
"No, I insist on your going on or else I shall feel uncomfortable.
Where's your pouch?"
He felt all over his pockets. "It must be on the table."
She rummaged among the mass of papers. "Ha! There are your scissors'"
she said scornfully, turning them up. She found the pouch in time and
handed it to him. "I ought to have the management of this office for a
day," she remarked again.
"Well, fill my pipe for me," he said, with an audacious inspiration. He
felt an unreasoning impulse to touch her hand, to smooth her soft cheek
with his fingers and press her eyelids down over her dancing eyes. She
filled the pipe, full measure and running over; he took it by the stem,
her warm gloved fingers grazing his chilly bare hand and suffusing him
with a delicious thrill.
"Now you must crown your work," he said. "The matches are somewhere
about."
She hunted again, interpolating exclamations of reproof at the risk of
fire.
"They're safety matches, I think," he said. They proved to be wax
vestas. She gave him a liquid glance of mute reproach that filled him
with bliss as overbrimmingly as his pipe had been filled with bird's
eye; then she struck a match, protecting the flame scientifically in the
hollow of her little hand. Raphael had never imagined a wax vesta could
be struck so charmingly. She tip-toed to reach the bowl in his mouth,
but he bent his tall form and felt her breath upon his face. The volumes
of smoke curled up triumphantly, and Esther's serious countenance
relaxed in a smile of satisfaction. She resumed the conversation where
it had been broken off by the idyllic interlude of the pipe.
"But if you can't leave London, there's plenty of recreation to be had
in town. I'll wager you haven't yet been to see _Hamlet_ in lieu of the
night you disappointed us."
"Disappointed myself, you mean," he said with a retrospective
consciousness of folly. "No, to tell the truth, I haven't been out at
all lately. Life is so short."
"Then, why waste it?"
"Oh come, I can't admit I waste it," he said, with a gentle smile that
filled her with a penetrating emotion. "You mustn't take such material
views of life." Almost in a whisper he quoted: "To him that hath the
kingdom of God all things shall be added," and went on: "Socialism is at
least as important as Shakspeare."
"Socialism," she repeated. "Are you a Socialist, then?"
"Of a kind," he answered. "Haven't you detected the cloven hoof in my
leaders? I'm not violent, you know; don't be alarmed. But I have been
doing a little mild propagandism lately in the evenings; land
nationalization and a few other things which would bring the world more
into harmony with the Law of Moses."
"What! do you find Socialism, too, in orthodox Judaism?"
"It requires no seeking."
"Well, you're almost as bad as my father, who found every thing in the
Talmud. At this rate you will certainly convert me soon; or at least I
shall, like M. Jourdain, discover I've been orthodox all my life without
knowing it."
"I hope so," he said gravely. "But have you Socialistic sympathies?"
She hesitated. As a girl she had felt the crude Socialism which is the
unreasoned instinct of ambitious poverty, the individual revolt
mistaking itself for hatred of the general injustice. When the higher
sphere has welcomed the Socialist, he sees he was but the exception to a
contented class. Esther had gone through the second phase and was in the
throes of the third, to which only the few attain.
"I used to be a red-hot Socialist once," she said. "To-day I doubt
whether too much stress is not laid on material conditions. High
thinking is compatible with the plainest living. 'The soul is its own
place and can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.' Let the people
who wish to build themselves lordly treasure-houses do so, if they can
afford it, but let us not degrade our ideals by envying them."
The conversation had drifted into seriousness. Raphael's thoughts
reverted to their normal intellectual cast, but he still watched with
pleasure the play of her mobile features as she expounded her opinions.
"Ah, yes, that is a nice abstract theory," he said. "But what if the
mechanism of competitive society works so that thousands don't even get
the plainest living? You should just see the sights I have seen, then
you would understand why for some time the improvement of the material
condition of the masses must be the great problem. Of course, you won't
suspect me of underrating the moral and religious considerations."
Esther smiled almost Imperceptibly. The idea of Raphael, who could not
see two inches before his nose, telling _her_ to examine the spectacle
of human misery would have been distinctly amusing, even if her early
life had been passed among the same scenes as his. It seemed a part of
the irony of things and the paradox of fate that Raphael, who had never
known cold or hunger, should be so keenly sensitive to the sufferings of
others, while she who had known both had come to regard them with
philosophical tolerance. Perhaps she was destined ere long to renew her
acquaintance with them. Well, that would test her theories at any rate.
"Who is taking material views of life now?" she asked.
"It is by perfect obedience to the Mosaic Law that the kingdom of God is
to be brought about on earth," he answered. "And in spirit, orthodox
Judaism is undoubtedly akin to Socialism." His enthusiasm set him pacing
the room as usual, his arms working like the sails of a windmill.
Esther shook her head. "Well, give me Shakspeare," she said. "I had
rather see _Hamlet_ than a world of perfect prigs." She laughed at the
oddity of her own comparison and added, still smiling: "Once upon a time
I used to think Shakspeare a fraud. But that was merely because he was
an institution. It is a real treat to find one superstition that will
stand analysis."
"Perhaps you will find the Bible turn out like that," he said hopefully.
"I _have_ found it. Within the last few months I have read it right
through again--Old and New. It is full of sublime truths, noble
apophthegms, endless touches of nature, and great poetry. Our tiny race
may well be proud of having given humanity its greatest as well as its
most widely circulated books. Why can't Judaism take a natural view of
things and an honest pride in its genuine history, instead of building
its synagogues on shifting sand?"
"In Germany, later in America, the reconstruction of Judaism has been
attempted in every possible way; inspiration has been sought not only in
literature, but in archaeology, and even in anthropology; it is these
which have proved the shifting sand. You see your scepticism is not
even original." He smiled a little, serene in the largeness of his
faith. His complacency grated upon her. She jumped up. "We always seem
to get into religion, you and I," she said. "I wonder why. It is certain
we shall never agree. Mosaism is magnificent, no doubt, but I cannot
help feeling Mr. Graham is right when he points out its limitations.
Where would the art of the world be if the second Commandment had been
obeyed? Is there any such thing as an absolute system of morality? How
is it the Chinese have got on all these years without religion? Why
should the Jews claim the patent in those moral ideas which you find
just as well in all the great writers of antiquity? Why--?" she stopped
suddenly, seeing his smile had broadened.
"Which of all these objections am I to answer?" he asked merrily. "Some
I'm sure you don't mean."
"I mean all those you can't answer. So please don't try. After all,
you're not a professional explainer of the universe, that I should
heckle you thus."
"Oh, but I set up to be," he protested.
"No, you don't. You haven't called me a blasphemer once. I'd better go
before you become really professional. I shall be late for dinner."
"What nonsense! It is only four o'clock," he pleaded, consulting an
old-fashioned silver watch.
"As late as that!" said Esther in horrified tones. "Good-bye! Take care
to go through my 'copy' in case any heresies have filtered into it."
"Your copy? Did you give it me?" he inquired.
"Of course I did. You took it from me. Where did you put it? Oh, I hope
you haven't mixed it up with those papers. It'll be a terrible task to
find it," cried Esther excitedly.
"I wonder if I could have put it in the pigeon-hole for 'copy,'" he
said. "Yes! what luck!"
Esther laughed heartily. "You seem tremendously surprised to find
anything in its right place."
The moment of solemn parting had come, yet she found herself laughing
on. Perhaps she was glad to find the farewell easier than she had
foreseen, it had certainly been made easier by the theological passage
of arms, which brought out all her latent antagonism to the prejudiced
young pietist. Her hostility gave rather a scornful ring to the laugh,
which ended with a suspicion of hysteria.
"What a lot of stuff you've written," he said. "I shall never be able to
get this into one number."
"I didn't intend you should. It's to be used in instalments, if it's
good enough. I did it all in advance, because I'm going away."
"Going away!" he cried, arresting himself in the midst of an inhalation
of smoke. "Where?"
"I don't know," she said wearily.
He looked alarm and interrogation.
"I am going to leave the Goldsmiths," she said. "I haven't decided
exactly what to do next."
"I hope you haven't quarrelled with them."
"No, no, not at all. In fact they don't even know I am going. I only
tell you in confidence. Please don't say anything to anybody. Good-bye.
I may not come across you again. So this may be a last good-bye." She
extended her hand; he took it mechanically.
"I have no right to pry into your confidence," he said anxiously, "but
you make me very uneasy." He did not let go her hand, the warm touch
quickened his sympathy. He felt he could not part with her and let her
drift into Heaven knew what. "Won't you tell me your trouble?" he went
on. "I am sure it is some trouble. Perhaps I can help you. I should be
so glad if you would give me the opportunity."
The tears struggled to her eyes, but she did not speak. They stood in
silence, with their hands still clasped, feeling very near to each
other, and yet still so far apart.
"Cannot you trust me?" he asked. "I know you are unhappy, but I had
hoped you had grown cheerfuller of late. You told me so much at our
first meeting, surely you might trust me yet a little farther."
"I have told you enough," she said at last "I cannot any longer eat the
bread of charity; I must go away and try to earn my own living."
"But what will you do?"