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