The change of dress which Berenice had so prudently adopted, did not, however, produce any change in the manners of Lady Anne and of her party. Lady Anne, it was now evident, had taken an unalterable dislike to Miss Montenero. I am not coxcomb enough to imagine that she was jealous; I know that she never had the slightest regard for me, and that I was not the sort of man whom she could like; but still I had been counted, perhaps by others, in the list of her admirers, and I was a young man, and an admirer the less was always to be regretted — deserting to a Jewess, as she said, was intolerable. But I believe she was also secretly afraid, that her brother was more in earnest in his attentions to Miss Montenero, than she affected to suppose possible. From whatever cause, she certainly hated Berenice cordially, and took every means of mortifying me by the display of this aversion. I shall not be at the trouble of recording the silly and petty means she took to vex. I was not surprised at any thing of this sort from her ladyship; but I was much surprised by her brother’s continuing to be absolutely blind and deaf to her proceedings. It is true, sometimes it happened that he was not present, but this was not always the case; and I was convinced that it could not be from accident or inadvertency, that it must be from settled design, that he persisted in this blindness. Combining my observations, I discovered that he wanted to make Miss Montenero feel how impossible it was for her to escape the ridicule of certain fashionable impertinents, and how impracticable it would be to get on among people of the ton in London, without the aid of such a champion as himself. One day he suddenly appeared to discover something of what was going forward, and assumed great indignation; then affecting to suppress that feeling, “wished to Heaven he were authorized to speak” — and there he paused — but no inclination to authorize him appeared. I had sometimes seen Miss Montenero distressed by the rude manner in which she had been stared at. I had seen her colour come and go, but she usually preserved a dignified silence on such occasions. Once, and but once, I heard her advert to the subject in speaking to her father, when Lord Mowbray was not present. “You see, I hope, my dear father,” said she, “that I am curing myself of that morbid sensibility, that excessive susceptibility to the opinion of others, with which you used to reproach me. I have had some good lessons, and you have had some good trials of me, since we came to England.”
“How much I am obliged to those persons or those circumstances, which have done what I thought was impossible, which have raised my daughter in my opinion!” said her father. The look of affectionate approbation with which these words were pronounced, and the grateful delight with which Berenice heard them, convinced me that Lord Mowbray had completely mistaken his ground — had mistaken strong sensibility for weakness of mind. It now appeared, to my entire satisfaction, that Miss Montenero was really and truly above the follies and the meanness of fashion. She did not wish to be acquainted with these fine people, nor to make a figure in public; but she did wish to see the best society in London, in order to compare it with what she had been accustomed to in other countries, and to determine what would be most for her future happiness. Through the friendship of General B —— and his family, she had sufficient opportunities of seeing in public, and enjoying in private, the best society in London. Lord Mowbray, therefore, had no power over her, as a leader of fashion; his general character for being a favourite with the ladies, and his gallant style of conversation, did not make the impression upon her that he had expected.
He did not know how to converse with one who could not be answered by a play upon words, nor satisfied by an appeal to precedents, or the authority of numbers and of high names.
Lord Chesterfield’s style of conversation, and that of any of the personages in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, could not be more different, or less compatible, than the simplicity of Miss Montenero and the wit of Lord Mowbray.
I never saw any one so puzzled and provoked as was this man of wit by a character of genuine simplicity. He was as much out of his element with such a character as any of the French lovers in Marmontel’s Tales would be tête-à-tête with a Roman or a Grecian matron — as much at a loss as one of the fine gentlemen in Congreve’s plays might find himself, if condemned to hold parley with a heroine of Sophocles or of Euripides.
Lord Mowbray, a perfect Proteus when he wished to please, changed his manner successively from that of the sentimental lover, to that of the polite gallant and accomplished man of the world; and when this did not succeed, he had recourse to philosophy, reason, and benevolence. No hint, which cunning and address could improve to his purpose, was lost upon Mowbray. Mrs. Coates had warned me that Miss Montenero was touchy on the Jewish chapter, and his lordship was aware it was as the champion of the Jews that I had first been favourably represented by Jacob, and favourably received by Mr. Montenero. Soon Lord Mowbray appeared to be deeply interested and deeply read in very thing that had been written in their favour.
He rummaged over Tovey and Ockley; and “Priestley’s Letters to the Jews,” and “The Letters of certain Jews to M. de Voltaire,” were books which he now continually quoted in conversation. With great address he wondered that he had never happened to meet with them till lately; and confessed that he believed he never should have thought of reading them, but that really the subject had of late become so interesting! Of Voltaire’s illiberal attacks upon the Jews, and of the King of Prussia’s intolerance towards them, he could not express sufficient detestation; nor could he ever adequately extol Cumberland’s benevolent “Jew,” or Lessing’s “Nathan the Wise.” Quotations from one or the other were continually in readiness, uttered with all the air of a man so deeply impressed with certain sentiments, that they involuntarily burst from him on every occasion. This I could also perceive to be an imitation of what he had seen suceed with me; and I was not a little flattered by observing, that Berenice was unconsciously pleased, if not caught by the counterfeit. The affectation was skilfully managed, with a dash of his own manner, and through the whole preserving an air of nature and consistency: so that he had all the appearance of a person whose understanding, naturally liberal, had, on one particular subject, been suddenly warmed and exalted by the passion of love. It has often been said, that liars have need of good memories. Mowbray had really an excellent memory, but yet it was not sufficient for all his occasions. He contradicted himself sometimes without perceiving it, but not without its being perceived. Intent upon one point, he laboured that admirably; but he sometimes forgot that any thing could be seen beyond that point — he forgot the bearings and connexions. He never forgot his liberality about the Jews, and about every thing relative to Hebrew ground; but on other questions, in which he thought Mr. Montenero and his daughter had no concern, his party spirit and his want of toleration for other sects broke out.
One day a Rabbi came to Mr. Montenero’s while we were there, to solicit his contribution towards the building or repairing a synagogue. The priest was anxious to obtain leave to build on certain lands which belonged to the crown. These lands were in the county where Lord Mowbray’s or Lady de Brantefield’s property lay. With the most engaging liberality of manner, Lord Mowbray anticipated the wishes of the Jewish priest, declaring that he was happy on this occasion publicly and practically to show his principles of toleration; he would immediately use whatever influence he might possess with government to obtain the desired grant; and if that application should fail, there was still a resource in future. At present, unfortunately, his mother’s opinions differing from his own, nothing could be done; but he could, in future, offer a site for a synagogue in the very part of the country that was desired, on lands that must in time be his.
The priest was down to the ground, bowing, full of acknowledgments, and admiration of his lordship’s generosity and liberality of principle. A few minutes afterwards, however, his lordship undid all he had done with Berenice and with her father, by adding that he regretted that his mother had given a lease of a bit of land to some confounded dissenters: he was determined, he said, whenever the estate shou
ld come into his own hands, to break that lease — he would have no meeting-house, no dissenting chapel on his estate — he considered them as nuisances — he would raze the chapel to the ground — he would much rather have a synagogue on that spot.
Lord Mowbray walked to the window with the Jewish priest, who was eager to press his own point while his lordship was in the humour.
Mowbray looked back for Mr. Montenero, but, to his evident mortification, neither Mr. Montenero nor Berenice followed to this consultation. Mr. Montenero turned to me, and, with a peculiar look of his, an expression of grave humour and placid penetration, said, “Did you ever hear, Mr. Harrington, of a sect of Jews called the Caraites?”
“Never, sir.”
“The Caraites are what we may call Jewish dissenters. Lord Mowbray’s notions of toleration remind me of the extraordinary liberality of one of our Rabbies, who gave it as his opinion that if a Caraites and a Christian were drowning, we Jews ought to make a bridge of the body of the Caraite, for the purpose of saving the Christian.”
Berenice smiled; and I saw that my fears of her being duped by mock philanthropy were vain. Lord Mowbray was soon tired of his colloquy with the priest, and returned to us, talking of the Hebrew chanting at some synagogue in town which he had lately visited; and which, he said, was the finest thing he had ever heard. A Jewish festival was in a few days to be celebrated, and I determined, I said, to go on that day to hear the chanting, and to see the ceremony. In the countenance of Berenice, to whom my eyes involuntarily turned as I spoke, I saw an indefinable expression, on which I pondered, and finished by interpreting favourably to my wishes. I settled that she was pleased, but afraid to show this too distinctly. Lord Mowbray regretted, what I certainly did not in the least regret, that he should be on duty at Windsor on the day of this festival. I was the more determined to be at the synagogue, and there accordingly I went punctually; but, to my disappointment, Berenice did not appear. Mr. Montenero saw me come in, and made room for me near him. The synagogue was a spacious, handsome building; not divided into pews like our churches, but open, like foreign churches, to the whole congregation. The women sat apart in a gallery. The altar was in the centre, on a platform, raised several steps and railed round. Within this railed space were the high-priest and his assistants. The high-priest with his long beard and sacerdotal vestments, struck me as a fine venerable figure. The service was in Hebrew: but I had a book with a translation of it. All I recollect are the men and women’s thanksgivings.
“Blessed art thou, O Everlasting King! that thou hast not made me a woman.”
The woman’s lowly response is, “Blessed art thou, O Lord! that thou hast made me according to thy will.”
But of the whole ceremony I must confess that I have but a very confused recollection. Many things conspired to distract my attention. Whether it was that my disappointment at not seeing Berenice indisposed me to be pleased, or whether the chanting was not this day, or at this synagogue, as fine as usual, it certainly did not answer my expectations. However pleasing it might be to other ears, to mine it was discordant; and I was afraid that Mr. Montenero should perceive this. I saw that he observed me from time to time attentively, and I thought he wanted to discover whether there was within me any remains of my old antipathies. Upon this subject I knew he was peculiarly susceptible. Under this apprehension, I did my utmost to suppress my feelings; and the constraint became mentally and corporeally irksome. The ceremonials, which were quite new to me, contributed at once to strain my attention, and to increase the painful confusion of my mind. I felt relieved when the service was over; but when I thought that it was finished, all stood still, as if in expectation, and there was a dead silence. I saw two young children appear from the crowd: way was made for them to the altar. They walked slowly, hand in hand, and when they had ascended the steps, and approached the altar, the priest threw over them a white scarf, or vestment, and they kneeled, and raising their little hands, joined them together, in the attitude of supplication. They prayed in silence. They were orphans, praying for their father and mother, whom they had lately lost. Mr. Montenero told me that it is the Jewish custom for orphans, during a year after the death of their parents, to offer up at the altar, on every public meeting of their synagogue, this solemn commemoration of their loss. While the children were still kneeling, a man walked silently round the synagogue, collecting contributions for the orphans. I looked, and saw, as he came nearer to me, that this was Jacob. Just as I had taken out my purse, I was struck by the sight of a face and figure that had terrible power over my associations — a figure exactly resembling one of the most horrible of the Jewish figures which used to haunt me when I was a child. The face with terrible eyes stood fixed opposite to me. I was so much surprised and startled by this apparition, that a nervous tremor seized me in every limb. I let the purse, which I had in my hand, fall upon the ground. Mr. Montenero took it up again, and presented it to me, asking me, in a very kind voice, “if I was ill.” I recollected myself — when I looked again, the figure had disappeared in the crowd. I had no reason to believe that Mr. Montenero saw the cause of my disorder. He seemed to attribute it to sudden illness, and hastened to get out of the synagogue into the fresh air. His manner, on this occasion, was so kind towards me, and the anxiety he showed about my health so affectionate, that all my fears of his misinterpreting my feelings vanished; and to me the result of all that had passed was a firmer conviction, than I had ever yet felt, of his regard.
It was evident, I thought, that after all the disadvantages I had had on some points, and after all the pains that Lord Mowbray had taken to please, Mr. Montenero far preferred me, and was interested in the highest degree about my health, and about every thing that concerned me. Nevertheless, Lord Mowbray persevered in showing the most profound respect for Mr. Montenero, by acting an increasing taste for his conversation, deference for his talents, and affection for his virtues. This certainly succeeded better with Berenice than any thing else his lordship had tried; but when he found it please, he overdid it a little. The exaggeration was immediately detected by Berenice: the heart easily detects flattery. Once, when Lord Mowbray praised her father for some accomplishment which he did not possess — for pronouncing and reading English remarkably well — his daughter’s glance at the flatterer expressed indignation, suddenly extinguished by contempt. Detected and baffled, he did not well know how, by a woman whom he considered as so much his inferior in ability and address, Lord Mowbray found it often difficult to conceal his real feelings of resentment, and then it was that he began to hate her. I, who knew his countenance too well to be deceived by his utmost command of face, saw the evil turn of the eye — saw looks from time to time that absolutely alarmed me — looks of hatred, malice, vengeance, suddenly changed to smiles, submission, and softness of demeanour. Though extremely vain, and possessed with an opinion that no woman could resist him, yet, with his understanding and his experience in gallantry, I could not conceive it possible that, after all the signs and tokens he had seen, he should persist in the hope of succeeding; he was certainly aware that I was preferred. I knew it to be natural that jealousy and anger should increase with fears and doubts of success; and yet there was something incomprehensible in the manner which, before Mr. Montenero, he now adopted towards me: he appeared at once to yield the palm to me, and yet to be resolved not to give up the contest; he seemed as if he was my rival against his will, and my friend if I would but permit it; he refrained, with ostentatious care, from giving me any provocation, checking himself often, and drawing back with such expressions as these:—”If it were any other man upon earth — but Mr. Harrington might say and do what he pleased — in any other circumstances, he could not hazard contradicting or quarrelling with him; indeed he could never forget—”
Then he would look at Berenice and at Mr. Montenero, and they would look as if they particularly approved of his conduct. Berenice softened towards him, and I trembled. As she softened towards him, I fancied she became
graver and more reserved towards me. I was more provoked by the new tone of sentimental regret from Mowbray than I had been by any of his other devices, because I thought I saw that it imposed more than any thing else had done on Berenice and Mr. Montenero, and because I knew it to be so utterly false.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 182