Part 60 (2/2)
”By no means. Rather of one who stays on to protest against the false additions of his whilom pupils.”
”But we don't protest.”
”Our mere existence since the Dispersion is a protest,” urged Raphael.
”When the stress of persecution lightens, we may protest more consciously. We cannot have been preserved in vain through so many centuries of horrors, through the invasions of the Goths and Huns, through the Crusades, through the Holy Roman Empire, through the times of Torquemada. It is not for nothing that a handful of Jews loom so large in the history of the world that their past is bound up with every n.o.ble human effort, every high ideal, every development of science, literature and art. The ancient faith that has united us so long must not be lost just as it is on the very eve of surviving the faiths that sprang from it, even as it has survived Egypt, a.s.syria, Rome, Greece and the Moors. If any of us fancy we have lost it, let us keep together still. Who knows but that it will be born again in us if we are only patient? Race affinity is a potent force; why be in a hurry to dissipate it? The Marannos you speak of were but maimed heroes, yet one day the olden flame burst through the layers of three generations of Christian profession and inter-marriage, and a brilliant company of ill.u.s.trious Spaniards threw up their positions and sailed away in voluntary exile to serve the G.o.d of Israel. We shall yet see a spiritual revival even among our brilliant English Jews who have hid their face from their own flesh.”
The dark little girl looked up into his face with ill-suppressed wonder.
”Have you done preaching at me, Raphael?” inquired Sidney. ”If so, pa.s.s me a banana.”
Raphael smiled sadly and obeyed.
”I'm afraid if I see much of Raphael I shall be converted to Judaism,”
said Sidney, peeling the banana. ”I had better take a hansom to the Riviera at once. I intended to spend Christmas there; I never dreamed I should be talking theology in London.”
”Oh, I think Christmas in London is best,” said the hostess unguardedly.
”Oh, I don't know. Give me Brighton,” said the host.
”Well, yes, I suppose Brighton _is_ pleasanter,” said Mr. Montagu Samuels.
”Oh, but so many Jews go there,” said Percy Saville.
”Yes, that _is_ the drawback,” said Mrs. Henry Goldsmith. ”Do you know, some years ago I discovered a delightful village in Devons.h.i.+re, and took the household there in the summer. The very next year when I went down I found no less than two Jewish families temporarily located there. Of course, I have never gone there since.”
”Yes, it's wonderful how Jews scent out all the nicest places,” agreed Mrs. Montagu Samuels. ”Five years ago you could escape them by not going to Ramsgate; now even the Highlands are getting impossible.”
Thereupon the hostess rose and the ladies retired to the drawing-room, leaving the gentlemen to discuss coffee, cigars and the paradoxes of Sidney, who, tired of religion, looked to dumb show plays for the salvation of dramatic literature.
There was a little milk-jug on the coffee-tray, it represented a victory over Mary O'Reilly. The late Aaron Goldsmith never took milk till six hours after meat, and it was with some trepidation that the present Mr.
Goldsmith ordered it to be sent up one evening after dinner. He took an early opportunity of explaining apologetically to Mary that some of his guests were not so pious as himself, and hospitality demanded the concession.
Mr. Henry Goldsmith did not like his coffee black. His dinner-table was hardly ever without a guest.
CHAPTER II.
RAPHAEL LEON.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies, Raphael instinctively returned to his companion of the dinner-table. She had been singularly silent during the meal, but her manner had attracted him. Over his black coffee and cigarette it struck him that she might have been unwell, and that he had been insufficiently attentive to the little duties of the table, and he hastened to ask if she had a headache.
”No, no,” she said, with a grateful smile. ”At least not more than usual.” Her smile was full of pensive sweetness, which made her face beautiful. It was a face that would have been almost plain but for the soul behind. It was dark, with great earnest eyes. The profile was disappointing, the curves were not perfect, and there was a reminder of Polish origin in the lower jaw and the cheek-bone. Seen from the front, the face fascinated again, in the Eastern glow of its coloring, in the flash of the white teeth, in the depths of the brooding eyes, in the strength of the features that yet softened to womanliest tenderness and charm when flooded by the suns.h.i.+ne of a smile. The figure was _pet.i.te_ and graceful, set off by a simple tight-fitting, high-necked dress of ivory silk draped with lace, with a spray of Neapolitan violets at the throat. They sat in a niche of the s.p.a.cious and artistically furnished drawing-room, in the soft light of the candles, talking quietly while Addie played Chopin.
Mrs. Henry Goldsmith's aesthetic instincts had had full play in the elaborate carelessness of the _ensemble_, and the result was a triumph, a medley of Persian luxury and Parisian grace, a dream of somniferous couches and arm-chairs, rich tapestry, vases, fans, engravings, books, bronzes, tiles, plaques and flowers. Mr. Henry Goldsmith was himself a connoisseur in the arts, his own and his father's fortunes having been built up in the curio and antique business, though to old Aaron Goldsmith appreciation had meant strictly pricing, despite his genius for detecting false Correggios and sham Louis Quatorze cabinets.
”Do you suffer from headaches?” inquired Raphael solicitously.
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