The Grandchildren of the Ghetto. Israel Zangwill

CHAPTER IIToC

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      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 colouring, 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 sunshine of a smile. The figure was petite 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 spacious and artistically furnished drawing-room, in the soft light of the candles, talking quietly while Addie played Chopin.

      Mrs. Henry Goldsmith's æsthetic 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 armchairs, 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.

      'A little. The doctor says I studied too much and worked too hard when a little girl. Such is the punishment of perseverance. Life isn't like the copy-books.'

      'Oh, but I wonder your parents let you over-exert yourself.'

      A melancholy smile played about the mobile lips. 'I brought myself up,' she said. 'You look puzzled. Oh, I know! Confess you think I'm Miss Goldsmith!'

      'Why—are—you not?' he stammered.

      'No, my name is Ansell—Esther Ansell.'

      'Pardon me. I am so bad at remembering names in introductions. But I've just come back from Oxford, and it's the first time I've been to this house, and seeing you here without a cavalier when we arrived, I thought you lived here.'

      'You thought rightly; I do live here.' She laughed gently at his changing expression.

      'I wonder Sidney never mentioned you to me,' he said.

      'Do you mean Mr. Graham?' she said, with a slight blush.

      'Yes? I know he visits here.'

      'Oh, he is an artist. He has eyes only for the beautiful.'

      She spoke quickly, a little embarrassed.

      'You wrong him; his interests are wider than that.'

      'Do you know, I am so glad you didn't pay me the obvious compliment,' she said, recovering herself. 'It looked as if I were fishing for it. I'm so stupid.'

      He looked at her blankly.

      'I'm stupid,' he said, 'for I don't know what compliment I missed paying.'

      'If you regret it, I shall not think so well of you,' she said. 'You know I've heard all about your brilliant success at Oxford.'

      'They put all those petty little things in the Jewish papers, don't they?'

      'I read it in the Times,' retorted Esther. 'You took a double-first and the prize for poetry, and a heap of other things; but I noticed the prize for poetry, because it is so rare to find a Jew writing poetry.'

      'Prize poetry is not poetry,' he reminded her. 'But considering the Jewish Bible contains the finest poetry in the world, I do not see why you should be surprised to find a Jew trying to write some.'

      'Oh, you know what I mean,' answered Esther. 'What is the use of talking about the old Jews? We seem to be a different race now. Who cares for poetry?'

      'Our poet's scroll reaches on uninterruptedly through the Middle Ages. The passing phenomenon of to-day must not blind us to the real traits of our race,' said Raphael.

      'Nor must we be blind to the passing phenomenon of to-day,' retorted Esther. 'We have no ideals now.'

      'I see Sidney has been infecting you,' he said gently.

      'No, no; I beg you will not think that,' she said, flushing almost resentfully. 'I have thought these things, as the Scripture tells us to meditate on the Law, day and night, sleeping and waking, standing up and sitting down.'

      'You cannot have thought of them without prejudice, then,' he answered,'if you say we have no ideals.'

      'I mean, we're not responsive to great poetry—to the message of a Browning, for instance.'

      'I deny it. Only a small percentage of his own race is responsive. I would wager our percentage is proportionally higher. But Browning's philosophy of religion is already ours—for hundreds of years every Saturday night every Jew has been proclaiming the view of life and Providence in "Pisgah Sights":