the end of the meal was punctuated, not by the rising of the ladies, but by the host's assumption of a black cap, which popped up from his coat-tail pocket. with his head thus orientally equipped for prayer, sir asher suddenly changed into a rembrandtesque figure, his white beard hiding the society shirtfront; and as he began intoning the grace in hebrew, the startled barstein felt that the mayoress had at least a superficial justification. there came to him a touch of new and artistic interest in this prosy, provincial ex-m.p., who, environed by powdered footmen, sat at the end of his glittering dinner-table uttering the language of the ancient prophets; and he respected at least the sturdiness with which miss aaronsberg's father wore his faith, like a phylactery, on his forehead. it said much for his character that these fellow-citizens of his had once elected him as their member, despite his unpopular creed and race, and were now willing to sit at his table under this tedious benediction. sir asher did not even let them off with the shorter form of grace invented by a wise rabbi for these difficult occasions, yet so far as was visible it was only the jewish guests—comically distinguished by serviettes shamefacedly dabbed on their heads—who fidgeted under the pious torrent. these were no doubt fearful of boring the christians whose precious society the jew enjoyed on a parlous tenure. in the host's son julius a superadded intellectual impatience was traceable. he had brought back from oxford a contempt for his father's creed which was patent to every jew save sir asher. [94]barstein, observing all this uneasiness, became curiously angry with his fellow-jews, despite that he had scrupulously forborne to cover his own head with his serviette; a racial pride he had not known latent in him surged up through all his cosmopolitanism, and he maliciously trusted that the brave sir asher would pray his longest. he himself had been a tolerable hebraist in his forcedly pious boyhood, and though he had neither prayed nor heard any hebrew prayers for many a year, his new artistic interest led him to listen to the grace, and to disentangle the meaning from the obscuring layers of verbal association and from the peculiar chant enlivened by occasional snatches of melody with which it was intoned.
how he had hated this grace as a boy—this pious task-work that almost spoilt the anticipation of meals! but to-night, after so long an interval, he could look at it without prejudice, and with artistic aloofness render to himself a true impression of its spiritual value.
'we thank thee, o lord our god, because thou didst give as an heritage unto our fathers a desirable, good, and ample land, and because thou didst bring us forth, o lord our god, from the land of egypt, and didst deliver us from the house of bondage——'
barstein heard no more for the moment; the paradox of this retrospective gratitude was too absorbing. what! sir asher was thankful because over three thousand years ago his ancestors had obtained—not without hard fighting for it—a land which had already been lost again for eighteen centuries. what a marvellous long memory for a race to have!
delivered from the house of bondage, forsooth! sir asher, himself—and here a musing smile crossed the [95]artist's lips—had never even known a house of bondage, unless, indeed, the house of commons (from which he had been delivered by the radical reaction) might be so regarded, and his own house was, as he was fond of saying, liberty hall. but that the russian jew should still rejoice in the redemption from egypt! o miracle of pious patience! o sublime that grazed the ridiculous!
but sir asher was still praying on:
'have mercy, o lord our god, upon israel thy people, upon jerusalem thy city, upon zion the abiding place of thy glory, upon the kingdom of the house of david, thine anointed....'
barstein lost himself in a fresh reverie. here was indeed the palestinian patriarch. not with the corporation of middleton, nor the lobbies of westminster, not with his colossal business, not even with the glories of the british empire, was sir asher's true heart. he had but caught phrases from the environment. to his deepest self he was not even a briton. 'have mercy, o lord, upon israel thy people.' despite all his outward pomp and prosperity, he felt himself one of that dispersed and maltreated band of brothers who had for eighteen centuries resisted alike the storm of persecution and the sunshine of tolerance, and whose one consolation in the long exile was the dream of zion. the artist in barstein began to thrill. what more fascinating than to catch sight of the dreamer beneath the manufacturer, the hebrew visionary behind the english m.p.!
this palatial dwelling-place with its liveried lackeys was, then, no fort of philistinism in which an artist must needs asphyxiate, but a very citadel of the spirit. a new respect for his host began to steal upon him. [96]involuntarily he sought the face of the daughter; the secret of her beauty was, after all, not so mysterious. old asher had a soul, and 'the soul is form and doth the body make.'
unconscious of the effect he was producing on the sensitive artist, the rembrandtesque figure prayed on: 'and rebuild jerusalem, the holy city, speedily and in our days....'
it was the climax of the romance that had so strangely stolen over the british dinner-table. rebuild jerusalem to-day! did jews really conceive it as a contemporary possibility? barstein went hot and cold. the idea was absolutely novel to him; evidently as a boy he had not understood his own prayers or his own people. all his imagination was inflamed. he conjured up a zion built up by such virile hands as sir asher's, and peopled by such beautiful mothers as his daughter: the great empire that would spring from the unity and liberty of a race which even under dispersion and oppression was one of the most potent peoples on the planet. and thus, when the ladies at last rose, he was in so deep a reverie that he almost forgot to rise too, and when he did rise, he accompanied the ladies outside the door. it was only miss aaronsberg's tactful 'don't you want to smoke?' that saved him.
'almost as long a grace as the dinner!' tom fuller murmured to him as he returned to the table. 'do the jews say that after every meal?'
'they're supposed to,' barstein replied, a little jarred as he picked up a cigar.
'no wonder they beat the christians,' observed the young radical, who evidently took original views. [97]'so much time for digestion would enable any race to survive in this age of quick lunches. in america, now they should rule the roast. literally,' he added, with a laugh.
'it's a beautiful grace,' said barstein rebukingly. 'the glamour of zion thrown over the prose of diet.'
'you're not a jew?' said tom, with a sudden suspicion.
'yes, i am,' the artist replied with a dignity that surprised himself.
'i should never have taken you for one!' said tom ingenuously.
despite himself, barstein felt a thrill of satisfaction. 'but why?' he asked himself instantly. 'to feel complimented at not being taken for a jew—what does it mean? is there a core of anti-semitism in my nature? has our race reached self-contempt?'
'i beg your pardon,' tom went on. 'i didn't mean to be irreverent. i appreciate the picturesqueness of it all—hearing the very language of the bible, and all that. and i do sympathize with your desire for jewish home rule.'
'my desire?' murmured the artist, taken aback. sir asher here interrupted them by pressing his '48 port upon both, and directing the artist's attention in particular to the pictures that hung around the stately dining-room. there was a gainsborough, a reynolds, a landseer. he drew barstein round the walls.
'i am very fond of the english school,' he said. his cap was back in his coat-tail, and he had become again the bluff and burly briton.
'you don't patronize the italians at all?' asked the artist.
[98]'no,' said sir asher. he lowered his voice. 'between you and i,' said he—it was his main fault of grammar—'in italian art one is never safe from the madonna, not to mention her son.' it was a fresh reminder of the palestinian patriarch. sir asher never discussed theology except with those who agreed with him. nor did he ever, whether in private or in public, breathe an unfriendly word against his christian fellow-citizens. all were sons of the same father, as he would frequently say from the platform. but in his heart of hearts he cherished a contempt, softened by stupefaction, for the arithmetical incapacity of trinitarians.
christianity under any other aspect did not exist for him. it was a blunder impossible to a race with a genius for calculation. 'how can three be one?' he would demand witheringly of his cronies. the question was in his eye now as he summed up italian art to the sculptor, and a faint smile twitching about his lips invited his fellow-jew to share with him his feeling of spiritual and intellectual superiority to the poor blind christians at his table, as well as to christendom generally.
but the artist refused to come up on the pedestal. 'surely the madonna was a very beautiful conception,' he said.
sir asher looked startled. 'ah yes, you are an artist,' he remembered. 'you think only of the beautiful outside. but how can there be three-in-one or one-in-three?'
barstein did not reply, and sir asher added in a low scornful tone: 'neither confounding the persons, nor dividing the substance.'
