PREFACE

Not wishing my readers to be falsely impressed on perusing this novel, I wish to inform them that this is a story of the impossible, and is placed in the future for the sake of convenience. Were England other than she is, however, it would not be so impossible to issue such an edict as I have here introduced; and therefore it is a matter of congratulation and deep thankfulness to both Jew and Gentile that the attitude of our country towards her Jewish subjects is that of justice, toleration, and friendliness. At the same time, the poisonous seeds of anti-Semitism are so subtle and so easily instilled, that a warning—even in the form of fiction—may not be out of place.

With regard to the practical side of the story, I claim the author’s privilege of imagination; since this is not a treatise on Zionism, but merely a novel.

CHAPTER I OF PUBLIC IMPORTANCE

It was the Day of Atonement—the Great White Fast. The principal synagogue in the West End of London was crowded from the doors to the Ark, and the heat was intense. Like a flock of frightened sheep, those Jews—and they were many—who ignored the claims of public worship for over eleven months at a stretch, rushed to the synagogue on this Holy Day in order to settle their accounts with an offended Deity, and obtain exemption from service for yet another year. This Day served as a test to prove whether a man of Hebrew birth clung to the Jewish faith or not; for if he retained the very smallest respect for the tenets of his religion, he would at least put in an appearance at the synagogue, and refrain from tasting food. However lax he might be throughout the year, on this Day he would try to make reparation, lest he should be struck off from the inheritance of Israel; for if he failed to observe Yom Kippur, he could no longer claim—amongst his own people—to be a Jew.

12People are apt to speak of “the Jews” as though they were one nation of one unvaried character, and in so doing they make a fatal mistake. The fact that Jews possess in a large measure the chameleon-like faculty of reflecting the colour—or rather the characteristics—of the country wherein they happen to reside is entirely overlooked. No wider divergence of opinion and character between that possessed by the English Jew and the Polish Jew, between the educated and the ignorant, could be imagined; yet by the easy-going Gentile the whole heterogeneous mass of the race of Israel is summed up in one category—“The Jews.” Even in this small gathering of modern Israelites there were many different types. There was the old man, clad in his burial garments, and slipperless, who swayed to and fro and smote his breast with the zeal of a devotee; there was—up in the gallery—the equally old woman, her head disfigured by the scheitel[1] (tabooed by the modern Jewish matron), which she wore as the mark of her wifehood. There was the opulent Jew, newly

imported from South Africa, with his consort above him; the diamond merchant from Holland; the English stockbroker; the German commercial traveller; the Oxford under-graduate. There was the vulgar Jewish matron, with her insufferable air of affluence and her display of diamonds; and the refined Jewish lady, with her less conspicuous attire and quieter manner. There were men and women of all nationalities and classes, bound together by one common tie, yet in temperament as opposite as the poles. And out of this crowd of more or less fervent worshippers there is but one who claims our attention, 13a man of religious views so broad as to be almost heterodox, yet still in his conformity to the fundamental principles of his religion, a faithful Jew.

1. Wig.

He belonged to one of the noblest Jewish families in England. Descended from the Sephardim, his ancestors had come over in the reign of Charles II., and his forefathers for generations had been therefore of English birth. The Selim Montellas were famous throughout the land for their wealth, their munificence in disposing of it, and their devotion to their country and its sovereign ruler. Lionel, the last of the race, proved no less worthy a representative of the ancient house. After a brilliant career at Oxford, where he had earned the respect of both dons and under-graduates for his adherence to the rules of his religion, he had entered Parliament as member for Thorpe Burstall—where his father possessed an estate. He was one of the youngest men in the House, but possessed a clear-sightedness beyond his age. His youth served to intensify rather than detract from the interest he instilled into his political duties.

It was after he left the university that his religious views underwent a change. From orthodoxy he drifted into reform—a reform which was dangerously akin to Rationalism, and then putting a stern check upon himself, he adopted a belief not unlike that of the Karaites. He tried to reject the Talmud and the whole authority of tradition, and to adhere only to the written Law; but finding this unsatisfactory, he was gradually making his way back to conventional Judaism once again. That accounted for his presence in the synagogue on this solemn occasion, for whatever his views on the lesser details of the faith 14might be, on Yom Kippur he was as strict as the most orthodox of his confrères.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon, and vitality in the synagogue was at a somewhat low ebb. Most of the children, and those of their elders who were too delicate to sustain the rigours of an absolute fast, had gone home to lunch, leaving their stricter co-religionists to satisfy the cravings of hunger by naught but spiritual refreshment. It was in the gallery where the ordeal was found most severe, for the ladies possessed less staying power than the more hardy men; moreover, the mere fact of having to refrain from the gossip in which they delighted was in itself a trial of no little magnitude. Their faces showed signs of weariness and ennui, and the air of smartness which had been theirs at the beginning of the service had almost disappeared. Two or three of them created a diversion by fainting—the majority of them were too healthy to swoon. They sat still, and counted the hours and minutes to nightfall; it seemed as if the Fast would never end.

In the quietest part of the service a noise from the street was heard. A number of boys were calling out the afternoon editions of the newspapers, but although their voices floated in through the open windows, the substance of their announcement was lost. Lionel Montella almost unconsciously raised his head to listen, for he was always on the alert for new tidings of any kind, but the peculiar enunciation of the newspaper boys baffled even his acute ear. All he could make out was the word “death.” Who was dead he had not the faintest idea.

He raised his prayer-book, and applied himself with renewed diligence to the text. They were 15saying the Ameedah, and he repeated the responses with the rest of the congregation; but all the time the word “death” was at the back of his mind. It worried him so much that he was unable to give his undivided attention to the service, and when the newspaper boys repassed the synagogue, he listened to their shouts with all the intensity of which he was capable. He could not help feeling—perhaps it was a premonition—that the death was an important one, that it affected him in some way he could not define; and when at last he caught the name, the surprise which he ought to have experienced was absent—only the deep, inexpressible horror remained.

“Death of Mr. Lawrence Campbell!... Sudden death of the Premier!”

The words fell on the ears of the congregation like a knell. The reader paused almost imperceptibly in his chanting, the majority of the people looked at each other in horrified surprise. The name of Lawrence Campbell was synonymous with all that was noble and good, and as a loyal friend of the Jews, he had ever earned their respect and affection. Although he had occupied the high office of Prime Minister for over ten years, he was comparatively a young man, and his death came as a totally unexpected blow. What it would mean to the community remained to be seen, but like a sudden ray of light the possible consequence flashed across Lionel Montella’s mind. He sank on to his seat with his brain in a whirl, and in spite of the temporary feeling of weakness brought on by his long hours of fasting, tried to think clearly. He alone of all his co-religionists knew the true and perilous position of the Jews in modern Europe at the present day. The 16Alien Immigration question had reached a crisis which would have to be settled at Parliament’s next session,

and the issue practically depended on the unreliable temper of the Government. Various expedients for colonisation had been tried without success, for the Jews, never having been “hewers of wood and drawers of water,” did not take kindly to the manual labour necessitated by such colonisation. What form the next experiment would take, therefore, was a difficult and vexed question, and one which the Premier and his subordinate, Montella, had been threshing out together for weeks. And now Lawrence Campbell, the chief, almost the only, enthusiastic champion of the Jews in Great Britain was dead. No wonder the young politician’s heart grew faint within him!

The signal that the long day’s service was at an end—the blowing of the ram’s horn—recalled him to himself; and folding up his talith, he made his way with the others to the vestibule. The refreshing breeze from the street came as a blessed relief after the close atmosphere of the interior of the synagogue, and he leant against the balustrade for a moment before searching for his hansom. All around him the people were dispersing, and as he listened to their kindly greetings to each other, he realised the close bond of unity—more evident in the Jewish than in any other faith—which drew them together with irresistible force. A few of the men with whom he was acquainted came up to him to shake hands. One—the treasurer of the synagogue—lingered for a few moments’ conversation.

“Sudden thing this—death of the Premier,” he remarked, attacking the subject which was uppermost 17in his mind. “Heart failure, Cohen says. Struck down all in a minute. Bad thing for the Chosen, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, very,” Montella returned seriously, with emphasis on the words. “I saw poor Campbell only last week. I had no idea that he was subject to heart attacks.”

“Nor I either. I am sorry—very sorry. Campbell was the right man in the right place, and a difficult place it is nowadays. Can you tell me who will be likely to succeed him in the premiership?”

A little knot of men gathered round him as he put the question, leaving their women-folk to hasten towards home and food. Lionel Montella had been singled out and recognised, and the opportunity of rubbing shoulders with him and listening to his words was too valuable to be passed by. That they were personally unacquainted with him mattered not in the least, and he was so used to being lionised that he did not dream of considering their curiosity impertinent.

“Don’t you know?” he said slowly, with a slight tremor of agitation in his voice. “The successor to Lawrence Campbell will be the very last man we want to see in power. I mean Athelstan Moore.”

Athelstan Moore—the avowed anti-Semite and rabid Jew-hater, a man who possessed the dangerous power of swaying men’s minds by the force of his rhetoric, of fascinating them by the strength of his personality, of completely subjugating them by the influence of his invincible will. No wonder a thrill ran through the hearts of the people as Montella pronounced the name.

“That rabid enemy of the Jews!” exclaimed the 18treasurer, in dismay. “Why, the lives of our poorer brethren will not be worth twopence if he is at the head of the State.”

Montella’s face was more expressive than he knew.

“We must not make trouble for ourselves,” he said, his words belying the troubled expression in his eyes. “We must hope that Moore is not so black as he’s painted. After all, he’s only a man, and even as chief Minister of State he can’t do more than exercise powers which are distinctly limited. Unfortunately, since the influx of Roumanian immigrants at the beginning of the century, anti-Jewish feeling among the masses has been increasingly strong. I’m afraid that it’s the impolitic and regrettable behaviour of the immigrants themselves which has brought this about. It has needed all our strength to counteract this feeling, and I am afraid it will need more than ever now. One thing we must make up our minds to do, and that is to stand by each other, no matter what our social position may be. We must remember the old truism that ‘Unity is strength.’”

Another eager listener had joined the group.

“Do you think it possible that Athelstan Moore may direct his spite against the upper and middle classes of Jewish society as well as the sweaters and aliens of the East End?” he asked, with a slightly foreign accent. “Or shall we be, as law-abiding citizens, exempt?”

“I cannot say,” Montella replied, with hesitation. “In so far as the Jewish question includes the effect of Jewish influence upon the trade and commerce of the country, it concerns all classes from the highest to the lowest. But, friends, it is getting late; and we are most of us faint from want of food. If the 19consequence of poor Campbell’s death is in anyway serious, we must call a meeting in order to discuss the situation. For the present, I think we should disperse.”

He had noticed the beadle waiting to switch off the light and bolt the doors. It was characteristic of the young member to avoid causing inconvenience to any person; and in this case he could see that the synagogal officer was weary from his arduous duties, and anxious to be gone. So he shook hands with each one of his willing hearers, and bade them all farewell. Then he signalled to his waiting hansom, and was driven rapidly away.

The treasurer watched the vehicle until it was out of sight.

“Fine chap—Montella,” he said to a friend who stood near by. “One of the good old stock, and not ashamed to own it either. He’ll give that devil Moore a potch if anyone can. He’s got plenty of brain and heart and grit in him, or my name’s not Jacob Schlapp.”

The friend’s enthusiasm was less effusive.

“We will discuss Lal Montella when we’ve put something inside us,” he rejoined, taking the treasurer’s arm. “Have you forgotten that it was Yom Kippur to-day?”

CHAPTER II THE MONTELLAS

The Montellas, in spite of their being the owners of a mansion in Portland Place, chose to occupy a flat in Knightsbridge, and to let their house to someone who had more use for the magnificent rooms and galleries than themselves. Ten years ago they had been renowned for their lavish hospitality and brilliant receptions; but a paralytic stroke having suddenly attacked Sir Julian when at the zenith of his popularity, they had been obliged to forego the pleasures of entertaining, and to retire into private life. The terrible affliction which had come upon her husband seemed also to have shattered Lady Montella’s health; and always more or less invalided, she seldom ventured forth into the maze of society. Whenever she made an effort to be present at some function, it was only for the sake of her son; for Lionel, being her only surviving child, was the lodestar of her existence. All her thoughts, hopes, and prayers were centred on him; and that he responded so faithfully to the influence of her training was the greatest joy she possessed. Had he proved otherwise,

he would most surely have broken her heart.

It was twilight, the hour her ladyship loved the best. She was reclining in an easy-chair near the window, with her hands loosely folded, and her eyes 21watching the dying glory of the sunset. There was a vague something in her attitude which indicated peace—peace and contentment. It was as if she had been through all the storm and stress of life, and found a haven at the end. There were traces of suffering on her forehead, surmounted by its coronal of white hair; but the curves of her lips, and the indefinable sweetness of their expression, showed that she was neither embittered by sorrow nor hardened by experience. As wife and mother, as hostess and poor man’s friend, her interests had ever been concentrated outside herself.

The tinkling bells of a clock in the adjoining room disturbed her reverie, and at the same moment the door opened to admit a girl. Pausing a moment to switch on the electric light, she advanced towards Lady Montella’s chair. Her step, elastic yet firm, indicated the exuberance of youth.

“A penny for your thoughts, auntie. You look like Patience on a monument,” she said merrily, sinking on to a little chair at her ladyship’s side. “Are you still lamenting your sins, or have you, like myself, put them away for another year? I am so glad Dr. Ford allowed me to fast for half the day. My appetite is keener than it has been for weeks.”

Lady Montella looked at the girl and smiled. Raie Emanuel was her niece only by adoption, but there was as deep an affection on both sides as if a blood relationship had existed between the two. Raie, in keeping with her name, constituted a ray of brightness in a somewhat silent household, and to its mistress was a source of comfort and delight. The eldest daughter of a large but impecunious family, her nature was a combination of practicality with 22romance. She could cook a dinner or compose a poem with equal facility, and although in Lady Montella’s menage the former accomplishment was never required, it was to the girl’s credit that the ability was there.

“Lionel ought to be here soon,” she ran on, scarcely waiting for an answer, “unless he calls at Grosvenor Square on the way. I wonder which he wants most: the Lady Patricia or his breakfast?”

“He must be tired and hungry after his long day’s fast,” her foster-aunt returned. “I hope he will come straight home. You are joking, Raie, in saying that. Have you any grounds for supposing that Lady Patricia is the special object of my son’s interest?”

“Yes.” The girl nodded vivaciously. “One has only to see them together to be sure of it. Patricia Byrne is Lionel’s ideal woman—fair to look upon, fair at heart. And Lionel is Lady Patricia’s hero, as indeed he deserves to be. Haven’t you noticed the change which has come over him lately—the change in his opinions about women, I mean? Until a few weeks ago he was absorbed in his politics and his poor Jews. Now there is a counter attraction.”

Lady Montella looked distressed.

“You are more observant than I am, Raie,” she rejoined. “I have noticed nothing; perhaps I did not wish to notice—this.”

She leant back in her chair, her hands interlocked. For some unaccountable reason she had not thought that her boy would go the usual way of youth, and entangle himself in a love-affair; he had always seemed much too serious and reserved for anything of the kind. Of course, she wanted him to marry some day—a girl of his own faith whom she would 23choose. To allow himself to fall in love with Lady Patricia Byrne was the height of folly, and could only bring trouble on all concerned.

“I hope you are mistaken, Raie,” she added, at last. “I don’t think my son would do anything to give me pain.”

Fond mother who, because she has made an idol of her son, thinks he is totally devoid of the human passions which have agitated the breast of youth ever since the world began. Raie marvelled that a man should be so little understood by his nearest and dearest, but she said nothing; and at that moment the subject of their conversation himself appeared.