NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK

A STORY OF JEWISH SOCIAL LIFE BY VIOLET GUTTENBERG LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS 1902 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. TO MY FRIEND MARIE CORELLI AS A SLIGHT TRIBUTE TO HER GENIUS THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

CONTENTS

{ix}

BOOK I PROBATION

{x}

{1}

NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK

CHAPTER I A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE

“If you ever do get married, girls,” Adeline was saying, as she contemplated her wedding-dress, which lay spread out on the bed, “see to it that you get men, and not broomsticks.”

“I think I would rather have a broomstick than some men,” said the youngest sister Di. “Because a broomstick is at least inoffensive; whereas a man with a temper would be a positive nuisance.”

“I wouldn’t give a halfpenny for a man without a temper,” put in Lottie, with a shrug. “Look at old Solomon, for instance. He is as meek as Moses. Whenever Mrs. Sol tells him to do anything, he folds his hands, and says, ‘Yes, my dear, immediately,’ and goes and does it at once. If she told him to go and drown himself, I believe he would say, ‘Yes, my dear, immediately,’ from sheer force of habit.”

“That shows Mrs. Sol’s cleverness,” said Adeline with a sigh. “She must have broken him in when he was{2} young and pliable. My future husband is neither young nor pliable. Oh, girls, I wonder what sort of a husband Mike will make.”

It was the eve of Adeline’s wedding. She was the eldest daughter, and the first to leave the parental roof. “Adeline is a smart girl, and will do well for herself,” her fond mother had been wont to say: and Adeline certainly had done well, according to her parents’ ideas, for she had secured Michael Rosen, the proprietor of the Acme Furnishing Company—a man who had come over from Poland twenty years ago to start life (English life) as an itinerant vendor of jewellery, and who was now at the head of the furnishing trade in his particular line. Adeline’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg, had been introduced to him by the minister of the synagogue which they attended, with the understanding, that if the parties came to terms, and a marriage ensued, the Rev. Isaac Abrahams should pocket an ample commission.

At the wedding-breakfast, which took place at the Hotel Cecil, the Rev. Isaac, in the course of his speech, lightly mentioned the fact that marriages were made in heaven, and unblushingly thanked Providence for having brought the happy bridal couple together. Every one remarked how touchingly and beautifully he spoke.

It is not so difficult to give an eloquent speech when the champagne flows as freely as water, and one has a substantial cheque snugly reposing in one’s pocket-book. The Rev. Isaac Abrahams was a happy man that day; he possessed feelings of benevolence towards all mankind.{3}

Adeline looked very charming in her bridal finery, and excited envy in the hearts of a good many mothers and daughters present. She had a choral and floral wedding, a full account of which, including a list of all the wedding presents, would appear in the Jewish World and the Queen; and she was the prospective mistress of a beautiful house in Fitzjohn’s Avenue, Hampstead, and another in Brunswick Terrace, Brighton. Could any girl wish for more? True, the bridegroom would never see forty again, and he was neither good-looking nor well-bred; but wealth covers a multitude of other deficiencies, and one cannot have everything. So, every one agreed that Adeline was a very fortunate girl, and Adeline herself thought so too.

She was ecstatically happy for exactly twenty-four hours after the ceremony.

The first part of their honeymoon was spent at a farm-house ten miles from anywhere, where, if they had been so inclined, they could have made love to their heart’s content, without the least fear of any disturbance. Mike chose this place because his bride had once remarked in his hearing that she adored the country—which she did in the abstract.

It is so nice to think of green fields, and leafy lanes, and bleating lambs, and twittering birds—when one is in town.

Adeline had never spent a whole day in Mike’s company before, and very soon grew tired of his society. During their short engagement he had come to see her every evening, but had spent most of his time in the smoke-room with her father, and she had seen very little{4} of him. Perhaps, if she had seen more of him, she would not have become his wife. Now that she was entirely dependent upon him for companionship, however, she wondered how they would get on together. His sole topic of conversation was furniture—“ferniture,” he pronounced it. His had been one of the first firms to introduce the “easy payments” system on an extensive scale, and Mike was justly proud of the fact. Adeline wondered, a trifle contemptuously, if he considered her part of his household “ferniture.” She was at least ornamental, if not altogether useful.

Life at the farm was not exciting, and at the end of the third day, the young bride had a bad attack of the blues. She was not particularly interested in watching the pigs fed and the cows milked; and what was the good of all her pretty frocks and lovely jewels when there was no one to see and admire them. It was all very well for Mike. He sat on the top of a haystack, dressed in flannels, nearly all day; and as long as he had a fat cigar to smoke, a glass of whisky to drink, and a furniture catalogue to read, he was perfectly happy. But even he was bored when, on the fourth day, it began to rain, and forgot to leave off; and when Friday came round, he suggested a trip to Blackpool, to which his wife willingly agreed.

Blackpool was a decided improvement to the farm, but the wet weather followed them even there, so, at the end of a very dull fortnight, they turned their faces homewards. It was quite delightful to see dear old smoky London once more.

Adeline lost no time in going to see her family, and{5} went the same afternoon that they returned. Mike was obliged to go straight off to business, but she was not sorry to have to go alone. Her visit was quite a surprise, for they were not expected home for at least another week. Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg were out, she was told, but the girls were at home, and received her with rapturous exclamations of delight and astonishment. They carried her off to her old bedroom to take off her things, and plied her with questions which she could not possibly answer all at once. She hugged them all round, Prince, the pug, included; then she sat down on the bed, and indulged in a good cry, after which she felt considerably better.

The girls were filled with consternation. They had never seen Adeline cry before. Had Mike been doing anything to vex her? No? Then, what on earth was she crying for? Di ran for smelling-salts, and Lottie fetched brandy; in vain Adeline protested that she needed neither.

“You must think me a little fool, girls,” she sobbed, copiously drying her tears. “It was the excitement of seeing you again, I suppose. I shall feel much better when I have had some tea.”

She made them promise not to tell her parents what a silly girl she was; and then brightened up, and told them of all she had seen and done.

By the time Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg arrived, she was all smiles again, and they were delighted to see her looking so well.

“Married life agrees with you, evidently,” her mother remarked, as she gave her a prolonged and audible kiss{6} on either cheek. “You are looking splendid, Addie. Mr. Cohen’s nephew—not the one who married Sol Benjamin’s niece, but the other one—saw you on the pier at Blackpool, and said that you and Mike were so taken up with lovemaking, that you never even acknowledged his existence.”

“It was very windy on the pier,” said Adeline apologetically. “It was all I could do to keep my hat on. I did not notice any one who was passing.”

“No, of course not,” put in Mr. Friedberg, with a wink. “No one would expect you to. By-the-by, what do you think of your house, Addie? It’s ’ansome, isn’t it? That’s the best of having a husband in the furnishing line. Mike let me have everything at cost price. When these girls get chosanim,”[1] with a sly look at his other daughters, “they shall set up housekeeping in grand style too.”

Was she never going to get away from that wretched furniture? Adeline was sick of the very word.

“The next wedding we have in the family,” remarked Mrs. Friedberg, apropos of nothing, “I shall put out a notice—‘No electro plate received here.’ It’s simply scandalous the number of fish-carvers you received, and hardly any of them silver. And fancy that Mrs. Moses sending a rubbishing cake-basket, after all the kindness and hospitality we’ve shown her. I don’t know how people can be so mean.”

The clock struck six, and Adeline rose to go. She must be home to have dinner with Mike, she said, and it was a good way from Maida Vale to Fitzjohn’s Avenue.{7} She wanted to take Lottie and her young brother Victor back with her, but her mother was sure Mike would prefer to spend his first evening at home with his wife alone.

Mrs. Friedberg possessed some curious ideas. She knew, and did not pretend to ignore the fact, that her daughter’s marriage with Michael Rosen was a made-up match, and that, had the bridegroom been less wealthy, or the bride less attractive, the marriage would have never taken place; yet she persisted in thinking and saying that the bridal pair were very much in love with each other.

Adeline, like most Jewish girls of the present day, had been taught to place her affections in accordance with her parents’ wishes. The idea of falling in love with anybody had never occurred to her. She was a sensible girl, and knew that even if she so desired—and she did not desire it—she could never marry a poor man, or a Christian, so she had resigned herself to the inevitable, and had accepted Michael Rosen without a protest. Mike was as good as any other rich Jew she had met, and even if he were of the “broomstick” order of men, he was at least, as Di had said, inoffensive.

If only she could break him of that detestable habit of talking “shop” wherever he went! She would have to teach him that there were other subjects of interest to the generality of people as well as his beloved “ferniture.{8}”

CHAPTER II INTRODUCES A SWEET AND LOVABLE JEWISH GIRL

If you had asked who was the most popular man in Durlston, you would have been told, without a moment’s hesitation, that his name was Herbert Karne. Broad-chested, large-hearted, and liberal-minded, Herbert won the hearts of all with whom he came in contact, by his cheery geniality and his consummate tact. He was a Jew, but he was also an English gentleman, and was treated as such by the members of the social circle in which he moved.

Durlston was an uninteresting little town not many miles from Manchester. There was a very large boot and shoe manufactory at one end of the tiny High Street, and the population of the town was considerably increased by the factory labourers and their families. These were mostly Jews, very poor Jews, who had recently emigrated from Roumania and were glad to get work, even though it were at almost starvation wages. Mendel & Co. secured them directly they arrived in Houndsditch, and packed them off to the Durlston manufactory as occasion required. They were easily satisfied and obsequious, these poor Jews, and seemed to be able to exist on next to nothing.{9}

Herbert Karne lived with his half-sister in a pretty country house—The Towers—just outside the town. He was an artist by profession and a romancist by nature. He took the greatest interest in the little Jewish colony which had sprung up almost beneath his windows, and it was his pleasure to protect the rights of the colonists against the cut-throat practices of their employers. He agitated for shorter hours and better pay, and, for fear of being boycotted, Messrs. Mendel & Co. were obliged to make concessions.

These poor Jews had no spirit of their own; they were utterly downtrodden with the effect of oppression and destitution: so Karne was determined to defend their cause, and he became their firm friend and ally.

Whenever a new batch of Jews arrived in Durlston, he took them in hand at once. He anglicized them, and made them suppress their Jewish idiosyncrasies. With the help of his half-sister Celia, and a few friends, he organized a night school, and taught them to read and write. He managed to enlist the sympathy of the most influential people in the county on their behalf, and got up all sorts of literary and musical entertainments, in order to brighten their empty lives. The educating and uplifting of these poor waifs of humanity was Herbert’s hobby; he entered into it heart and soul.

There was no synagogue in Durlston, the nearest one being in Manchester, so he arranged to have divine service in the schoolroom every Saturday morning, at which Emil Blatz, the foreman of the factory, officiated. Herbert himself gave the lecture as a rule, and preached not from a religious so much as from an ethical{10} standpoint. He endeavoured to instil into his hearers his own high standard of honour and equity; he wanted to broaden their ideals, and to make them true to the noble instincts of their ancient race and faith.

And in a great measure he succeeded. There were very few who came under Herbert Karne’s influence who did not benefit by it. He imbued them with self-respect, and gave them back their sense of manhood. When they left the factory—generally to better their position in some way—they were, most of them, better men and nobler Jews than when they had entered it. Their backs were no longer bowed with the yoke of oppression. They held their heads erect, and were able once again to look the whole world in the face.

It was a Sunday afternoon in late summer, and Karne’s grounds were thrown open to receive his friends and protègèes. A small piano had been brought out on the lawn, and somebody was playing one of Strauss’ most inspiriting waltzes. The men smoked, and nodded their heads to the music, and talked to each other of the hardships of bygone days. The women darned their stockings, and watched pretty Miss Celia flitting about in her white dress, with a sweet smile and a kindly word for each one of them. The dark-eyed children chased each other over the turf, danced round the piano, and enjoyed themselves thoroughly. Some of them wandered towards the studio, and, standing before the long French windows, gazed with feelings of awe at the paintings which were the handiwork of their benefactor. How lovely it must be to be able to paint wonderful pictures like those, they thought!{11}

Herbert Karne was employed in amusing the babies. They kept him fully occupied, and demanded all his attention. One little olive-skinned maiden sat on his knee; another tugged at his hair; and a third played with his watch-chain. Their host enjoyed it all quite as much as they did themselves; he was passionately fond of children.

A gentleman was coming out of the house and across the lawn. Mr. Karne handed the children back to their mothers, and came forward to greet him.

“Glad to see you, Geoffrey,” he said, as they shook hands. “Celia was just wishing that you were here. They wanted her to sing, but she was quite at a loss without you to play her accompaniments. By-the-by, Geoff, it’s quite decided; she is to go away.”

The young man’s face fell perceptibly. “I am very sorry,” he said, and his voice was quite husky. “But I think you are quite right, Karne. Celia has a great future before her, and she is utterly wasted here in this sleepy little place. With her voice, and her personality, she will have all London at her feet some day. You will send her to Marchesi in Paris, I suppose?”

“No; Professor Bemberger thinks she will do just as well at the Academy in London, or, at least, until her voice is more fully developed. I did not like the idea of sending her abroad. We have friends in London, and she will not feel so isolated there.”

They moved up to where Celia was standing—a tall and well-developed girl, with a quantity of red-gold hair, hazel eyes, and fair complexion. She had a short high-bridged nose, and a sweet refined mouth. Her{12} half-brother had once painted her as Hypatia; her features were distinctly Grecian in type.

She turned round at their approach, and extended her hand to the new-comer with a cordial greeting.

Geoffrey Milnes was the son of the Vicar of Durlston, and junior partner of the chief doctor in the town. He was one of Herbert Karne’s most intimate friends, and spent a good deal of his spare time at the Towers, where he had established himself as Celia’s accompanist-in-chief. He possessed the happy knack of being able to make himself useful in almost any capacity, and was always so eager to assist in any way he could, that it was quite a pleasure to accept his services.

Celia offered him a chair and a cup of tea. “What brings you here to-day?” she asked. “I thought you always spent Sunday with your father.”

“So I do,” he answered, nibbling a tiny piece of cake. “But I happened to be passing, and, hearing the music, I could not resist the temptation to look in. If you don’t want me, though, I’ll go away.”

“Of course I want you, and I am very pleased you have come,” she hastened to assure him. “Only you must think us such Sabbath-breakers.”

“Not at all. You had your Sunday yesterday. We cannot expect you to keep ours as well.”

“Yesterday was not our Sunday,” Celia corrected him with a smile. “We had our Sabbath yesterday, but our Sunday is to-day. I have heard so many people say that we keep our Sunday on Saturday. It sounds Irish to me.{13}”

“It is rather silly, certainly,” he admitted. “But you see we generally connect Sunday with the Sabbath in our minds. What are you going to sing?” he added, as Celia selected some music from a portfolio. “Something of Schubert’s?”

He went to the piano and struck a few chords. His touch was light and facile, and he was an excellent accompanist on that account. Celia’s voice was a sweet and very pure soprano, and she already possessed remarkable power and flexibility for her age. She sang Beethoven’s “Kennst du das Land?” with expression and a pretty German accent. Her audience listened entranced. Some of the women put down their sewing; their vision was clouded by a mist of tears.

“You must not sing any more in the open air,” said Dr. Milnes, as he rose from the piano. “You will have to take very great care of your voice now that you have decided to become a professional singer. When are you going away?”

“On Thursday week,” she answered with a sigh. “The entrance examination at the Academy is on the Saturday following.”

“So soon!” he said regretfully. “And I suppose you will quite forget the unsophisticated Durlston people, when you are in the midst of the excitement of London life?”

“Indeed, I shall not,” she answered him earnestly. “I shall miss them all dreadfully, especially Herbert and—and you. I wanted Herbert to take a flat in London so that we could be together, but I cannot get him to leave Durlston. He thinks the factory people could not do without him, and he says that he cannot work anywhere{14} but in his own studio. He is painting his big picture for the Royal Academy, you know.”

“Yes; I shall have to look well after him, or he will knock himself up, as he did when he was painting his ‘Dawn of Love.’ He allows his pictures to prey upon his mind, and an attack of insomnia is the usual consequence.”

Celia was about to reply, but the factory people were beginning to disperse, and their conversation was interrupted.