The only thing that clouds my indescribable happiness is the thought that you may resent my not giving you your chance, but it was out of my hands. When Mrs. Gonzola called me tonight, I had no idea of what was awaiting me. My happiness came to me. I cannot let it go.
The only thing that clouds my indescribable happiness is the thought that you may resent my not giving you your chance, but it was out of my hands. When Mrs. Gonzola called me tonight, I had no idea of what was awaiting me. My happiness came to me. I cannot let it go.
He expected no answer to his letter. It came by return mail:
There is nothing to be angry about; I would have done the same in your place. I would take her away from you now, if it were possible, but—don’t be uneasy, she doesn’t care enough for me. I don’t think she’s insane about you, but you are the safer proposition. You won’t see me for some time.
There is nothing to be angry about; I would have done the same in your place. I would take her away from you now, if it were possible, but—don’t be uneasy, she doesn’t care enough for me. I don’t think she’s insane about you, but you are the safer proposition. You won’t see me for some time.
Martin had a way of disappearing when things went against him. Floyd read the letter once more. “The safer proposition.” Of course, she would be safe with him; he was too happy to let the significance of a word worry him. He slowly tore the letter in little pieces, and said nothing to Julie about it.
The next evening, he went over to dine with the Gonzolas. Mrs. Gonzola had asked him quietly not to come during the day.
“Julie needs time to calm down.”
“Calm down?” laughed Floyd. “It’s too early for that.”
“She is quite exhausted. She must get used to the idea.”
It was not exhausting to him to get used to happiness. It came natural to think of Julie as “mydear wife.” He saw many, many years ahead. As they grew old they would get fonder of each other, like his mother and father. A pang shot through him; if they were alive now! He had not “lived” like other men; he had waited for the one woman. The close contact was intoxicating, leaving him incapable of logical reasoning. He waited impatiently for the evening.
Julie stood under the big chandelier; her soft white gown with a touch of red velvet seemed a part of her flexible body; a filet of it was drawn over her forehead. Her full red lips were a splash of color in her pale face. She came quite naturally to him; Floyd’s heart beat furiously. Mrs. Gonzola looked regal in black lace, relieved by a huge diamond brooch set in old silver. She approved of Floyd; he was a gentleman.
“My father lives with us. Julie has probably told you; I want her to take you up to see him. Don’t speak of your engagement yet. Julie will break it to him gradually, but I want him to know you, and I am sure he will love you as we do.”
How gracious she was; it was like the condescension of a Queen.
“Break it to him,” as if it were bad news. Floyd felt uncomfortable.
Julie led the way up to the fourth floor. They entered a very large room with mullion windows; one, at the extreme end, of yellow glass. He was conscious of warmth, a glory of golden sunlight, theodor of a hothouse, many palms. Under a tropical tree with enormous leaves spread out like an umbrella sat a man with a black silk skull cap on his head. He was absorbed in his book. He did not raise his eyes. Floyd at a first glance caught the impression of age, because of a long thick white beard, falling in waves, turning up at the edges in curls, which reminded him of Michael Angelo’s Moses, butthisstatue lived. Julie spoke very respectfully. She seemed in awe of him.
“Grandfather, I’ve brought Floyd Garrison to see you.”
He arose and came toward Floyd. He wore a long black silk coat reaching to his ankles, with velvet collar, cuffs, and slippers. His feet were very small, his hands like a woman’s; the voice which came from that frail body was clear, penetrating.
“My name is Joseph Abravanel.”
His eyes were young. Floyd felt himself being measured and weighed, but that didn’t disturb him; he had no secrets.
“I know all about you, Floyd. I’ve watched you grow up. That little snowball fight with Martin twelve years ago this winter was fine. You were small; but you buried him.” He laughed like a boy. Floyd sat down beside him, listening intensely; he didn’t want to lose a word. Julie flittered about the room, watching them.
“I like you, Floyd; you’re a good fighter.”
“Oh, no,” laughed Floyd, “I’m a pacifist.”
The old man shook his head.
“Wait, you haven’t found yourself yet. We Jews are fighters, although the world says we are not. We’ve been fighting for thousands of years.”
Then he spoke of the possibilities of America joining the War.
“It will come; we will be forced into it. We Jews will get the worst of it as usual, but that’s good for us; the will to live becomes stronger.”
He continually repeated “we Jews” as if to impress the fact of his race upon Floyd.
“The American aliens will find relatives in every European field of battle; it will be terrible, like the Civil War, brother against brother.”
Floyd had never thought of it that way.
“The Jews are like an old tree—its branches spread all over the world; it roots are in the Bible. The Arian education is Greek, opposite to that of the Hebrew. The Greeks worshipped form, beauty; its idols were in stone. The Hebrews rejected that; they based their religion on the ‘Word.’ You see? the body, the Soul; the Image Greek, the Soul Hebrew.”
After that, Floyd found his way often to the fourth floor. He heard many things foreign to his way of thinking, but of deep interest to him.
“Now,” said Floyd laughingly one evening, “I’ve made myself popular with all the family.”
“No,” answered Julie, “there is one more, Father Cabello.”
Father Cabello was an indispensable part of the Gonzola family, from the Celtic help in the kitchen, to the aristocratic old man on the top floor, whose guest he was on Friday evenings, when he shared a simple meal of vegetables and fruit, washed down with a glass of delicious Palestinian wine; after that, a game of chess, and a long theological discussion which lasted many a time until the small hours. The two men, of the same origin but of different creeds, understood each other perfectly. When it came to a burning question, such as the sincerity of Paul—whether his hatred of the High Priests of Judea had not instigated him to dethrone them, by putting another in their place, one he had never seen, or whether it was an inspiration, “a voice out of the wilderness”—then Joseph Abravanel’s eyes took on a fiery gleam. Father Cabello, seeing the danger signal, would evade the question by a witty remark, ending with a laugh. Julie gave Floyd a hint. He invited the good Father to lunch with him at the club.
He sat in the window watching the priest shaking hands with one and the other—a man of Church and World, known to rich and poor, and generally beloved. Floyd had a feeling of embarrassment, but Father Cabello put him at once in smooth waters by a remark about the “exclusive policy” of the club.
“Yes,” answered Floyd. “This distinction against aliens is very reactionary.” He forgot he was on the membership committee before he was engaged; then he ventured to say:
“I—I am very glad you do not oppose my marriage with Julie.”
“Why should I?”
He knew Floyd was not a Catholic; why did he make him emphasize that?
“I was prepared for your opposition on account of my religion.”
The priest smiled.
“The man who fights the inevitable destroys no one but himself. I have had one great battle in that family; I don’t want a second—if—it can be avoided. When Julie was born, her mother and I together fought and conquered Joseph Abravanel; a fine fellow, deeply learned. In the great days of the Church in Spain, he would have been a distinguished Cardinal.” The priest puffed regretfully at his cigar. “His ancestors were foolishly fanatic; they chose the evil of emigration to the glory of power and the Pope.”
Floyd answered eagerly.
It was a question of principle; they should be admired, respected, for such noble self-sacrifice.
The priest liked the boy; there was no complication to fight in him.
“This marriage was a question of you and one other. I chose you.”
Floyd’s face grew hot. It had all been arranged between the mother and the priest.
“Then you considered me the lesser of two evils?”
The priest smiled again.
“You are not an evil, you are a concession; we make them, if they do not bring us future harm; the children will be ours, but don’t let it worry you now.”
“Pedro Gonzola’s marriage with a Jewess was also a concession. Why did you allowthat?”
“This boy is no fool,” thought the priest; he took pains to answer the question.
“We were mistaken in our calculations, wearesometimes; we remained passive because we were sure Joseph Abravanel would fight it with all his might; and he did. But another power mightier than he and the Church together won out; the strongest combination in the world—youth and love. Ruth was his only child, she threatened to leave him, he worshipped her, he had to give in, but he went to live with the young couple, with a firm resolve to counteract our influence. The inevitable happened; she came to us for consolation. Julie was born in the church.”
They were silent. The priest lived again that interesting conflict. The old man had fought well, he was wonderful with his unanswerable arguments, but reason went down under the great emotional rising of the soul—the need of forgiveness.
Floyd’s voice brought him back.
“Why did he remain in his daughter’s house?”
“Because with the obstinate patience of his race, he had hopes of Julie’s children.” Then he bent nearer, lowering his voice. “There is something else you should know. From the day Julie was baptized, Joseph Abravanel has never seen or spoken to his daughter.”
The atmosphere of tragedy folded itself about Floyd; he felt the clashing of spiritual powers, within the walls of that outwardly peaceful home, now creeping like slow fire into his life.
Near Floyd’s house, there was a small stone chapel ornamented with dark wooden beams; it had been built by Mr. Garrison and Mr. Steele. They brought over their pastor from Scotland, a rugged, sincere man.
Floyd still grew chilly, when he thought of the bare whitewashed walls, the stone floor, the hard wooden benches. No choir, no organ, no stained glass windows. The pastor generally took his text from one of those Hebrew “calamity howlers,” and hurled curses at the heads of his unfortunate parishioners. He was a man of mild disposition, but he thought it was his duty to snatch them from the worship of Mammon. The “Idolaters” would listen meekly, rise, sing a hymn, and file out penitently, to pursue on week days, their ungodly practices.
In course of time the pastor went to heaven, his congregation the other way; Martin said it might be the reverse. Other pastors modified their curses or ceased to hurl them; the times demanded blessings, and paid for them. The congregation grew rich and moved uptown. Floyd kept his pew out of respect for his parents.
He told the pastor, a sensible man from the West with a large growing family, of his coming marriage.
“We are not losing you; we lost you when your father died. Of course, you must consider the bride’s family; the women generally arrange those matters, but I would like to come and see you sometimes. Your children may in course of time think differently.”
He, also, had hopes of the next generation.
Now Floyd pushed away all unpleasant thoughts; his youth demanded happiness. He went up the steps of the Gonzola mansion with a light heart, humming to himself. The butler ushered him into the dimly lighted parlor. He waited, but Julie did not come. He heard voices above. He was one of the family now by right of knowing all its secrets. He found Julie crouched at the bottom of the upper stairs; at the door of the old man’s room was Mrs. Gonzola on her knees. Floyd tried to question Julie, but she silenced him with an imperative gesture.
The voices of Father Cabello and Joseph Abravanel, penetrating the closed door, rang throughoutthe house. Floyd heard his name; it was a question of his marriage with Julie, of the ceremony, and again, those future generations. He heard the deep tones of the priest—threatening, persuasive; the other voice trembling, feeble, rising in a despairing shriek, dying away in sobs. It was terrible; every word seemed to strike that prostrate figure at the door like a whip. Floyd thought of the rack. The priest came out wiping his forehead, he lifted the stricken woman; the Church had won again.
They were married quietly at home, the bride in old lace and priceless family jewels, a vision of Oriental beauty. Martin’s words came back to Floyd. “To me she is not a modern girl, she is the Shulamite maiden who rises from her couch at night and goes out to seek her lover.”
Floyd wanted to bring his wife to the house where he was born; Julie gladly consented. He had been so dear, giving in to everybody, for the sake of peace. At the door of his home, Floyd took Julie up in his arms and carried her over the threshold as his fathers had done before him.
The young couple were called home from a brief trip, by the sudden death of Joseph Abravanel.
Julie’s grief was terrible. She stood by the plain deal coffin where he lay in his shroud, looking long at the marble face. Floyd felt her suffering, but hewas powerless to console her. He wondered why Mrs. Gonzola kept her room; she surely would want to say good-bye to her father. He turned; she was there; she entered slowly, as if in fear. Julie made a quick step forward.
The voice that came from Mrs. Gonzola’s white lips was red with the blood of her race.
“I must see him.”
“You dare not.”
“Have pity on me.”
“I promised him to keep you away.”
“He will not know.”
“He will know, he must rest in peace.”
They were not mother and daughter; they were enemies.
Mrs. Gonzola turned and went downstairs in silence. She died a few days later without breaking that silence.
Joseph Abravanel had given away what little he possessed during his lifetime; to Julie he left a small Hebrew prayer book, worn with age. Mrs. Gonzola’s will was complicated. She had given generously to the Church for years. Julie was to have the house and contents and the income of what was left, the capital going to the grandchildren on condition of their fidelity to the Church; otherwise it went to support a theological seminary in Rome.
They were standing together in the parlor. The room was icy; her face, pinched, worn.
“I am going to sell the house and everything in it.”
“What! Sell your family portraits?”
“I’ve had enough of them, persecuting me with their angry faces. They despise me; I feel it. I have felt it all my life; as a child I saw them in my dreams coming out of their frames threatening me! I am done with them, done with them!” She broke into convulsive sobs. She took him by the hand, and led him around the room, stopping before each one of her childhood’s inquisitors.
“Do you want to live with them all your life?”
“No, I certainly do not—but—”
“I’ll have them packed up and sent back to the family in Europe who will hang them in their picture galleries. We have none....”
The sight of Julie in lustreless black and a long crêpe veil made Floyd shudder; it was awful. Black obscured her beauty, she spoke in low tones, went around on tip-toe. There was the silence of death in his house.
“I can’t stand this, Julie. We’re living as in a cemetery; it’s getting on my nerves. How long is it going to last?”
“One year.”
Floyd didn’t like to appear heartless, but he had already learnt to use a little diplomacy with his wife.
“Do you realize how unbecoming black is to you?”
She looked at him, startled.
“It is my duty to wear it.”
“It’s gone out of fashion. Only old people wear crêpe nowadays; a black band is quite sufficient. Why should you parade your grief?”
She didn’t answer, but the next morning she came to breakfast in a “royal” purple tea gown.
Floyd kissed her eyes, lips, hands; he had his sweetheart again.
Julie smiled at him. She liked to be worshipped.
“Come, come! I’m hungry. Don’t you want any breakfast?”
“I want nothing but you.”
The Japanese laid the morning paper on the table and discreetly withdrew. Floyd looking over the headings, sprang to his feet.
“War?”
Julie gave a startled cry.
“You won’t go, you won’t leave me alone.”
“I must do my duty.”
He went down to see Colonel Garland. The office was in a whirl of excitement. The Colonel was prancing like an old war horse. Everybody was talking at once. It had to come; the President had put it off too long; some were for, some against it, but the fact was there—the United States had thrown her hat into the ring. Floyd’s face was flushed, his eyes shining.
“I’m going to volunteer.”
The Colonel looked grave.
“Wait, let the single men go first.”
Floyd couldn’t be held back; every man he knew had volunteered. He met Tom Dillon with a little flag stuck in his buttonhole, his hat set jauntily on the side of his head.
“I’m going into camp tomorrow.”
That night there was a scene with Julie; she begged, cried, fainted. Dr. McClaren was sent for, the diagnosis was—Motherhood. Floyd did not volunteer.
All New York crowded the streets to bid Godspeed to the first regiment sailing for France. “Our Boys” with flowers in their caps, flowers stuck in their guns marched proudly. The people went mad.
Floyd, holding Julie tightly, stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue. He had a feeling of depression; for the first time in his life a wish had been thwarted. He looked down at the curly head with its sport-hat pressed close to his arm, noticed the glances of admiration. She was worth the sacrifice. Suddenly with a well-directed aim, she flung a rose at a passing soldier. He caught it, pressed it to his lips with a long glance backward.
“That was Martin,” said Julie.
They walked home in silence. Julie had a headache from the noise and excitement and went to bed early.
Floyd sat up; he tried to think of Julie and the future. He couldn’t; the cheers were still in his ears, the tramping of feet, the clashing of cymbals. He sat there, out of it. Love was cruel....
The boy was christened by Father Cabello, his last service to the Gonzola family. He had been called to Rome, where honors awaited him, for his services to the Church in America.
“What name are you going to give him?” asked the Father.
Julie, lying in her white bed, answered:
“His name will be Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”
Floyd thought it too high-sounding for modern times—an American citizen couldn’t carry it, but Julie had her way.
After Father Cabello’s departure, she went seldom to the Cathedral and gradually ceased altogether.
“I’ve lived all my life under the tyranny of two religions. My boy must be free of that; when he is old enough he will choose for himself.” But she still read her grandfather’s little Hebrew book at night when she couldn’t sleep, or when she awoke terrified from the reality of her dreams. She never spoke of it to Floyd, and he didn’t like to intrude.