"And this is Yankelé ben Yitzchok," added Manasseh. "A poor friend of mine. I do not doubt, Mrs. Grobstock, that as a pious woman, the daughter of Moses Bernberg (his memory for a blessing), you prefer grace with three."
"Any friend of yours is welcome!" She found her lips murmuring the conventional phrase without being able to check their output.
"I never doubted that either," said Manasseh gracefully. "Is not the hospitality of Moses Bernberg's beautiful daughter a proverb?"
Moses Bernberg's daughter could not deny this; her salon was the rendezvous of rich bagmen, brokers and bankers, tempered by occasional young bloods and old bucks not of the Jewish faith (nor any other). But she had never before encountered a personage so magnificently shabby, nor extended her proverbial hospitality to a Polish Schnorrer uncompromisingly musty. Joseph did not dare meet her eye.
"Sit down there, Yankelé," he said hurriedly, in ghastly genial accents, and he indicated a chair at the farthest possible point from the hostess. He placed Manasseh next to his Polish parasite, and seated himself as a buffer between his guests and his wife. He was burning with inward indignation at the futile rifling of his wardrobe, but he dared not say anything in the hearing of his spouse.
"It is a beautiful custom, this of the Sabbath guest, is it not, Mrs. Grobstock?" remarked Manasseh as he took his seat. "I never neglect it – even when I go out to the Sabbath-meal as to-night."
The late Miss Bernberg was suddenly reminded of auld lang syne: her father (who according to a wag of the period had divided his time between the Law and the profits) having been a depositary of ancient tradition. Perhaps these obsolescent customs, unsuited to prosperous times, had lingered longer among the Spanish grandees. She seized an early opportunity, when the Sephardic Schnorrer was taking his coffee from Wilkinson, of putting the question to her husband, who fell in weakly with her illusions. He knew there was no danger of Manasseh's beggarly status leaking out; no expressions of gratitude were likely to fall from that gentleman's lips. He even hinted that da Costa dressed so fustily to keep his poor friend in countenance. Nevertheless, Mrs. Grobstock, while not without admiration for the Quixotism, was not without resentment for being dragged into it. She felt that such charity should begin and end at home.
"I see you did save me a slice of salmon," said Manasseh, manipulating his fish.
"What salmon was that?" asked the hostess, pricking up her ears.
"One I had from Mr. da Costa on Wednesday," said the host.
"Oh, that! It was delicious. I am sure it was very kind of you, Mr. da Costa, to make us such a nice present," said the hostess, her resentment diminishing. "We had company last night, and everybody praised it till none was left. This is another, but I hope it is to your liking," she finished anxiously.
"Yes, it's very fair, very fair, indeed. I don't know when I've tasted better, except at the house of the President of the Deputados. But Yankelé here is a connoisseur in fish, not easy to please. What say you, Yankelé?"
Yankelé munched a muffled approval.
"Help yourself to more bread and butter, Yankelé," said Manasseh. "Make yourself at home – remember you're my guest." Silently he added: "The other fork!"
Grobstock's irritation found vent in a complaint that the salad wanted vinegar.
"How can you say so? It's perfect," said Mrs. Grobstock. "Salad is cook's speciality."
Manasseh tasted it critically. "On salads you must come to me," he said. "It does not want vinegar," was his verdict; "but a little more oil would certainly improve it. Oh, there is no one dresses salad like Hyman!"
Hyman's fame as the Kosher chef who superintended the big dinners at the London Tavern had reached Mrs. Grobstock's ears, and she was proportionately impressed.
"They say his pastry is so good," she observed, to be in the running.
"Yes," said Manasseh, "in kneading and puffing he stands alone."
"Our cook's tarts are quite as nice," said Grobstock roughly.
"We shall see," Manasseh replied guardedly. "Though, as for almond-cakes, Hyman himself makes none better than I get from my cousin, Barzillai of Fenchurch Street."
"Your cousin!" exclaimed Grobstock, "the West Indian merchant!"
"The same – formerly of Barbadoes. Still, your cook knows how to make coffee, though I can tell you do not get it direct from the plantation like the wardens of my Synagogue."
Grobstock was once again piqued with curiosity as to the Schnorrer's identity.
"You accuse me of having stone figures in my house," he said boldly, "but what about the lions in front of yours?"
"I have no lions," said Manasseh.
"Wilkinson told me so. Didn't you, Wilkinson?"
"Wilkinson is a slanderer. That was the house of Nathaniel Furtado."
Grobstock began to choke with chagrin. He perceived at once that the Schnorrer had merely had the clothes conveyed direct to the house of a wealthy private dealer.
"Take care!" exclaimed the Schnorrer anxiously, "you are spluttering sauce all over that waistcoat, without any consideration for me."
Joseph suppressed himself with an effort. Open discussion would betray matters to his wife, and he was now too deeply enmeshed in falsehoods by default. But he managed to whisper angrily, "Why did you tell Wilkinson I ordered him to carry your box?"
"To save your credit in his eyes. How was he to know we had quarrelled? He would have thought you discourteous to your guest."
"That's all very fine. But why did you sell my clothes?"
"You did not expect me to wear them? No, I know my station, thank God."
"What is that you are saying, Mr. da Costa?" asked the hostess.
"Oh, we are talking of Dan Mendoza," replied Grobstock glibly; "wondering if he'll beat Dick Humphreys at Doncaster."
"Oh, Joseph, didn't you have enough of Dan Mendoza at supper last night?" protested his wife.
"It is not a subject I ever talk about," said the Schnorrer, fixing his host with a reproachful glance.
Grobstock desperately touched his foot under the table, knowing he was selling his soul to the King of Schnorrers, but too flaccid to face the moment.
"No, da Costa doesn't usually," he admitted. "Only Dan Mendoza being a Portuguese I happened to ask if he was ever seen in the Synagogue."
"If I had my way," growled da Costa, "he should be excommunicated – a bruiser, a defacer of God's image!"
"By gad, no!" cried Grobstock, stirred up. "If you had seen him lick the Badger in thirty-five minutes on a twenty-four foot stage – "
"Joseph! Joseph! Remember it is the Sabbath!" cried Mrs. Grobstock.
"I would willingly exchange our Dan Mendoza for your David Levi," said da Costa severely.
David Levi was the literary ornament of the Ghetto; a shoe-maker and hat-dresser who cultivated Hebrew philology and the Muses, and broke a lance in defence of his creed with Dr. Priestley, the discoverer of Oxygen, and Tom Paine, the discoverer of Reason.
"Pshaw! David Levi! The mad hatter!" cried Grobstock. "He makes nothing at all out of his books."
"You should subscribe for more copies," retorted Manasseh.
"I would if you wrote them," rejoined Grobstock, with a grimace.
"I got six copies of his Lingua Sacra," Manasseh declared with dignity, "and a dozen of his translation of the Pentateuch."
"You can afford it!" snarled Grobstock, with grim humour. "I have to earn my money."
"It is very good of Mr. da Costa, all the same," interposed the hostess. "How many men, born to great possessions, remain quite indifferent to learning!"
"True,