Rachel Dreyfus should do. From the little he had seen of her he judged her brain to be just of that intelligence that would not jar - masculine and, thank God, Jewish enough to understand his preoccupation with business; but a good percentage of femininity that would allow her to be subservient and restful. Thinking it over, he did not see that she could be improved upon. Set in a suitable frame, adjusted here and there, her virginity taken from her and something of maturity, wisdom and a sense of balance developed in her, and Rachel Dreyfus should make the ideal wife.
At the moment she was disturbing in her fashion, and with initiation should prove satisfying and sufficient, but he knew that she would never cause him furiously to dream nor would she instil in his body that sense of hunger and thirst that was fever, and desire, and death. As Hartmann had said in most truthful sanity: ‘One doesn’t make love to that sort of women; one marries ’em.’
It was now April, considered Julius, and it would suit his plans well if they were married in mid-September. It gave him exactly five months. She, he supposed, would be happy to undertake the matter of finding and furnishing the house, of buying her own trousseau. Her mother would help her. Walter Dreyfus ought to be delighted at the whole affair. Daughters were expensive things, and this one was nearly twenty-five.The marriage would go well with the entire Dreyfus family. As things stood, he expected that they would be able to announce the engagement early in May.
He had, then, a bare four weeks, during which his business, of course, could not be neglected, in which to sweep Rachel off her feet.
He began, naturally enough, by finding out the usual movements of her day. Thus he learnt when she walked in the Park, when she drove shopping, where she went for her singing lessons, and what parties she was likely to attend. So it seemed to Rachel Dreyfus that she was always coming across that disagreeable Julius Lévy. It was quite surprising the way he seemed to turn up at dinner parties and functions; at the opera in the next stall to her, although he presumed to scoff at Wagner; and even when she walked with her maid across the Park to a singing lesson she would suddenly be aware of him coming towards her along the path, sweeping his hat from his head with a flourish, professing to be mightily astonished at the sight of her, and saying with his satanic smile:‘Hullo, Miss Dreyfus, do we meet again?’ hinting, in the most atrocious way, that she had walked that way on purpose with the hope of seeing him. He was, she thought, insufferably conceited, and he would take up a position at her side as though he assumed the right to walk beside her. He was interesting, though, Rachel had to admit that - and very amusing. He made her laugh at things she felt she shouldn’t, and then he had rather a fascinating manner of making out that she was clever and lovely, and nonsense like that in a new, original fashion, difficult to explain. Anyway, no other man had treated her quite in this way. Besides, when she got to know him better, and they were always meeting, it seemed, she couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. He wasn’t English and had few friends, and then living all alone like that - perhaps he was to be pitied. Of course he was terribly brilliant and slightly frightening, but he wasn’t very old; and then he had that way of looking at her that after all wasn’t really insulting but rather mysterious and sort of breathless as though, well . . . she didn’t quite know. Anyway, there it was, and she was beginning to think about him often. They kept on meeting, and first one thing and then another, it was all a little exciting and disturbing. She hoped that this was not going to affect her; it would be so ridiculous and degrading to lose her head about somebody like Julius Lévy, who was probably laughing at her behind her back, and kept mistresses and all that sort of thing - rather dreadful. He was that type of man, she felt it instinctively, but she supposed that the fact was he was clever and attractive, and this appealed to her. Then she had always been very bored with the usual young men and boys, friends of Walter and Andrew, that this was new to her and made life different from what it had been.
‘Rachel is always so serious,’ her mother was fond of saying. ‘She’s wrapped up in her music and her books, and doesn’t bother much with young people. Admirers are generally frightened off very quickly - she snubs them unmercifully.’ And there would be a general laugh at this. Rachel the blue-stocking with her sharp tongue, who would not smile and blush gracefully.
‘As it happens,’ thought Rachel, ‘I can laugh and chatter nonsense perfectly well when I choose, and as for frightening away admirers, well, I don’t know about that.’ And she smiled secretly to herself and looked in the glass. Funny - father said the other evening: ‘Child, you’re looking very handsome these days.’ She wondered if it was true and why - perhaps because of this new way of doing up her hair puffed out at the sides; and suddenly she remembered dining on Tuesday ‘with the Lewensteins and being aware of Julius - yes, first names by now, very unconventional and presumptuous of him to have suggested it - of Julius looking at her across the table and smiling, and how she had smiled back. No reason for it, but it just happened, and she could not help feeling furtive about it, as though they shared some secret; which was absurd, of course. How could they have any secrets? And yet she never mentioned to her family the flowers that arrived for her every morning, and were brought up to her room by her maid, with the card and his initials in the corner, nor the books with French titles that arrived so often, his handwriting on the flyleaf, and which she read in bed at night.They were very advanced, but then she was nearly twenty-five, and this showed he thought her intelligent enough to appreciate them. Perhaps, then, she admitted, there was something secretive in their friendship, because neither of them mentioned these things when he came to the house and the family were present. Father had taken a great liking for Julius, which she felt vaguely was rather a good thing; the boys liked him, and mother too, so that these smiles across dining-room tables were apt to make her feel not exactly guilty, but romantically concerned in some sort of intrigue.
Sometimes she would receive letters from him, written in great haste after some evening when he had seen her, or else scribbled for no apparent reason at midnight or in the middle of the day. Short letters, but extraordinarily vital and typical of him, making out that he hadn’t slept, and at three in the morning he was imagining something about her that he left her to guess - did she feel it and did it wake her up? Things like that which she supposed were rather improper and which ought to shock her, but they didn’t; they only made her dress with greater care that evening if she were going to meet him, and she would try to appear unconcerned when he came in at the door.
Then it happened one morning that Andrew at breakfast mentioned casually he ‘had seen Lévy at the theatre the night before with a very pretty woman,’ and Rachel was distressed to find that this stupid statement made her miserable for the day. She felt angry and hurt as though Julius being seen with some woman was a slight upon her personally. She knew she had no right to mind, and surely this wasn’t jealousy; but her heart was beating and her voice was cold when she said to Julius the following evening at Rupert Hartmann’s: ‘Andrew tells me you were at the theatre a night or so ago.’ And ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Couldn’t get out of it - I was so bored. Fellow asked me to dine - I thought it was for a business discussion - and then he developed indigestion after the fish, and I discovered I was expected to take his wife on to the Lyceum in his place. Silly little woman; bad teeth. Rachel, I wish you wouldn’t wear that red dress; I can’t concentrate on food or wine or the conversation of my next-door neighbour. How many men have made love to you since I saw you last? - because I shall strangle every one.’ And she was happy again, foolishly and ridiculously so, and she didn’t mind what he said to her; it was nonsense, perhaps, but it was he. How absurd of Andrew to have suggested for one moment that just because Julius should be seen at a theatre it would necessarily mean . . . really, she had to laugh, it was so absurd; and then she caught herself thinking what a lovely place London was in May, the beginning of the season and everything was going to be delightful. She was arr
anging the flowers in the drawing-room; her mother always said she did flowers well and nobody was in but her. Mother had gone off to see great-aunt Sarah at Kew, and she hummed the bars of the new song she was learning - a French song - all her latest songs were French. She wondered if Julius knew this one:‘Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment—
Chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.’
Rather melancholy words, she thought. Was it true the lovely part of love only lasted a moment and the sorrow went on for a lifetime? Still, it was just a song, and sentimental at that; real life was probably very different. However much one read and talked about love, one couldn’t possibly know really what it was like until one was - well - married, and all that. People said it was marvellous and one felt utterly different. She used to think any sort of physical business must be hateful and disgusting. She didn’t know how people could; she always wished men and women would just be content talking about books and music and things. But lately, she didn’t know why exactly, she felt she must have thought prudishly and stupidly over various things. After all, if one was fond of a person, and he was gentle and at the same time rather overwhelming, if he took care of one and saw that one wasn’t embarrassed, it ought to be more or less bearable, almost, perhaps, rather lovely.
Rachel sat at the piano, strumming with one finger in great abstraction, her eyes anywhere but on her music and her thoughts lost in some fancy, and then the door opened and Mr Lévy was announced.
Oh dear! - and she hadn’t arranged her hair or her dress. What a time to call! ‘Bring tea, please, Symonds, at once.’ And
‘Good afternoon, Julius; nobody appears to be in but me. I was just practising - come and sit down - what a lovely day.’ The rush of words served, she hoped, to cover her confusion, because she felt that it must be obvious in her face that she had been thinking about him.
Julius took no notice, however; he was apparently in a hurry and slightly irritated over something.
‘I was over at the new building in Kensington,’ he began, striding up and down the room, ‘and I suddenly realised it was the tenth of May. I’ve been so infernally busy this last week that the date has passed me by, confound it!’
‘Why should it matter?’ asked Rachel very surprised. ‘Is it anybody’s birthday?’
‘No - but it was a month ago on the 7th that I first met you at dinner. That makes two days over the four weeks. Damn! Hartmann will win his bet.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what all this is about,’ said Rachel, after a pause.
‘I tell you what,’ said Julius; ‘will you pretend that it was arranged on the 7th, only we kept it secret? That’s easy enough. I’m damned if I’m going to lose that bet. Splendid. What an idea. Will you do that for me?’
‘Do what? I wish you’d explain yourself.’
‘Tell Hartmann that I asked you on Tuesday instead of today. It’s perfectly fair. I would have asked you Tuesday, but this business has been holding me up. I bought the ring days ago, anyway, as I know to my cost. Here - see if it fits.’
He threw a small package into her lap and went on pacing the room.
‘What time will your father be back? I don’t think I can wait if he’s not home by five. I suppose it wouldn’t be the thing if you told him. Ridiculous red tape over these affairs always. Well, what do you think of the stone? I had to get a good one; your father knows too much about diamonds.’
Rachel, twisting in her fingers probably the clearest-cut diamond she had ever seen, was realising with a sense of stupendous bewilderment that Julius had made her a proposal of marriage. No, it wasn’t even a proposal; he hadn’t even attempted to ask her, he was merely assuming the fact that she had accepted him. She had never imagined a proposal would be like this. He ought to be trembling, he ought to be on his knees - and all he had done was to throw a ring on her lap and complain of the cost. For a moment she wanted to throw it back in his face, she was so angry, and then it came to her suddenly, the understanding of what had happened. Julius had asked her to marry him; he loved her. It was true all the time, he had not been making fun of her. Julius and herself - Rachel Lévy. ‘This is my wife . . . Mr Julius Lévy . . . Darling, I love you . . . Father and Mother, Julius and I are going to be married . . . I say, have you heard about Rachel? . . . The bride, all in white, stood at the top of the steps, her hand on her husband’s arm, smiled down, radiantly lovely ... The Italian lakes . . . How beautiful you are, Rachel; do you know you belong to me, yes, all of you; this, and that, and those ...’
She looked up at Julius out of a dream and she said to him haughtily, rather stiffly: ‘You’re taking me very much for granted, aren’t you? I’ve never said I would marry you.’
Then he laughed. He put his hand under her chin: ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I wish to God I had taken you, it would have saved me a great deal of trouble. Don’t be absurd, though, and unnecessarily English. I’ve decided we’ll be married in September; it gives you time for trousseaux and all that. We shall have to find a house - there’ll be heaps for you to do, however; no need to go into it now. What’s this coming in - tea? I don’t want any tea. Absurd meal. What a time your father is. I shall have to go; I can’t wait for him. What are you looking so prim about, with your lips pursed? Give me a kiss.’ He laughed again, bending down to her, but she pushed him away.
‘No,’ she said firmly.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘I hate you,’ she said; ‘so overbearing and conceited - treating everything as settled - I don’t like things like that - there’s heaps to be discussed - and you behave to me as though I were anyone, a sort of girl to be kissed . . . Symonds must have seen.’
He whistled, coarsely she considered, his hands in his pockets, his head on one side.
‘Ever been kissed before?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said, flushing. ‘A cousin tried once, very impertinently. I - I hate all that.’
‘Do you?’ he said. ‘Then you can take it from me you’re wrong.’ And he put his arms round her and lifted her on to the sofa, and proceeded to kiss her and make love to her there for about five minutes, after which he glanced at his watch and saw that now he would be possibly a few moments late for his appointment.
‘You need a lot of that sort of thing,’ he said, ‘but I can’t stop now. You must wait until September. By the way, that’s all settled, isn’t it? We’ll be married the second week, roughly the fifteenth. I can’t manage it before. All right?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Happy?’
‘Yes.’
He raised one eyebrow and looked down at her, lying flushed and slightly dishevelled on the sofa.
‘So you damn well ought to be,’ he said, and he flung open the door on to the landing and shouted down the stairs to Symonds to call him a cab.
Julius and Rachel were married on the fourteenth of September, in the year ’94.
The wedding was held at the big Oratory in Great Portland Street, and a reception followed at Portland Place.
Walter Dreyfus was a well-known man with many friends, and the marriage of his daughter was therefore something of a function.
Nobody knew very much about the bridegroom Julius Lévy. He was vaguely French and rather mysterious, but heaps of money, they said, and extraordinarily ambitious and would do big things, so that everyone considered Rachel Dreyfus had done well for herself.
Her family were delighted, and Walter Dreyfus was secretly relieved that this daughter of his should be provided for, he being considerably worried financially these days. Julius Lévy was perhaps a little unconventional for a son-in-law, but he was wealthy and was going to take care of Rachel; that was all that mattered.
Once she was married, Rachel was certain she would be able to take Julius in hand and improve him.
‘He needs me to look after him - he’s so funny and foreign in lots of ways,’ she told herself, and already she began to feel rather experienced and mature, as though she were a wom
an because he had kissed her. The wedding was a disappointment to her, but she would have died rather than admit it to herself. It rained for one thing, spoiling her dress as she stepped from the synagogue into the carriage, and the brilliance of the reception shone a little false.
Her father seemed depressed behind his smile, and Julius was obviously so impatient at the whole affair, so wanting to be gone and away from it all, that she had scarcely time to see her friends and smile upon them and cut the cake, before he was making signs for her to go upstairs and change.
‘I won’t be hurried,’ she said to herself, and took great pains over her toilet, closeted in her bedroom with her mother and an aunt. When she came downstairs, looking very dignified and stately in her new furs and her large that - really married now she felt - she found many of the guests had slipped away; and there was Julius, very flushed and boisterous, with some of his slightly common business friends waiting in the hall to applaud her appearance, but they had all been drinking too much champagne.
‘Enfin,’ shouted Julius. ‘We were wondering if you’d gone to bed,’ and there was a great burst of laughter. How dreadful, how horrible, she thought - and one of his tipsy friends, the worst type of Jew, vulgar and fat, sang the first line of a popular song in a high falsetto voice, and Julius said something in French which she knew to be disgusting.
It was Rupert Hartmann who came to the rescue - dear Rupert Hartmann - and he kept Rachel away from the noisy crowd and saw her safe to the cab, and bundled Julius into it after her, telling him he ought to be ashamed of himself, and had he the tickets ready for Liverpool Street?
Then Julius sang French songs all the way to the station; she was thankful the cabman could not understand. As it was, he overtipped the man when they drew up at Liverpool Street and winked at him and said: ‘We’ve just been married’ - so unnecessary and coarse.