Читать книгу Val Sinestra - Martha Morton - Страница 14

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.

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 “my dear 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, the odor 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, but this statue 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.”